To me, it was priceless.
My grandmother wore it almost every day. After she died, it came to me. When Toby was little, he used to open it and ask to see the tiny faded photograph tucked inside.
“You sure you want to donate it?” he asked when I placed it in the velvet box.
I smiled at him. “Temporarily donate it. I plan to buy it right back.”
That was common at our auction. People often donated sentimental things, then bid on them themselves so the cause got money and the item stayed in the family.
He relaxed a little. “Okay. Good.”
I should have known Vanessa would find out somehow.
In our town, secrets have the shelf life of milk left in the sun.
The night of the auction, the gym smelled like coffee, floor polish, and sheet cake from the refreshments table. Folding chairs filled the court. Parents, teachers, town council people, old alumni, all buzzing and greeting each other beneath strings of paper stars made by the student council.
I was wearing a navy sweater dress and low heels. Nothing special. Just presentable.
Then Vanessa walked in.
People noticed.
Of course they did.
She was wearing a tight red dress that barely reached mid-thigh and heels that clicked against the gym floor like she was making an entrance at an awards show. Her lipstick was perfect. Her hair was loose in glossy waves. She scanned the room like she expected everyone to admire her.
