by Kristy Tate
“When it comes to antiques, the most important thing is the story.” He waved his hand around the shop. “Everything here has a tale to tell and if you find it boring, you must embellish. The story is what sells. Remember that.”
“But I don’t know the stories.”
“You will learn them.”
“I’m an honors student.” Grace, feeling overwhelmed, stumbled on the lip of the paisley carpet.
“Good for you,” he said.
“What I mean is, I have a lot of studying to do…I’m not sure I can learn and remember a butt-load of stories about things.”
Earnest pinned her with his warm brown gaze. “These are not just ‘things’ and in this shop, we never use the term butt-load.”
Grace bristled. “Butt-load is an actual unit of measurement used for wine.”
“We don’t have a liquor license, and we never use words that are synonymous with body parts.”
“Seriously?” Grace pointed at an ivory-backed hairbrush. “I guess that’s just a brush?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a three-legged stool?” Grace asked.
“Stool, along with any other words used to describe excrement, are especially taboo.”
“Pooh taboo, got it.”
He sighed and headed for the storage room, his back stiff and straight. Grace didn’t know whether to follow him or not. She wasn’t sure if the training, if that’s what he’d call it, was over, or if he just needed a break from her.
A bell above the door jangled, announcing customers.
The Abercrombie & Fitch boy in the now-dented red BMW walked in. Their eyes locked.
“You!” he said, demonstrating his brilliant and poetic use of the English language. “You kicked my car!”
Grace lifted her chin. “You bullied my brother.”
Confusion swept over his face. “I did what? When?”
“Yesterday. He was terrified, and he has asthma. And in case you didn’t know, running and asthma do not go well together.”
“I didn’t bully your brother,” he said, planting his feet wide, folding his arms, and glaring. “You scratched my bumper!”
All the pooh synonyms too dirty to be uttered in The Lilac Shop flooded her mind. Grace chose to say, “Poor you.” Because poor was just poo with an R at the end.
He stared, open-mouthed as if he couldn’t understand someone actually being rude to him, as if nothing like it had ever happened to him before.
“What are you doing here?” he finally asked.
“I work here.”
“Since when?”
“I was given a job right after my brother had an asthma attack—thanks to you, by the way—yesterday.”
“Who is your brother?”
“Toby. He’s eleven.”
He shook his head. “I don’t remember chasing any eleven-year-olds yesterday. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the last time I chased an eleven-year-old, I was about that age myself.”
Grace tamped down doubt. “He…thought you were chasing him. And I saw you running.”
“It’s not a crime to run. I do it every day.” He pushed his hand through his hair, making it messier, and somehow even more touchable.
Grace took a deep breath and reminded herself that she did not want to touch his hair. Even though she did.
The bell jangled a second time and Cordelia walked in, her arms laden with packages. “Oh good, I see you two have met.”
“Sort of,” the guy growled.
“Grace, this is my son, Fredrick Fitzwilliam Brockbank.” Cordelia flashed them both warm smiles. “Freddie, meet Grace.”
Freddie made another guttural sound and headed for the back room, probably to discuss her horribleness with Earnest. He disappeared around the corner, out of sight, but not, maybe, out of earshot. Grace wanted to ask about him, but couldn’t.
How had she managed to offend the one guy she would work with and the owner’s son in such a short time? A sick feeling washed over her. Grace really wanted to be a nice person, like Heather and her mom…but she wasn’t always good at it.
But Fredrick Fitzwilliam Brockbank deserved to be kicked. First off—that name. Freddie? No one under the age of sixty should be a Freddie. But that wasn’t his fault. Or was it? And what if he hadn’t been chasing Toby?
He probably thought Grace was a crazy person.
Maybe she was.
“I was right about that dress on you,” Cordelia said, pulling Grace away from her negative thoughts. Cordelia twirled a finger in the air. “Turn around, let me see.”
Grace obeyed, and the dress swirled, making her, for a brief moment, feel like a princess. A mean princess. The type of girl Grace hated. Grace tried to remember the last time she’d worn a dress. Her cousin had lent her one for their Grandpa James’s funeral. It’d been made from stiff black cotton and smelled like a musty basement. Grandpa James had been buried on one of those hot yet wet Oregon summer days. There had been lots of relatives hugging and crying, and she’d had to do it all in a pitted-out black dress.
“You look beautiful,” Cordelia said.
“Thank you,” Grace said, “but you should know I don’t own any dresses. I can’t look like this every time I come to work. Besides, I have to ride my bike.” The last thing she wanted to do was look like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz on a bicycle in a dress, flashing Santa Magdalena views of her panties on her way to work.
Cordelia tapped her chin. “We’ll see. Just wear whatever. But maybe a little eye make-up?” She paused, reading Grace’s expression. “You do have make-up, don’t you?”
“Y-y-ess,” Grace stuttered. Technically, she didn’t have any make-up, but Heather did, and she knew Heather would share until Grace got her first paycheck and could buy her own.
“Good. Follow me.” Cordelia directed her to a closet with a crystal-cut doorknob. Even the cleaning supply space looked like a happy work of art. Cordelia pulled a feather duster off a hook on the wall. “Here you go, have at it!”
