“This stuff as you call it is the merchandise that’s going to sing to people as they walk past the window. Like a siren’s call, it will boost our foot traffic.” Luckily there are two distinct display windows; one on each side of the entrance. I’ll approach the shop from only my side of the store.
I hop on the back of the truck and grab a lamp that has a hula dancer in a grass skirt as the base. “This is going to call people into the store? Are you sure you don’t mean scare people away? There’s no way we are putting that in either window.”
“Of course we aren’t,” Danny says grabbing the lamp from me, and I have a second of relief. “This is Shirley and she goes right next to me at my desk. She’s been with me forever.”
“At least if it was for sale I could buy it from you and throw it out myself,” I mutter. For a second I consider a hostile takeover. What if I purchased all of his merchandise and bought him out of his lease? That way I could have the store to myself. How much could all his stuff cost?
The reality is I’m not sure I could even buy the lamp from him, let alone everything else. My finances are in a bit of a transitional period. I put what little money I had left after signing the lease into acquiring a few very special pieces for the store, and the rest of my small savings is going toward the rent for the next few months and filling the holes in my collection. I was grateful to Arthur for giving me this place at such a steep discount...but now I realize how he was able to do it.
“I realize penny loafers aren’t the best shoes for physical labor, but the faster we get my stuff unloaded the easier it will be for your van to have this spot,” Danny says to me. I look down at my perfectly polished loafers and then over at his...oh, dear lord. I was assuming I would see some type of sneaker or athletic shoe but it’s worse, so much worse. I grab the side of the truck to steady myself.
“What are those things on your feet?” I ask. I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
“Fabulous, aren’t they? They’re limited edition Crocs that were made to look like cheeseburgers. They even have layers of lettuce and tomato. So cute and comfy. I’d get you a pair but they’re a real collector’s item. The shipping from Japan cost more yen than my entire collection of He-Man action figures.”
“I’ll pass,” I say. I pick up a box.
“Careful with that one,” Danny says. “It has some of my more priceless pieces.”
“I’m almost scared to ask.” I put the box down on the floor of the truck so I can hop off.
He opens the moving box and pulls out a smaller brightly colored box shaped like a barn covered in cartoon characters. I know exactly what it is but I can’t imagine any reason someone would pay money for it. “This is a vintage Happy Meal with the original Fry Kids toy,” he says smiling as if he just unboxed the Crown Jewels.
I close the flaps to the box and lift it off the floor of the truck to carry it into the store. “There is absolutely nothing happy about these things.”
Danny
Prescott walks away from me and I can’t help staring at his behind under the double side vents in his blazer. First I check to see if he has removed whatever he has stuck up it that makes him so uptight, but the only thing he has up his ass is more ass. I mean it’s beautiful and round, like two small pumpkins are trapped in there. As I’m imagining what this guy might look like out of his khakis, Lizard jumps into the truck with me.
“Ah, no. That’s an N, followed by an O. Both capitals,” she says taking a bandana out of her back pocket and tying it around her forehead so her green bangs stay off her face.
“I love the new dye you’re using...” I say casually.
“Don’t change the subject.” She wags her finger at me.
“What subject?” I ask, going to the back of the truck and innocently opening a box.
“The subject in the tight khaki pants and button-down shirt inside the shop.”
“Prescott? He might be the most annoying person I’ve ever met. The way he talks to me like I’m some kid.” I scan the back of the truck quickly. “Hey, did you make sure I packed the Snoopy cookie jar? I want to make sure to put that on the pedestal.”
“Yes but...”
“And the Amore hot chocolate tin?” I ask looking around the back of the truck with concern. “It’s really old and beat up but it’s the most important piece here. I can’t start a business without that tin. I need it for receipts and paperwork. It’s...”
“Yes, yes,” she says cutting me off this time. “I have the hot chocolate tin. Stop changing the subject.” She stands in front of me like a palace guard. “I know your type. Pretentious pretty boys you get lost in as you lavish them with gifts and attention.”
It’s impossible to disagree with her. She’s right and she knows it. Paul was the one who I thought was different. He seemed so perfect, always laughing at my jokes and taking an interest in everything I did. He loved it when I took him out to the most expensive restaurant in town and he was absolutely amorous when I surprised him with trips to the city to see a show. I thought I was headed toward a real future until I found out he had maxed out my credit cards and was cheating on me with the personal trainer—that I was paying for—who could have been his twin. I still haven’t recovered from finding him on his knees with that protein shake come to life.
“Lizard,” I say picking up a box. “I told you I’ve reformed.”
“I know but, come on, that guy. He’s gorgeous.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed, since it’s impossible to see around his ego.” I take a box off the stack and hop off the truck. Even though it’s an early January day, it isn’t freezing. I pause before I go into Beautiful Things and admire the most charming storefront in the entire state of Pennsylvania. The name of the shop is painted in gold script on the glass front door. Each side of the door has a large bow window perfect for displaying merchandise. All of the trim is painted either royal blue or a bright yellow and a blue-and-white-striped awning allows window shoppers to peek in without having to worry about a stray winter squall or rain shower. The shop looks like it belongs on the set of Meet Me in St. Louis or maybe The Harvey Girls or some other Technicolor Judy Garland epic.
