August in Philadelphia meant a little less traffic to contend with, but Isabel Murray still preferred to bike the four miles to her job at the old auction house down by the river. Besides being great exercise, it gave her time to soak up the sun and improve her tan. Since summer had begun she’d used every excuse she could to be outdoors to bask in the light and heat. She’d always adored this season, as it seemed to peel away all the layers of weariness she endured while trudging through the long, dreary winters.

If there was a Heaven, Isabel hoped it would be an endless beach where the sun never set.

American flags still fluttered everywhere around the city; a few as remnants from last month’s July Fourth celebrations. Most flew year-round, and nearly every business had a permanent show of some Americana. As the birthplace of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, and home to the Liberty Bell, Philly had always flaunted its perennial pride and patriotism.

Isabel certainly didn’t mind. Like freedom she’d been born here, and while The City that Loves you Back might not have quite lived up to its marketing campaigns, CPS had kept her fed, sheltered and educated for eighteen years in foster care. Thanks to her own ingenuity––and quite a bit of good luck––she could now look after herself. That independence was all she had needed to make her life perfect.

Almost, Isabel thought as she avoided a couple of teenagers walking hand-in-hand. I just have to meet someone nice, and then figure out how not to run away if they propose.

Caleb, her ex, probably still hadn’t forgiven her.

I mean, did you have to scream like that? he’d demanded, the last time they had crossed paths at the supermarket. You scared the heck out of me.

Isabel couldn’t remember what she had mumbled in response––probably some variation of So did you––before she had walked away from him, very fast. Okay, she had run again––and from then on she had shopped at another market, too.

Caleb had been a nice, steady boyfriend, always polite and punctual. Like her he never touched alcohol, and he seemed to really appreciate picnic and ice cream dates. That said, he had been a little too respectful, so finally she’d asked him if they were ever going to have sex. Isabel usually wasn’t that pushy––she always preferred to let people do things at their own speed––but after three months of hand-holding and cheek and forehead kisses she had been wondering if he even liked girls.

Unfortunately it turned out that he wasn’t gay.

To her horror Caleb had said that if she wanted to have sex with him she would have to first join his church and then marry him. He didn’t see her jaw drop as he told her that he didn’t believe in premarital intimacy or using any form of birth control. He’d assured her that while she’d have to quit her job to look after him and all the children they would be having, she could go on wearing trousers and shorts at home. She’d have to wear long skirts whenever she left the house, of course.

Women should dress modestly in public once they’re married. You don’t want to give other men the wrong ideas about you.

As the shock of his demands set in, Isabel had even seen his version of her life flash before her eyes. Converting to his cult, being kept perpetually pregnant, attending brain-washing services multiple days a week, and tossing away her own dreams so she could work herself to death raising his spawn. In long skirts, no less.

Of course she had screamed and run away. Isabel still had nightmares.

Some food cart vendors had arrived to set up along the walkways in the park near the river, where they would provide hungry kids with ice cream, hot dogs and soft pretzels. Isabel sometimes wondered why the city’s famous figure-eight pretzels weren’t considered breakfast food; they were basically elongated, twisted bagels. As she passed a few early bird mothers herding their youngsters toward the playground, she grinned and waved. In a few weeks the kids would be heading back to school, but for now they could run around and play as much as they wanted. Growing up in foster care had cured her of ever wanting her own kids, but she liked watching them.

As for what she wanted in her love life, Isabel wondered if she should take out a personal ad. She tried writing one in her head:

Do not wish to marry, breed for, worship alongside, share my living space with or financially support my romantic partner. No interest in any alcohol-fueled activities, either. Prefer instead lots of time outdoors, thrilling nights filled with fun sex and soft pretzels for breakfast. You wear whatever you like, and I will, too. P.S., Bring Your Own Bike.

After crossing the bridge from the park she slowed in front of a very old brick building that had been in business since the nineteenth century. After she parked her bike and locked it, she went in through the side door to the employee lounge, where she ducked into the ladies room, pulled her transformation kit out of her backpack and went to work.

A large wrap-around clip captured and rolled her coppery curls into a reasonably neat bun, which she secured with a few hair pins. She never sweated much when she biked, but she wiped herself down with a damp cloth anyway before applying her favorite ginger-peach body splash. A few pats of translucent powder and two swipes of rosy lipstick made her face business-presentable. She then unrolled and shook out her turquoise blazer, which covered her lavender tank top and made it look like a blouse front. After swapping out her bike shorts for pleated gray trousers, she toed off her sneakers and stepped into a pair of black flats.

