Mad About You

dominant red center of the bed-sized rug, and both of the short sides were adorned with thick fringe nearly eight inches in length.
    Two pictures showed rugs with similar markings, both attributed approximately to the late 1700s, and—Ladden swallowed—both boasting an asking price approaching thirty thousand dollars. He glanced back at his receipt. Even if the carpet were a copy, he'd received quite a bargain for the four thousand dollars that had nauseated him at the time. But for some odd reason, he had felt... compelled to buy the rug. His arm kept raising his bid paddle of its own volition until the red-faced auctioneer had yelled, "Sold!"
    Remembering the holes he'd imagined, he scratched his head. "Ladden, my man, you need a vacation." Then he laughed. With the money he'd make from this carpet, he might actually take one. Jasmine was in the middle of renovating her boyfriend's not-so-humble living quarters at the governor's mansion and had asked him to keep an eye out for a rug for the master bedroom. If she liked it as much as he thought she would, he knew money would be no object. Still...
    He ran his fingers over the rug in admiration and bit the inside of his cheek, his chest filling up with that rare wonder of having found something so special that it seemed worthy of keeping. Which was a dangerous habit in the antiques business— and a rule to which Ladden had made very few exceptions in the last fifteen years. Oh well, he would keep it for a few days at least. Satisfied, he secured the carpet in a wooden hanger and hoisted it high against the rear wall of the crowded room, then called and left a message with an acquaintance who knew more than he about valuing rugs.
    Shooing as many of the mysterious stray butterflies outside as possible, he carried the crate with the questionable contents into his showroom. Since Mondays were set aside for estate sales, yard sales, and tracking down special requests, Tuesdays were typically busy with regular customers coming in to check out the latest acquisitions. Which meant Jasmine would be in this afternoon. He would have to decide whether to tell her about the carpet or save the unveiling for another day.
    As always, pride welled within him as he glanced over his small but impressive display room. The building was old but beautiful and structurally intact. He owned the two rooms that housed his business, and although he needed to expand, the glorious display windows and enviable location on Pacific Street kept him rooted to the spot. He had liked the storefront on sight, especially since the alley gave him great access to the storeroom and space to park his big, ugly truck. He'd gambled and bought the place, although he and his eclectic mix of retail neighbors couldn't have known that a few years later, a ramp would be built from the highway onto Pacific. Instantly, their exposure, traffic, and property values had skyrocketed. Which had proved to be a double-edged sword, since now the chance of expanding into the shops on either side of him was almost nil. Even if the owners decided to sell, he couldn't afford to buy.
    High ceilings and wood floors were the perfect backdrop for his treasures, and floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the entire wall behind his antique mahogany counter, evoking images of an upscale general store.
    Carrying a bucket of supplies outside, Ladden quickly swept the sidewalk in front of his door and, just as he had for fifteen years, moved down to do the same for Mrs. Pickney of Pickney's Vacuum Cleaner Sales & Service. The lights in her shop were low, telling him she had not yet arrived for the day. A streak of mud from last night's rain marred her window, so he wiped it clean. When he realized the mud was probably the result of a clogged gutter, he retrieved his ladder to remove a handful of debris.
    After returning to his shop, Ladden noted he still had a few minutes to spare before opening. He turned his attention to the box he'd been railroaded into buying, wrinkling his nose when he pulled out a broken horse harness, a few worthless hubcaps, and a badly rusted iron skillet. He knew it—junk. Not even worth the trouble of hauling off. Next came a handful of odd hinges and cabinet hardware, a few holey hand saws, and a dented brass teapot blackened with tarnish.
    He picked through the rest of the rubble, most of which was either unidentifiable or deteriorated beyond repair. From the entire lot, he set aside four glass doorknobs, and, at