“I’m not!” Michael responded. “I have absolute faith in the ultimate triumph of the Kenabeek Summer Theater! Hey!” Michael suddenly braked the jeep and pulled to the side of the road. “Bladen’s Antiques! I’d forgotten about them. This is the one antique store in the area, Peggy.”
They looked at the little house at the side of the road. Outside, by the gate, was a huge iron elk carrying the shop’s sign on his antlers. The yard was strewn with marble pedestals, bird cages hanging from trees, and a huge red sleigh with massive iron runners. There was even a small weather-beaten totem pole leaning rather precariously to one side.
“Is that the real thing?” Peggy asked Michael.
“Well, if it wasn’t when they put it up, it’s certainly an antique by now! No, it’s not a real Indian one, Peggy. It’s a fake, like a lot of souvenir items up here. But we don’t pretend they’re real.”
“Think we might borrow one of those pedestals?” Peggy asked. “We could use one on the set.”
“Couldn’t carry it back—they’re too heavy,” Michael answered. “Why don’t I drop you here, Peggy, and you can browse around inside? We’ll pick you up on our way back from Mrs. Hopkins’.”
“Well, all right,” Peggy agreed doubtfully, climbing out. “But suppose they don’t want to lend us anything?”
“Make a big pitch about the program credit. Say it’s great advertising! See you later.” They drove off, leaving Peggy feeling even more dubious. She had never been very good at this type of thing—program credit or not. She remembered a time when she had been asked to sell advertising for the high school yearbook at home, and how shy she had felt about it. Acting was one thing, but this was another.
Some people didn’t realize that actors and actresses didn’t always make good salesmen, she thought, as she entered the gate and walked up the little flagstone path to the shop. She wished that Richard Wallace were with her. He could talk anybody into anything! But then, Peggy recalled, he seemed to think the same of her. She smiled, remembering how he had kidded about sending her to see Max Slade. Well, even if that had been a joke, at least she could try to do something useful here.
Chimes rang above her head as she opened the door, and Peggy blinked, coming into a room so stuffed with bric-a-brac and furniture that she could hardly see her way. There was a narrow path of clear space, only about a foot wide, that led to the counter. She had to avoid things hanging from the ceiling: bunches of toy bark canoes on strings, birds carved out of wood that danced merrily in the air at the breeze from the door. Leaning down from the wall behind the counter and staring at her roundly was a huge, stuffed owl, his eyes gleaming strangely in the dim light. Peggy stared back at the owl, fascinated.