Presto, Isabel thought as she checked herself in the mirror and added the finishing touch of two moonstone stud earrings. I’m Ms. Murray, head auction clerk and front office manager for Downes Auction House.

Before coming to work at Downes, Isabel had never dressed like this. YouTube videos, careful observation of other professional women, and haunting the right consignment shops had helped her acquire a decent wardrobe for her office persona. She knew she would never really fit in with everyone else, but she’d learned how to make them believe she did. Someday, when she started her own business, she could be as weird as she wanted.

As she walked towards the front office, Isabel heard a commotion and quickened her step. Darcie Blake, the newly-hired receptionist, came rushing toward her in a white and green polka-dotted dress that she must have stolen from the fifties. She stopped so fast she nearly fell, and grabbed Isabel’s arms to brace herself as she teetered on three-inch emerald heels with little white bows.

“You’re going to kill me, Ms. Murray,” she said, her puppy dog eyes brimming with tears and misery.

Isabel reined in a sigh; Disaster Darcie regularly lived up to her nickname. “Will it be justifiable homicide?”

“Could you tell Mrs. Downes that I tripped?” Darcie asked a few minutes later, anxiously hovering as Isabel worked under her desk. “She can’t terminate me for having an accident, right?”

“It’ll be fine.” Drying everything under the desk that she’d found dripping from the receptionist’s spilled mocha latte only required a towel and patience. “She didn’t fire Jerry when he fell on top of that Civil War spool table last Christmas.”

Lisa Talbot, the bookkeeper, made a scathing noise from her desk in the corner. “Yeah, but Mrs. D had me dock the repair cost from his checks for weeks, Ms. Murray.”

“Please, Rainbow Dark,” Isabel muttered. “Not today.”

“I can’t pay for a new computer,” Darcie wailed, wringing her hands. “I have ten payments left on my wedding dress, and next week I have to make the deposit for the reception, the cake, and the flowers–”

“Let’s see if there’s any damage first before you start writing checks.” Isabel came out from under the desk, and frowned at the clerk as she stood up. “Say, there’s something stuck in your ear.” She reached out and tucked a strand behind the other girl’s ear, and produced the diamond solitaire ring she’d found on the floor by the tower. “You should wear this on your finger, you know.”

Her little sleight of hand usually made someone laugh, but Darcie only choked back a sob.

“It’s my engagement ring. It fell off, and that’s why I dropped my coffee––oh, I told Josh I should have gotten it sized before I started wearing it.” The receptionist jammed it onto her ring finger, and her bottom lip wobbled as she said, “I could pawn it to pay for a new computer, I suppose.”

Isabel pulled Darcie’s chair back over to her desk. “Try turning on the power first.”

“My rent just went up, and we’re trying to save for the honeymoon, too. Why am I such a klutz?” The other girl’s hand shook as she sat down and pressed the power button. When the monitor lit up she made a squealing sound. “Oh, my gosh. You fixed it.”

“I wiped down the wiring,” she corrected. “Keep that towel there until the rug dries, okay?”

 Darcie nodded so enthusiastically her glasses slid to the tip of her nose. “You’re so amazing, Ms. Murray.”

“As clumsy as you are, she has to be,” Lisa put in.

Isabel glared over the receptionist’s head at the bookkeeper, who cupped her hands into a heart and pretended to bite it.

“It’s no problem.” Isabel remembered how idiotic she had been when she’d first started working at Downes, so forgiving the receptionist was paying it forward. “Just no more drinks at your desk, okay? Take them to the lounge on your break.”

“Coffee is the only thing that keeps me alive until lunch time.” The receptionist sat down and started tapping on the keyboard. “Looks like I only lost the page I was working on. Thank you so much. I could just hug you to pieces.”

As a precaution Isabel took a few steps back––Darcie might literally do just that––but the receptionist seemed too mesmerized by her restored file to keep her threat. “Catch up on the sale reports. Lisa, please cover the phones for her until she does. I’ll go see if Carlos and George have finished unloading the first truck.”

