I flip the bottle over and carefully pull it out.
Congratulations. You are now one of the few lucky individuals to find this very special bottle.
Carefully read the rules below and then write your wish on the back of this paper.
Remember, you only get one wish, so make it count.
“Okaaay.” The note is clearly someone’s idea of a joke. It’s actually a cute idea, though. A wish bottle.
I put the note and bottle aside and get to work cracking glass for my bee coasters while my mind starts to wander. The note poses an interesting question: If I could make one wish, anything in the world, what would it be? Maybe something selfish, like a billion dollars, or something more humanitarian, like finding the cure to cancer.
Oh, I know, I’d wish for Greg’s penis to fall off. He wasn’t very good with it anyway, although if you asked him, he’d tell you he was the world’s best lover. I’d give him the title for fastest, but that’s about it.
My kettle starts screaming in the kitchen, and I swivel on my work stool, accidentally knocking the bottle to the concrete floor with my elbow.
Crap! I wince, expecting it to shatter into a million pieces, but the thing makes a few bounces and lands upright.
Wow. I pick it up and inspect for damage. Nothing. What sort of glass is this? Must be tempered—very unusual for fancy art glass. You usually see tempered glass on cars or used in cookware. It’s expensive to make.
I set the bottle up on a shelf, go make my tea, and wolf down my dinner. Strangely, all I can think about is that bottle, the note inside, and that man in the black Mercedes. Did he put the note in there? If not, did he even notice it? I chuckle, trying to imagine what a man like him would even wish for. Not to be an asshole? Nah. He probably enjoys it.
Chapter Five
The next day, I’m up early and loading my trailer with my tables, display cabinets, and merchandise. Forecast says sixty degrees and sunny, which means lots of people at the market and potential sales.
Please, oh please. This past week is the first time since my breakup a few months ago that I finally feel somewhat hopeful about getting through this mess unscathed. Financially, that is. My heart will take a long time to heal, but the road will be infinitely easier if I don’t have to do it from my mom’s guest room.
Chin up, girl. The key to being a successful artist is accepting that you’re a salesperson first. And when it comes to selling, potential customers can sense desperation even when you’re smiling.
Which is why I’ll be thinking happy, positive thoughts to attract customers to my booth. I lock up my trailer, get into my white pickup, and slowly back up onto my quiet street. From the side mirror, I notice a sleek black sedan with tinted windows parked right across the street.
What the fuck? I hit the brakes and pop my head out the window, but there’s nothing there.
Great. Now I’m definitely being paranoid. What’s with me?
I finish backing out and get on my way. As I pull up to the stop sign at the end of my street, a black Mercedes pulls behind me.
A cold shiver spikes through me. This is just too weird.
With my hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, I take a right. Thankfully the car continues straight. Still, this is starting to freak me out.
Stop it. Just stop it! That suit-hole from the garage sale is not following me around. That’s ridiculous! I shake my head.
I need a vacation. Big time. Maybe, just maybe, if sales go well today, I’ll take off one of these weekends and spend time with Vi. She’s been threatening to take me to a day spa near her place in Manhattan as an early birthday present.
Yes. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll have to work a little harder to make up for the lost sales, but I’ll talk to her about planning something. My energy reservoir is getting lower by the day. If I’m not careful, I’ll be too run-down to be useful to anyone let alone myself.
I hit the main road leading to downtown. Thankfully, there’s no sign of the black Benz. See. Just a fluke. Relax, Gin. Relax.
Around three p.m., the market’s crowd starts winding down. I hate to admit that their biggest draw is the organic baked goods, jams, and farm-fresh veggies. When the foodies’ reusable bags are filled, the rest of us vendors don’t get much business, aside from the occasional straggler. Today, I’ve made over seven hundred dollars, which is phenomenal, but no one’s been by my booth in over an hour.
I start packing up, rewrapping my coasters, picture frames, wall art, and other knickknacks into my hard plastic crates.