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Article Excerpt
Rail Fence, Rambling Road, Kansas Troubles, Honeycomb, Spice Pink, Bow Knot, Doe and Darts, Dove-in-the-Window, Princess Feather, Triple X, Oak Leaves and Acorns, Crosses and Losses, Festoon, Fly Foot, Wood Lily, Variable Star, Triple Irish Chain, Lady of the Lake, Necktie, Seven Sisters, Broken Dishes, Dogs, Free Trade Block, Hexagon Charm, Tea Leaf, Pomegranate, Lemon Star, Tree of Life, Drunkard's Path.
This was not her first time in this place. She knew the shops where unexpected beauties sold as bargains. She knew the shopkeepers who would keep one back because she'd give them a fair price. It didn't hurt that she could slip on the accent and tone down the vocabulary. Instead of calling cards, she dropped names of relatives and old family friends. She never gave out her real business card--that would be pretentious; she just scribbled the info on a memo pad. All her East Coast ways--the dress and heels, the embossed identity--were hidden. Over time, the Ohio approach had come to feel most like the act.
Not that she had to work hard in the sticks or anyplace else. She had networks, understood the collectors, had studied the subtle variations that made one quilt more valuable than another. She could predict the decline of one trend and the rise of the new.
But what made her really good was instinct. She had a feel. She didn't like to talk about it; it sounded, in any objective sense, goofy. It was just that she knew, and was rarely wrong, and had the confidence to act. Her awareness of technique and market fluctuations continually threatened to get in the way of her knack; as she grew older, the marvelous find grew more rare. So many lovely artifacts had passed her way that beauty alone meant little. Instead, she wanted floor-shaking passion, and when she spotted it, she straightaway owned it. It became hers through a synchronicity that transcended birthright. She, she especially, understood that long dead maker.
With the ordinary quilts, she was a conduit between someone who wanted to own and someone who needed to let go. On this particular jaunt through Ohio, she'd amassed a truckbed of folded blankets, layers separated by tissue to prevent bleeding. For a Japanese buyer, she found Hearts and Gizzards. For the California politician, the Cactus Basket. For Mary Tannan, a regular, a lavender and pink Tulips with a couple of stains but fine even stitches. Dan Singular had long been looking for a Delectable Mountains, and she saw a photograph of one along with a promise that the quilt would be hers within the month (after the estate settlement). For herself, she found ten possibilities and the self-restraint to turn away all but one--an investment (she reasoned), a pristine Whig Rose with eight red flowers etched by double pink, a specially wide white border and twining vines, 1855, price dropped because of a sad spot of color fade where some idiot had hung it in the sun. Where would she put it? Away.
But for all these discoveries, the excitement was yet to come. (She often talked to herself in this advertisement sort of way, especially when she was ambivalent, as she was then, driving down a pitted dust road toward this old friend.) A best one, from Kushequa: she tried to avoid working with people from Kushequa. She had no coin with them; nearly all could take the upper hand. If the old school acquaintance had ten kids, she'd leave feeling like she should have birthed ten delightful darlings. If he owned a farm, she'd get home and start looking at prices for extended acreage. Worse, though--they never paid enough. She would cut them a break. Actually, this hadn't happened for twelve years; after her last royal screwing, she stopped mixing business with childhood. Until Scottie Baker's letter:
Hi there! (she'd said), Remember I told you about the quilts & how much I was glad I had them & how beautiful they are. Well, I think I would like to sell them now--if you are still interested! They were made by my great-grandmother Clara Jane & are lovely and precious so we have taken good care of them. I always promised if you visited me I'd show you and now you finally have a real reason to come by! (Are you an antisocial snob or what--just kidding. [TEXT NOT REPRODUCIBLE IN ASCII])
So up went Diane, twisting around disintegrating Appalachian houses. It must have been the voice, that quality of begging and regret that indicated a lovely item with an owner desperate to sell.
Dodging a porcupine, she told herself not to get her hopes up. Everybody thought their old crap was more valuable than anybody else's, only to have their hearts broken when great-grandma's smoky stained heirloom was worth less than fifty bucks. They hated her for the truth, vowing to get a "real expert"--then would call a few days later, eager to sell. Diane felt for the dead, how easily their things were passed off for nothing. Her job was to save the relics; for what, she didn't know. It was not as if a blanket were an orphan; yet its plight,...
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