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“I know it the same way I know you always wanted to have dinner on some exotic beach, that you wanted to drink champagne as the sun set over the water before you’d ever tasted alcohol,” I tell her.
“Stop,” she says.
I continue, “I know it the same way I am aware that in eighth grade, you once—”
“I said stop!” Grace shouts as her fist comes down hard on the table. Her hands go up to her face and then she’s getting out of her chair.
“Grace, please,” I say, getting up from the booth to follow her. “Just let me explain.”
She’s out of here so fast I can’t tell her how when I was in eighth grade, I was sick of moving from town to town only to be picked on by a revolving cast of assholes. I can’t tell her that when I was at my lowest, that when I about to end it all before my life had even begun, that she’s who saved me even though we’d never had a conversation before that day
She’s out of here so fast I can’t tell her how she saved my life or how, if it weren’t for her, I never would have had the motivation to work as hard as I did to get as far as I’ve gotten.
I don’t get the chance to tell her that I am where I am, the good parts at least, because of those two weeks back in the eighth grade when she became the first friend I ever had. I wish I could have at least told her how gutting it was when my dad came home with new orders and why I had to leave before she could have known how completely she changed everything.
So I don’t wait for the morning. If she hasn’t figured out exactly who I am yet, she will soon enough. Maybe she’ll call, but probably she won’t. If I’d told her at the start, it might have been different.
All I know is when I get on the plane, I’m not thinking about my company.
CHAPTER15
TO INFLICT
GRACE
Ihad to go out of town to find new inventory, but with the glass back over the front of the store, the place doesn’t look half bad. I’m down to $500, or I’d have the floors replaced. I suppose we all have our scars.
Zach had a good story, I’m sure, if only I’d let him tell it. The second he started going off about all this stuff he knew about me, though, I knew I’d been right at the outset. Whether he got all that out of Naomi or he hired someone to look into my past, it doesn’t matter.
I don’t blame him. I knew what I was getting myself into when I changed my no to a yes. I didn’t know he’d turn out to be creepy stalker guy, but I figured a guy like him has to have some secrets.
The funny thing is, there’s still that part of me that kind of wanted to hear him out. I can’t imagine what he could have told me that would have set my mind at ease for longer than two seconds, but it seemed like he’d put a lot of work into whatever line he was going to sell me.
Call it respect for fiction. Maybe it was almost a comfortable life, but bad things follow Zach, and I don’t do secrets.
I’m winning the battle against asking myself what Zach would have to gain by outing himself like that when the door to the shop blows open again. I get up and walk around the counter to close it up once more.
Since the fine citizenry took it upon themselves to destroy my store, the door never quite latches without the deadbolt. With the deadbolt in place, what’s the point of having a store?
Something strange happens, though. I’m about halfway from the counter to the door when I see a hand and then and arm and then the whole body of Mrs. Taber. She smiles when she sees me.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hello,” I reflect, monotone.
“Are you all right, dear?” she asks. “You look a little peaked.”
“I’m all right,” I answer, snapping myself out of it. I don’t know how to explain to her I didn’t expect anyone to come back into the shop in at least another week. Honestly, I was content enough to stop getting angry letters in the mail. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “Go ahead and have a look around. Let me know if you have any questions or you need help with anything.”
“Actually,” she says, “I was wondering if you had any more of those King Louis armoires come in. I went to Wal-Mart, and you were right, yours was different.”
Having gone searching for hidden (and reasonably priced) treasures for the first time, I asked a few questions, and when I did, I learned quite a bit. For instance, I found out that the Louis XV-style double-mirrored armoire we had in the shop, while pretty, was a reproduction that was made and then almost immediately discontinued eight years ago.
The thing wasn’t an antique. Whoever owned it first just beat the hell out of it.
Going through the files on Troy’s computer, I also learned just how much his out-of-town buys—which werealwaysour most expensive pieces—actually cost. He got his crap just as cheap as I bought my crap on the rare occasion someone in town wanted to get rid of something.
It was sad, because nobody ever bought the most expensive pieces anyway. Mostly what happened is someone would bring in a dresser and someone else in town would come and pick it up. The limited business we did have came from a few fifty dollar pieces a week, and a whole lot of ten dollar sales exchanged between neighbors. I never sold anything over a hundred dollars until that day the town decided to swallow my life.