Before I open the door, I watch Prescott walking around the store trying to find a place to put the box he carried in. Even though he’s clearly no fan of my stuff I notice he’s careful with the box and treats it with respect. But Lizard is right. I can’t let this guy distract me.
Five years ago I left my family’s company to step out on my own and pursue my life’s passion. I knew managing a team of employees and meeting quarterly projections at an international food company wasn’t for me. Also, when you work at a place where everyone knows you are the heir to the family fortune it makes the people around you treat you differently. The only problem was I didn’t really know what my passion was. I went to San Francisco where I thought I would write a book but I never found a focus or a font that really spoke to me. Instead I found a guy who needed a free proofreader and a boyfriend. I started watercolors in Santa Fe and then started dating a local chef until I noticed I was painting more pictures of his daily specials than lonesome cacti.
When I discovered New Hope a few years ago I knew I had found a home even before I found an apartment. This place is small-town America but on the corner of Quaint and Queer. Before I landed, I was buying little things like toy cars or action figures as I traveled because they made me happy. They reminded me of simple childhood things. I’ve been poking around in Arthur’s shop for years, looking for treasures. I love finding that special something that I know will bring the right person joy. I started selling online but that lacks a personal connection. I enjoy browsing and chatting with someone as we search for that special something together. A physical store gives me the opportunity to really connect with people. I’ve been excited to get started but that was before I found out I was going to have to share the place wi
th this snob.
“I’m putting all of your boxes on that side,” Prescott says as I walk in. An ancient potbelly stove in the middle divides the more or less symmetrical sales space inside The Beautiful Things Shoppe. A counter with a cash register is centered behind the stove, and there’s a small kitchen pantry in the back next to a storeroom.
“Fine,” I say. “Everything on this side of the door will be my space,” I say gesturing like a flight attendant showing the emergency exits. I use two fingers to point to each of the corners in front of and behind me. “Remember in case of an emergency landing to secure your air mask first before helping others and thank you for flying Beautiful Things Airlines.” I shine as artificial a smile as I can at him, expecting a scowl in return. Instead he tightens his mouth intensely, as if he’s fighting back a small giggle. Could I have made this stuffed shirt laugh just a tiny bit?
Chapter Three
Prescott
After two days of unpacking I still have no idea how I’m going to share the shop with that tasteless, brash, occasionally humorous ringmaster. I walk from my apartment in Lambertville over the bridge that spans the Delaware River to the center of New Hope and I can’t stop thinking about how this guy pushes my buttons.
I’ve never been good at sharing. I understand the concept, but as a practice it’s never been an area in which I excel. The truth is, I’ve never really had to. I’m an only child so the usual experiences of sibling cooperative play weren’t part of my upbringing and at school none of the other kids were interested in the things that captured my attention. I’m not sure why the other sixth graders had no interest in my burgeoning collection of Victorian era fountain pens but it meant I spent a lot of time alone, which was fine with me. When I went to college the pattern repeated itself for the most part, though I had a few acquaintances or even dates here or there. Keeping to myself isn’t something I consider to be a problem. In fact, whenever I think I need to connect with people more it always backfires. Case in point: the pretentious narcissist I casually dated before I left Philadelphia.
I met Jefferson Worthington, Worth, at a fundraiser for the Barnes Foundation. A former professor had an extra ticket and the event included an exclusive showing of a rare piece of tapestry from the collection, so I went. I was admiring the fine detail of the weave when Worth started relentlessly flirting with me and trying to impress me with his wealth and affluence. When he asked me out I agreed because he made it so difficult to say no. Worth looked good on paper; he was a connoisseur of the arts so I convinced myself that I just needed to be more open and stop being so standoffish. But after a few more dates I realized it was definitely him not me. He never listened to a word I said and he was always trying to get me to sleep with him. He’s a handsome guy but I had zero interest in pursuing a physical relationship. I used the fact that I was moving out of Philadelphia and starting the shop to avoid having any confrontation about ending whatever it was that he might have thought was developing. It never really got off the ground so I didn’t see any point in making a big deal out of stopping something that barely started. Maybe I should have made things clearer, but it’s sometimes easier just to let a relationship fade into the murky waters of time passed.
I stop at the center of the bridge, take a deep inhale and let the cold air fill my lungs. I remind myself that this is a new beginning. I shrug off any uncomfortable memories of Worth.
I can see New Hope in the distance and a light haze dulls the colorful buildings making them look like a fine piece of Impressionism. Having an apartment across the river in Lambertville allows me to be close enough to New Hope to walk to work but far enough away to be outside the social scene. I prefer to appreciate it from afar. I’m able to be home and in bed before the bars and cafes begin to operate in full swing. Being a little removed makes me feel more comfortable.
