Chapter 7 - The Auction of Vanity
Six weeks later.
The crisp autumn air carried a sharp, cool breeze across the North Shore of Chicago.
Outside the grand wrought-iron gates of the former Morrison estate, a fleet of luxury cars, moving vans, and private collectors had gathered for the high-profile public auction organized by Vantage Apex Real Estate.
Everything inside the seventy-room mansion was being auctioned off for charity.
The thirty-thousand-dollar Persian rug that had been ruined by dirty water was gone, replaced by pristine marble floors. But the dining room furniture, the crystal chandeliers, the imported Italian artwork, the designer wardrobes, and the luxury vehicles parked in the five-car garage were all laid out on the grand lawn, tagged with yellow auction lot numbers.
In the middle of the lawn, a large red-and-white banner hung between two oak trees:
VANTAGE APEX GLOBAL CHARITY AUCTION ALL PROCEEDS DONATED TO THE CHICAGO SINGLE MOTHERS HOUSING TRUST.
A crowd of hundreds—including Chicago’s highest elite, former country club members who used to gossip with Diane, and news crews—walked among the items, placing bids on their smartphones.
Standing near the perimeter fence, wearing a faded wool coat she had purchased at a thrift shop, was Diane Morrison.
She had walked three miles from the bus stop just to stand outside the iron bars, watching her former life being systematically sold off to the highest bidder.
She watched as a wealthy socialite she used to despise bought her custom mahogany dining table for ten thousand dollars.
She watched as a young college student bought her collection of designer silk dresses for a few hundred dollars.
And then, her eyes caught a small, wooden display case sitting on the central auction table.
Inside the case was the silver wine glass she had held on that fateful Sunday night—the glass she had used to sip ninety-dollar Cabernet while laughing at her son’s pregnant wife.
A young mother holding a baby in a carrier walked up to the display, placed a twenty-dollar bid on the glass, and smiled warmly at her husband.
Diane let out a weak, broken sob, clutching the cold iron bars of the gate with her liver-spotted hands.
A dark blue Bentley pulled slowly past the crowd, stopping at the gate.
The tinted rear window rolled down three inches.
I sat inside the heated leather interior, wearing a cream cashmere coat, looking out at the auction lawn. My daughter was due in less than three weeks now. I felt strong, healthy, and completely at peace.
Diane’s eyes locked onto the rear window. She recognized me instantly.
She stumbled forward toward the car, her hands raised in a pathetic, desperate gesture of plea. “Cassidy... Cassidy, please! Look at me! I’m an old woman! I have nothing! Please... just tell them to let me have my mother’s silver tea set back! That’s all I ask!”
I didn't roll the window down any further. I didn't look at her with anger, or hatred, or malice.
I simply looked at her with the quiet, profound detachment one feels toward a stranger who had long ago passed out of relevance.
Arthur, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned his head back. “Should I have security move her away, Chairwoman?”
“No,” I said softly, resting my hand over my stomach. “Let her watch.”
I looked out at the bright, beautiful lawn, where mothers and children were walking among the flowers, where millions of dollars were being raised to give shelter, safety, and dignity to women who had been abandoned by the world.
May you like
“Drive on, Arthur,” I murmured.
The driver pressed the accelerator, and the Bentley glided smoothly down the tree-lined avenue, leaving Diane Morrison standing alone in the autumn dust behind the iron gate.
