The Social Climber of Davenport Heights by Pamela Morsi Read Free Book Online Page A

piece of ground it saton was prime. With the help of my friends at the club, I knew I could get it rezoned as multifamily. There were at least a hundred developers who would be thrilled to turn that edge of the park into half-million-dollar condos. That would net me a small fortune. And I’d get my little commission for finding the old lady a nice two-bedroom garden home in a complex managed by a trendy seniors living center, as well.
    That was a pretty good day’s work for my first morning back. I returned phone calls, caught up on paperwork, and I even managed to leave a little early for a quick trip to Yesteryear Emporium. The narrow, thirties-style revolving door creaked and complained as I made my way through it.
    The owner was behind the sales counter, as usual, typing away on his pingy Underwood.
    “Look around all you want,” he said without even bothering to glance up.
    “I will,” I assured him.
    As I passed the mezzanine stairway with its oak steps and rails guarded only by a flimsy piece of cord bearing a sign that read Private Keep Out, I was secretly thinking it would serve the guy right if I went rifling through his apartment. I resisted the temptation only because I figured that as little as the man seemed to know about antiques, there wouldn’t be anything up there even remotely interesting to me.
    I wandered happily through the building for the better part of an hour. The store acquired new stock rather haphazardly and it was jumbled together in such a way that you simply had to happen upon things. It wasn’t a very good way to run a business, but it certainly did add a treasure-hunt aspect to shopping. I found a beautiful one-piece dry-sink cabinet. I absolutely loved it, but I’d have to renovate my kitchen to use it. If I hadn’t spent so much money on those charities, I wouldhave done exactly that. But I had written those checks, so I rolled up my sleeves and moved a half-dozen scratched twenties-era machine-made bed frames in front of it, hoping that no one would unearth the cabinet until my new condo deal panned out.
    I spend a lot of money buying antiques. But owning them is not a big thing for me. The fact that my house is stuffed to the seams appears to belie that statement. The truth is, I had always been drawn to them. They are like some attachment with history. Maybe because I had no family history I could speculate about, I transferred that curiosity to objects that people from the past held or touched or used.
    Whatever the reason, antiques were very special to me. And an afternoon just wandering among them could lift my spirits when they were low, soothe me when I was anxious and entertain me when things were going fine.
    In a big wooden bin full of miscellaneous metalwork, I found a very handsome set of silver casters, the three pieces wrapped together with a couple of rounds of masking tape. The price, written in black marker on the tape, was about what they were worth. I figured I could talk the owner down a few dollars and still get them at a bargain. Then I spotted a pair of modern silver-plate salt and pepper shakers. They were wrapped in the same tape and the price on them was less than half of what was on the casters.
    The masking tape came off fairly easily. I wadded the casters’ tape into a ball and stuck it into my pocket. I put the cheaper silver-plate price around the silver casters and went to the counter.
    The owner was still pounding determinedly upon his typewriter.
    “Excuse me!” I said in a high, haughty tone that was meant to convey the idea that I’m too important to be ignored .
    “One second,” the guy said without looking up. “Just let me finish this thought.”
    I was annoyed. It was just more evidence of the failings of the service economy when an owner couldn’t be hurried to take a customer’s money.
    Impatiently I began to tap my fingernails upon the counter. It was calculatedly rude, but I was not a woman accustomed to waiting.
    Then it