The next time her mother-in-law asked her to an antique fair, Michelle Evans would find a way out of it. She'd need a good excuse, too. Like Ebola or SARS. The Black Plague. Maybe even all three, Joyce not being the type of woman to whom one simply told “no.” Especially not when she played her I Always Wanted a Daughter card. It was just too bad Joyce seemed to think the only thing daughters were good for was dragging to antique shops and flea markets and garage sales on perfectly good weekends.
She trailed Joyce into a tent filled with shimmering dishes and vases—more carnival glass—and as Joyce continued on, Michelle stopped in front of a table. She picked up a teacup and peered through it like a kaleidoscope. And still failed to see what all the fuss was about.
“Chelle!” Joyce called from several rows over.
