Page 75 of Dropping the Ball

“Slowly.”

I admit defeat. I don’t like being made to talk either, so I’ll keep my questions and observations to myself.

As if sensing I’ve given up, he nods toward a neat white house on the left. “That’s Mrs. Horne, the one who made the cover on the footstool you like. You know Ty at the jobsite? His mom.” He points to another house, red brick with an aluminum screen door. It looks like it hasn’t been updated since before I was born. “My buddy Arturo lives there with his grandma. We have plans to fix up the outside, but he works too many hours. Me too right now.”

“Sorry,” I say. “We’re keeping you busy.”

“Worth it if I make the right connections.”

“For more art commissions?”

“Architecture clients, ideally. Even one or two could end up spreading the word enough to keep me busy.”

“Is that your main focus? Architecture? You said something would have to give.”

His forehead furrows. “Yeah. I’d like to move Arturo into running the salvage side full-time. Maybe bring on an apprentice for the furniture making.”

A stop sign appears, and he obeys it, pointing at another house. “That’s Mrs. Perez. She runs a tailoring business out of her garage. Quinceañeras and formal stuff like that. Once I wasover here hanging out with her son, Marco, and I saw Charlotte Cameron leaving after an appointment.”

“Charlotte from Hillview?”

He nods. “She was getting a prom dress fixed or something. When she saw me sitting on the sofa playing Xbox with Marco, she looked at me like . . .”

“Like what?”

He pulls through the intersection. “Let’s go see what Eva thinks about this arts-and-crafts assignment we’re bringing her.”

He doesn’t say anything for the last couple of minutes back to the warehouse, but I’m beginning to understand how much he leaves unsaid in those silences.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Kaitlyn

We get the chandelierfrom Gabriela Juarez.

Gabriela approved the concept, and Eva said she could make the pieces for the vases in a couple of hours.

That did not create any breathing space for me. Thursday and Friday, none of my contact attempts panned out. No messages or emails returned beyond one autoreply. Three assistants who wouldn’t put me through to their bosses.

No new auction items.

At Madison’s house on Sunday for family dinner, I smile big—crocodile big—when she asks me how it’s going. I rave so hard over the chandelier commission that they forget to ask about any other new items. Mom looks delighted, Dad nods his approval—which is close to a standing ovation from him—and the pit in my stomach widens, a bottomless hole my worry keeps pouring into.

Talk turns to the entertainment for the gala, and Mom gushes over how Sara Elizabeth’s personal assistant is the sweetest thing. Then she moves on to our gowns and crowing about how she’dtoldMadison she would lose her baby weight just likethat, because hadn’t Mom done that herself after each of us?

When dinner ends, Harper announces through the baby monitor clipped to Oliver’s waistband that it’s her turn to eat, so I make my excuses and leave before I can get drawn into a chatty goodbye with Mom.

Instead of studying when I get home, I sit down to review my contact list for the auction. Again. I go over every contact I can think of with even the slightest connection to me or anyone in our family or the company.

I push my memory harder to come up with more names, more connections, no matter how obscure. I have no pride left. I will beg in the most professional way possible to get their donations.

I go through my sorority’s Instagram, every roommate I’ve ever had, anyone I knew in college with any kind of connection at all. They all go on my list. I go back even further to high school, and . . .

Drake Braverman. His family owns a few car dealerships. They’re loaded. I see him every now and then, mainly at a wedding or two in the last couple of years. I always smile. He doesn’t seem to register that I’m being ironic.

I will start with Drake Braverman in the morning.

No, I’ll start now. I grab my phone and search Instagram, finding his account. It’s mostly him posing in front of different exotic cars they’re selling, always leaning on the hood, feet crossed at the ankles, hands resting on his lap, one hand gripping the other wrist in a pose that shows off a different flashy watch.

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