The thought of dusting anything breakable terrified her, so Grace headed for the bookshelves. Hours passed and no one came in the shop. This didn’t seem to bother Cordelia at all, and Grace began to wonder how Fredrick Fitzwilliam Brockbank could afford to eat, let alone drive a new BMW.
The bell finally jangled close to five and the crowd of tiny men she’d seen earlier trooped in. They wore work boots, shorts, flannel shirts, and suspenders. Most were bald and they all had big fuzzy beards, reminding Grace of what Grandpa Hank said about how the Good Lord had only created so many perfect heads and the rest He had to cover with hair. He also said that as real men grew older, they didn’t lose their hair—it just migrated south. A lot of Grandpa Hank’s hair had settled in his nose and ears, but the hair on these men had taken up residence on their chins. Although, for all Grace knew, they had hair sprouting out of their noses and ears. Grace didn’t want to get close enough to find out.
When they saw her, they huddled together and began to whisper. She squirmed beneath their collective speculative gazes.
“It’s her,” Grace heard one of them say.
“I’m not so sure,” another put in.
“We need Charmant,” another added.
“They’re not speaking, remember?” said another.
“Well, they better start speaking, and fast!”
Grace put down the duster and approached the men. “Can I help you?”
“She doesn’t sound like her,” one of them said slowly.
At first, all of the men looked identical, but after a few moments Grace began to pick out subtle differences: a red nose, droopy eyes, a scowl, a furrowed eyebrow.
“We need an apple,” the one with the worry etched between his eyebrows whispered.
With that, they all began nodding and hurried out the door. The littlest and last one dropped a leather flask. He scooped it up before slamming the door.
“Goodness, what was that all about?” Cordelia asked.
; Grace shook her head, not knowing and not really wanting to know.
After her shift, Grace went back to the dressing room to change into her jeans and T-shirt. The strange whispering began again. She glanced out the tiny window high above her head. She didn’t remember it being windy, but she hadn’t been outside for several hours. Shaking off the eyes-on-the-back-of-her-neck feeling, she left the dress on a hook and slipped off the shoes, wondering if this was how Cinderella felt at midnight when her ball gown turned into rags. She said goodbye to Cordelia as she passed her office. Fredrick Fitzwilliam Brockbank sat at the desk, his head buried in a book. He didn’t look up or acknowledge her in any way.
Instead of getting her bike from the back, Grace went out the front door and headed for the nearby beauty supply shop she’d spotted earlier. She paused at the window, looking in. She knew nothing about make-up, and the jars and bottles overwhelmed her.
“There she is!” a now-familiar voice called out.
Grace glanced over her shoulder and saw the flock of little men heading her way. The leader carried a bright red apple in his hand. He held it in front of him like it was a homing device leading him onward.
She ducked into the beauty shop.
A pretty blonde with warm brown eyes and skin as smooth as cream smiled at Grace. She wore a white lab coat, but a pink and white skirt peeked out around her upper thighs, and she had on a pair of hot pink strappy heels. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes, I—“ Grace cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, wondering if the men would follow her into Belinda’s Beauty Shop. Of course, men weren’t forbidden in beauty supply stores, it just wasn’t the sort of place where manly-men typically hung out. It would be like finding a dude in the tampon aisle.
“Do you need some make-up?” the girl prompted.
“Yes,” Grace breathed out. “Make-up. But I can’t buy any until my next paycheck.”
“I get that,” the girl said. “Do you want something in particular?”
Grace’s gaze flitted to the window. She spotted the men standing on the corner, looking hostile and determined. She wondered who they were, what they wanted, and when they would leave her alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I know nothing about make-up,” Grace said. “So I really don’t know what I want.”
The girl clapped her hands. “You want a makeover!”
Did she? How long would that take? “Um, okay?”
The girl scurried behind the counter and began pulling containers, brushes, and tubes from drawers and cupboards like Dr. Frankenstein preparing for surgery.
Grace hesitated, reluctant to waste her time. “Wait. Remember, I don’t have any money. I can’t buy anything today.”
The girl looked up from her collected arsenal. “That’s okay. This will be fun.” She waved a hand in front of Grace’s face. “You’re like a beautiful blank slate.”
If the girl’s makeup had been weird or Goth, Grace wouldn’t have stayed, but since she was pretty, Grace figured maybe she could help her, too.
“My mom always says that even a barn looks better with a fresh coat of paint.” The girl’s hand froze above the makeup brushes, and her mouth formed an O. She recovered quickly. “Sorry, that came out wrong. You are definitely not a barn. You’re so thin you could be a model if you were taller.” She motioned to a chair. “Take a seat.”
“Are you sure?” Grace cast another look at the window. The men with their bulbous noses and bushy eyebrows peered back at her. She ignored them. “Remember, I don’t have any money.”
“You keep saying that. I have oodles of time with nothing to do. This is going to be great…unless you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to…” Maybe. Grace looked back out the window at the men. Definitely. She settled into the chair. “Are you Belinda?”