Isabel went down the hall to the warehouse door, which opened out into the huge storage area behind the salerooms. At the very back of the building stretched a long, wide platform where trucks daily delivered fine antique furniture to be sold by the auction house.

This is where I work. Isabel would never get tired of those five words. At one of the oldest and most respected auction houses in the country.

The scent of wax and wood mixed with the sun-warmed breeze came in through the loading bay doors. As she passed straw-stuffed crates and mounds of cushioning wraps she caught glimpses of the polished wood, gleaming stained glass and burnished hardware they protected. Tomorrow at the weekly auction, these pieces would fill the salerooms and be sold to the highest bidder. Some would go for more money than she could earn in ten years, yet that fact never made her resentful.

Isabel knew exactly how lucky she was to have her job.

Three years ago she had fried chicken every day to survive. Foster care kids like her who didn’t end up as addicts or prostitutes generally ended up in the food service industry, working two or three part-time jobs with minimum wages just to afford a miserable existence on society’s fringes. Isabel wanted more for herself, so she’d started applying for better positions a few months before she turned eighteen. Most of the time she was turned down as unqualified sight unseen; the few interviews she got ended in less than five minutes.

“You haven’t even got a high school diploma yet,” one manager had said. She took in her thrift store blouse, hand-hemmed skirt and scuffed flats and sniffed. “Is this how you intend to dress for work, young lady? You look like you’re on welfare.”

“I wish I was.” Isabel rose from her chair and held out her hand. “Thank you. Next time I hope my clothes will be better.”

Josephine Downes had looked like a snob, but she hadn’t acted like one when Isabel had come to the auction house to interview for an entry-level clerk position.

“You have no experience in this industry.” The thin, iron-haired woman lifted a hand to the single strand of pearls around her wrinkled throat. “What can you offer as an employee?”

“Me.” Isabel looked into her shrewd dark eyes and on instinct spoke from her heart. “I learn fast and work hard. Please hire me, ma’am. You’ll never regret it.”

Mrs. Downes’s expression turned skeptical. “If you wanted this position so badly, why didn’t you at least shower before you came for the interview?”

Another girl might have cringed, but Isabel wasn’t ashamed of how she smelled.

“I’m sorry. When we’re done here I’m going back to my job frying chicken because I still have five hours to work on my shift.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out the little visor she had to wear at the restaurant. “I do that thirty-seven hours a week, plus any overtime they offer me, so I don’t smell it anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for my job. They give me a free meal every shift I work. I’d go hungry toward the end of the month if they didn’t.”

“Then why would you leave it, dear girl?” Mrs. Downes prompted.

“I want to smell like this place––like you. I want to cook food I like for myself at home.” She took in a deep breath. “I’m not stupid, it’s just that no one will give me a chance. I’ll do whatever you need me to. Please let me work here.”

“Go back to your restaurant, Ms. Murray,” the old lady said, and as Isabel’s shoulders slumped, she added, “Before your shift ends, hand in your notice as well. I’ll expect you to start in two weeks.”

In three years since coming to work at Downes Isabel had never missed a day, and learned everything she could about the auction business. Promoted to head clerk last year, she now managed the front office and supervised Darcie and Lisa. She also lived in a small efficiency apartment in a decent neighborhood, owned a used but reliable car, and became a vegetarian.

Mrs. Downes had never regretted hiring her, either––Isabel had made sure of that.

As she approached the loading platform she greeted the appraisers who had come to look over the newly-arrived stock. Both men were seasoned experts in their field, as collectors, interior designers and museum buyers made up the bulk of the auction house’s clientele. The top tier could and would pay a hundred thousand dollars for a pair of chairs without blinking.

Two of the three men responsible for unloading the deliveries stood on the edge of the platform looking into the nearly-empty truck. George, a former nightclub bouncer who no one ever messed with, scratched the back of his neck, while Carlos, his towering, skinny co-worker muttered softly in Spanish under his breath.

Meatball and Spaghetti looked worried, Isabel thought, which on the platform was never a good thing. “Any problems with the shipment?”

“Tommy called in sick,” George told her, and nodded toward the interior of the delivery truck. “We got one of them huge cabinets in there, must weigh a ton. Can’t use the forklift, though, ‘cause it’s middy-evil.”