Another benefit of living on the other side of the river is that my commute to the shop takes me across the stunning New Hope–Lambertville Bridge. The beams have a rich bright greenish-aqua patina and the south side of the bridge has a cantilevered walkway for pedestrians. I love feeling the strength of the river under my feet and the endless expanse of water to either side of me as mini-icebergs glide peacefully by.
New Hope is still quietly asleep under a fresh coating of newly fallen snow. Winter Festival is only a few days away and the street corners are already set up with unlit lanterns, bonfires waiting to be ignited and rustic pedestals that will hold various forms of ice sculpture sponsored by area merchants. I fell for New Hope the moment I laid eyes on it. I came to visit Arthur at his shop a few years ago and as soon as I started exploring the crooked streets and unique shops I knew I was in a special place. Community and inclusiveness are an integral part of the fabric of the town. People think small towns mean small minds but that’s not what I found in New Hope. I found an openness, an inclusiveness and the best cranberry pecan white chocolate scone that exists.
The Honeysuckle Bakery and Cafe is just a few doors down from the shop and I’ve been looking forward to reacquainting myself with this exceptional treat. Inside, small tables are full of shoppers and locals warming up with a hot beverage or pastry before the day begins.
I spot the object of my affection all alone under a glass dome. The woman behind the counter asks what I would like and I order a coffee and point to the treat. My phone rings and I realize it might be a notice about a delivery I’m waiting for so I excuse myself and head to the alcove in the back of the store to take my call.
As soon as I finish I head back to the counter and see that the glass dome is empty. I assume the woman behind the counter has plated the scone for me or put it in a bag to go. I walk over to the register to pay and he is standing there.
“Good morning.” My tone is crisp, even and cold. Yesterday we’d had a twenty-minute argument about which way to hang the toilet paper in the bathroom. If I say something is up, Danny says it’s down. This man is the most stubborn, obstinate human being I’ve ever met.
“Good morning,” he says in his normal chipper tone. His voice is deep and masculine but always punctuated with this playful cadence, even at this hour of the morning.
The woman who was behind the counter when I ordered has been replaced by a different person who is much younger and maybe working while high school is still on winter break. “Excuse me. I placed an order before I had to take a call.” The young man looks at me, confused. I notice a coffee with my name written on the cup next to him. “I think that’s my latte,” I say pointing. “And there’s a cranberry scone waiting for me.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he says handing me the coffee. “This latte is yours but I’m afraid I sold the last scone. Can I get you something else?” Out of the corner of my eye I see Danny gently dangling a small paper bag in front of his face. “You!” I say like I just accused him of stealing the Hope Diamond.
“Yes,” he says smiling smugly. “Me.” He takes the scone out of the bag, tears off a corner and pops it in his mouth, chewing with delight like he’s auditioning for a food commercial.
“That is my scone,” I say pointing toward his mouth. “I ordered it before I had to take a very important call. You must have come in after me.”
“Your scone? If it is your scone then why is the deliciousness still lingering on my lips?” He licks each of his fingers in spite.
A few people turn their attention toward us and the young man behind the counter looks very uncomfortable. “We’ll have more tomorrow. I think?” he says, his voice cracking either from fear or puberty or both.
“You think I saw you from the window and hatched this elaborate plan to steal your scone?” Danny asks, raising his voice just a bit. It’s almost as if he likes the audience. He takes the rest of the scone and shoves it in his mouth. It barely fits and little pieces of it fly off and land back in the bag underneath his mouth. How anyone could ever want to buy so much as a paper clip from him
is beyond me.
“The least you could have done is share it,” I say to him as he struggles to chew the enormous bite he took.
“The only thing I’m sharing with you right now is your bad attitude,” he says and walks out of the cafe.
Danny
As soon as I get to the shop I check the bag from the bakery to make sure there isn’t a crumb left for Prescott to even smell. How dare he accuse me of stealing his scone? The scones belong to no one. The scones are free to offer their delicious goodness to anyone who wishes and today the scone was mine.
I smash the bag into a ball and throw it into the trash in the back pantry area. There are only a few days left until Winter Festival and so much needs to be done—unpacking, arranging, pricing—getting the store ready for the big event and my new future. It’s a huge job, but that’s what I signed up for when I signed the lease.
Of course, I didn’t know I would be sharing the shop with The Little Prince. Why couldn’t Arthur have found someone I would be compatible with? There’s a lovely woman in Doylestown who has a huge collection of vintage Barbies. She thinks God talks to her through her dentures, but she keeps them clean and she’s never lonely. She would be better than having to deal with Prescott. I hate snobs and I always have. I dealt with them growing up and I’ve built my entire world around not having to be around the high and mighty. New Hope is without pretense. It’s simply a friendly, inclusive community where it doesn’t matter how many zeros are in your bank account or what kind of car you drive or any of that nonsense. That’s why I’m here and Arthur knows that, so I can’t figure out why he would spring this guy on me.
The Beautiful Things Shoppe Page 2
