Poppy
opened the front door to reveal a pile of brown and tan suitcases tumbled
across the porch. A tall girl with ruby red hair stood in their midst with an
outraged expression.
“Not
just genuine Louis Vuitton, it’s vintage,”
she hissed at the man scrambling to restack the luggage on a cart he’d
evidently lifted up the porch steps. “If you’ve scratched one of them…”
“I’m
so sorry, Miss Stropharia,” the man said, although I could now see he was more
of a boy and probably barely our age. “Where do you want me to…”
“Oh,
right in here,” Poppy piped up. She opened the door a little wider, and I
stepped aside so the boy could wheel the cart of very expensive, very vintage luggage inside.
“You must be September,” Poppy said,
holding out her hand in welcome.