Isabel frowned and walked across the ramp into the truck to have a look at the last piece waiting to be unloaded. A foot taller than her, the ancient oak and iron armoire looked as if it might weigh half a ton. However, there was room on each side of the piece to tip it, and the carved bottom edges allowed her to see the space underneath it. The moment she put her hands on the wood a familiar jolt of excitement went all bouncy-ball in her chest.

You’ve got a secret, don’t you, you beautiful old thing?

“If we get some heavy-duty sliders under it, we can turn and roll it sideways,” she told George. “I’ll help you.”

The big man looked doubtful, but nodded and went to fetch the equipment they needed. A few minutes later Isabel was able to help them push the incredibly heavy piece across the ramp. The driver and the appraisers stopped to applaud them, but quickly fell silent as their employer walked onto the platform.

Isabel grinned, as she always did when she saw She-Who-Must-Be-Adored. “Morning, Mrs. Downes.”

“Isabel, gentlemen. So this is why you weren’t at your desk,” the owner and general manager of the auction house said as she surveyed the piece and pretended not to see the men scattering. “Scottish, fourteenth century. Exquisite. It should fetch some very healthy bids tomorrow night. Why does the office smell of overpriced coffee? Darcie,” she said before Isabel could answer.

“Just another little accident, Boss. No real harm done, but we should probably have the office rug cleaned.” She grimaced. “I could kill her and make it look like an accident, but then we’d have to replace the carpeting.”

Mrs. Downes pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh. “You’re a wicked child.”

“Maybe the Dark Ages are rubbing off on me.” Isabel reached out to touch the blackened oak panel at the front of the ancient cabinet almost compulsively. She loved how heat and flame transformed things. “Do you think this was once in a fire?”

“That doesn’t look like charring. Likely it was kept somewhere near a hearth––that was the only source of heat those poor devils had in those days. Wood smoke leaves that kind of residue over the decades.” Her adorable boss walked around it. “Ah, yes, the back of the piece is much lighter in color.”

She accompanied the older woman as she inspected the entire shipment, and took out the notepad she always carried to jot down some instructions for the pre-auction saleroom crew.

“Everything will need surface cleaning, except the armoire,” Mrs. Downes told her. “I want that left untouched. The blackening adds some visual drama, and it may be snapped up by one of those set directors. We should put it in the front saleroom today. Tell Jerry to leave one of the doors ajar and drape a tartan over it.”

Isabel nodded. “Did this really come all the way from Scotland?”

“I believe so, but assure the estate seller provided the proper provenance.” The older woman pursed her lips. “If it were not so large I’d buy it myself. I’ve always had a soft spot for highlanders. They were quite heroic and independent––rather like you, my dear.”

“I’ve definitely got the mop.” Flicking her hand at her coppery curls, Isabel grimaced. “Murray is both a Scottish and an Irish surname. I could be either, or neither.”

“You might even be both.” Mrs. Downes touched her arm. “Be sure and find me after the auction tomorrow. I want to discuss a few things with you about your future.”

It doesn’t include applying for unemployment, I hope.

Isabel pushed aside the uneasy thought––if her boss wanted her gone, she would have given her a very genteel pink slip––and kept her smile in place until the older woman departed.

“My future is fine,” she murmured to herself as she pocketed her notebook. “I’m going to save every penny I can while I learn everything you know about antiques and auctioning, and then when you retire and sell the business see if my bank will help me buy it. Why do we have to talk about that?”

Isabel returned to the front office, and checked in with Lisa, who had handled all of the incoming calls. Darcie seemed to be making some progress on her computer work, too, so she went in search of Jerry. She found the tall, lanky auctioneer arranging lot numbers atop the newly-delivered furniture in the largest of their salerooms.

“We’ve got a medieval Scottish armoire that just arrived.” Isabel repeated Mrs. Downes’ instructions for the display, and then asked out of curiosity, “Do you think there will be a lot of bidders for that piece?”

He nodded. “Not many of those on the market. I’m planning to open the bidding at fifty, but it should go for twice that.”

A hundred thousand dollars for what amounted to a smoke-stained cabinet, Isabel thought, depressed now. She’d managed to save a little, but no way could she compete with bids that high to buy the armoire.

“You like it that much, huh?” Jerry asked. “That’s how it starts, you know. You fall in love, and then the next thing you know you’re a collector.”

Isabel gave him a rueful smile. “I can’t afford to collect anything, Jer, except maybe modern thrift store.”