Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

Trust . . . a little word with a huge meaning. And prayer. It’s not as if Peggy’s the only one who’s prayed with me. Before she left, Aunt Weeby prayed with me. After our amens, she took my face between her hands, stared me in the eye, then dropped a kiss on my forehead, just as she has done since I was a little girl.

“Don’t wrassle your brains into a big ol’ tangle, sugarplum. You don’t have to do it all. You don’t even have to do any of it. God’s with you, and all he wants is for you to trust him to work it all out.”

“But—”

“No, Andie. No buts work here. Only trust in God. Faith, the real deal, girl. That’s what we’re talking about. And the next time you start wrassling thoughts again, pray. Toss it all over to God. He’s the man with the answers, and you know it. Oh! And forget all about that snooping thing. I . . . uh . . . was all wrong about that.”

I do know she’s right—in my head. It’s ironic how in this hospital room, after hours of prayer, self-examination, and too many thoughts, I come to such a huge epiphany. For years now I’ve been a Christian, since my teens, when I gave my life to my heavenly Father. But it’s only now, today, just weeks before my thirtieth birthday, that I realize I haven’t really sold myself all out to God.

Aunt Weeby is right. I do try to “wrassle” answers all by myself. And to my shame, I finally know that’s not self-reliance or independence or even talent, ability, or a gift of some sort. That kind of “wrassling” I do is nothing more than a lack of trust in God. Instead of moving out of his way to let him do his thing, I barge in where his angels fear to tread.

What I really need to do is surrender, to say, “Thy will be done,” and mean it with all that is within me, every single time, and about every single thing that affects me.

Heaven help me, what I really need is to be more like my aunt. Nutty, wacky, and all the rest, she has, though, figured out this whole life and living thing. She does life in a constant state of trust in God.

And it’s only my helplessness while laying flat in a hospital bed, while under suspicion of horrible crimes, in a fog about all the awful things that have happened to me and others I care for, that brings me to a deeper knowledge of what it means to know Christ.

“Thy will be done . . .”

17 00

A stay at Hotel Hospital is no fun. I cut mine short as soon as I trumped Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s arguments. The two other S.T.U.D. employees who’d been under observation were heading home, so why shouldn’t I do the same?

The daunting duo’s strong suit isn’t logic.

And now, three long days of Aunt Weeby’s not strictly necessary pampering later (picture tall me on the not-so-tall parlor sofa, since she can’t clump up and down the stairs to do her ministering), I’m heading to the studio. My beady little eyes want to see what Chief Clark has assured me. He insists the vault wasn’t breached. How does he know if someone didn’t figure out the combination, open the door, and once inside, help himself to a fortune in gemstones? He doesn’t know what we have in inventory.

Well, Sally and Miss Mona do, but still. Seeing is believing.

After a quick shower, I take my time to put together an outfit that has neither Tweety Bird nor Taz on it, like my pajamas do. Sure, I’m designer most of the time, but I’ve also got a thing for handsome cartoon males, with the likes of whom I’ve spent a great deal of time during my convalescence. I score a bagel for breakfast, then head for the front door. When I get to the parlor, I hit the brakes and come to a screeching halt. Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona are there, on their way out, stacks of shopping bags and cardboard boxes at the ready.

“What are you two doing?”

They swap looks, grin, and Aunt Weeby waves the newspaper in her hand. “Check it out. We’re going on a flea market safari. This one’s only about twenty-eight miles away. Want to come with us? See what kinda trophy you can bag? It’ll be such fun.”

Hmm . . . let’s think about this. Two giddy senior citizens, a place boiling over with more of the same, tables and booths bursting at the seams with people’s dusty junk . . .

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Aw, sugarplum. You’re gonna have to come with us one a’ these times. You don’t know what a thrill it is when you spot a treasure in the middle of a bunch a’ garbage. And then the real fun starts. That’s when you haggle the price down to bargain-basement pennies.”

I’d rather volunteer for a root canal. Without Novocain. If ever there was a time for diplomacy, this is it. “I just don’t get the thrill of it all. Dirt and trash aren’t my thing. And as far as arguing goes? You guys know I get more than my fair share working with Max.”

Miss Mona gives me one of her laser-beam looks. “And here I thought you were going to play nice.”

Was he playing nice when he first showed up? Murder’s not nice.

But I can’t bring that up. “Sure, I agreed to work with him, but that doesn’t mean he suddenly knows enough that he won’t make me crazy the next time he comes up with some dumb comment while we’re on-screen. And besides, you did tell us you wanted the, um . . . er . . . disagreements to go on.”

Aunt Weeby chuckles. “See, Mona? I told you there’s not a thing to worry about. They’re not gonna be billing and cooing anytime soon. The viewers are still gonna get lots a’ sparks coming their way. They’re the perfect couple.”

I fight the urge to blab, to warn them, and face Miss Mona. “Any reason why you’d be heading out on a junking junket instead of coming in to the studio on the Friday morning after it was sabotaged?”

“Andie, honey, Max was right on at least one thing he said. You do take yourself much too seriously. That’s the why-for behind your ulcers. You need to be more like Livvy and me. We know how to have us some fun.”

Max, Max, Max.

“I’ll give you that I’ve become too focused on work over the last few years, but I don’t find anything about junk particularly exciting. I’m more the Queen of Clean kinda girl, not the kind who goes around collecting endless piles of more stuff.”

Aunt Weeby purses her lips and looks toward the ceiling. “You Philistine, you. We don’t buy us any junk stuff. We find us real good antiques, sugarplum. You have to give it a chance—”

The ringing doorbell cuts her off. I rush to see who came to my rescue, but wrinkle my nose when I spot the—suspicious— male on the front porch. “What brings you here?”

He seems clueless about the . . . um . . . lack of enthusiasm in my voice. “I knew the ladies were headed out for some R&R, and I thought you might like a ride to the studio.”

Uh-oh. “I usually drive myself in to work. Aunt Weeby’s been letting me use her old VW Jetta.”

Max snaps his fingers. “That’s right. I’ve seen you. But wouldn’t you like to travel in style? And the company’s not so bad either.”

A date with Jack the Ripper. “Ah . . . well . . . I never thought about it.”

“Tell you what. How about you do something wild and crazy today and give it a try? Come with me. I promise not to sabotage you and your gem geekydom. You’ll be safe with me.”

Really? “Okay.”

“Lighten up, Andie. I can’t find even a hint of humor in you.”

I don’t see the humor in a corpse in a vault. But he can stand some surveilling. I grab my purse from the table in the foyer. “Okay, pal. I’m taking you up on your offer. And just so you know, my sense of humor’s just ducky, thank you very much.”

“Oh my!” Aunt Weeby says. “I don’t know what’d be more fun today. I love flea marketing, but refereeing these two could also be a barrel of fun.”