“Gabby. Belinda is my mom.” Gabby dropped a black cape/apron around Grace’s shoulders and tied it behind her neck. “She’s a makeup artist to the stars. I’m going to that, too, someday.”
“I’m Grace, and I’m going to cure cancer.”
“Oh, that’s way cooler,” Gabby said.
“And a lot less likely,” Grace pointed out.
Although Grace could tell Gabby wasn’t the science type, Gabby held up one bottle of foundation after another, searching for the perfect shade, as if she was a pharmacist contemplating drugs. She debated over silky ivory and cameo cream, putting a dab of each on a makeup sponge before applying them both to Grace’s cheeks. Gabby’s sponge paused in front of Grace’s nose. “You can’t move your head.”
Grace held herself straight and stiff, trying to be mannequin-like. “Are you in beauty school now?”
“No, I’m a junior at Mission High.” Gabby smeared the foundation over Grace’s skin, making her look chalky.
“Oh,” Grace said, wishing Gabby attended Santa Magdalena. “I’m a junior, too, but I’m going to Santa Magdalena.”
“Ah…have you met Brock Brockbank? Probably not, right? Because you haven’t even started school yet.” Gabby loaded a brush with desert rose blush.
“Brock Brockbank?”
“His mom, Cordelia, owns The Lilac Shop.”
“I met a Freddie.”
“That’s him.” Gabby smirked. “Freddie is his real name, a name only a mother could love.”
“He pretty much hates me.”
Gabby lifted an eyebrow. “Explain, please?”
Grace told Gabby about Brock chasing Toby and admitted she’d kicked his car. “That was before I knew he was the son of my new boss.”
Gabby laughed so hard the makeup brush shook and desert rose blush fell like pink snow flurries to the floor. “You’re working at The Lilac Shop?” she asked after she composed herself. “That’s so great! I love that store!”
“I like it, too. I just wish Fredrick Fitzwilliam wasn’t related to Cordelia. I feel so stupid. What if he hadn’t been chasing Toby?”
“Why did you think he was?” Gabby had stopped laughing, but was still smiling. She reloaded the brush with blush.
“Toby said someone was chasing him and Brock and his friend were the only people I saw running.”
“Were they wearing uniforms?”
Grace’s mouth dropped open. What had they been wearing? Jerseys. Shorts.
Gabby placed her finger beneath Grace’s chin and closed her mouth.
“Maybe…”
“Brock’s on the cross-country team.”
Grace dropped her head to the counter, resting her forehead on the cool glass. “I feel so stupid.”
Gabby patted her back.
Grace sat back up. “It’s okay. He can hate me. It’s not like we would have been friends or anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s…”
“Hot?”
“So hot. Like Sierra Desert hot.”
“You’re beautiful, too. And you’ll be even more beautiful as soon as I’m done with you.”
“But I’m not…”
“What?”
“Rich.”
“That shouldn’t matter.”
“It shouldn’t, but it does.” In her experience, only rich people thought money didn’t matter.
“Wait. I thought you had to be loaded to go to St. Mags.”
“My mom got a job teaching there.”
“Mmm…” Gabby inspected the tubes of lipstick and selected two. “Vampire’s Kiss?” She showed Grace a tube of blood-red gloss. “Or Bubble Gum Yum?”
Grace pointed to the pinker shade. “I’m going to have to apologize to him.”
Gabby ignored her and picked up the Vampire’s Kiss tube. “Do this,” she said, opening her mouth so that she looked like a baby bird waiting to be fed.
“I hate that,” Grace said.
“Do it anyway,” Gabby said, with the tube suspended midair.
“I hate apologizing,” she clarified.
“Everybody does. But this will be one apology you’re def
initely not going to hate.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause I got a plan!”
#
Brock liked to study at the shop, away from the lure of the TV, the siren call of the refrigerator, or the pull of video games. Even when the shop was open and his mom or Earnest piddled around, he found the office quiet and distraction free. It was even better after Cordelia and Earnest left for the day, when twilight fell, and the place was his own. Like now.
“Foire garçon, viens ici,” a voice whispered.
Brock looked up from the books spread in front of him and rubbed his forehead. “Who’s there?”
“Foire garçon, viens ici,” the voice repeated.
Brock slowly pushed away from the desk and went to the storage room. The fluorescent lights flickered over Cordelia’s collection of must-haves and must-sells. He went to the showroom and clicked on the light. As he had thought, he was alone. He checked the doors, then his phone, wondering how his friends could pull this off.
But none of his friends spoke French. Most, like him, were taking Spanish. Ashton was in his third year of Chinese. Alicia was taking sign language.
The whispering continued, but Brock went into the office and closed the door, suspecting this was someone’s idea of a joke. He slid a glance at the back door, wondering who was in the alley laughing, and waiting for him to bust through the door in a panic. They’d record it and seconds later it’d be on a hundred social media sites.
Let them laugh and wait. He had to get back to his World History homework.
But the whispering didn’t stop. It became increasingly urgent and insistent. Brock stomped out of the office, slammed the door, and searched the room for a hidden recording device.
He found the doppel-whatever painting beneath a sheet in the dressing room. His evil twin grinned at Brock as if he had a secret. His lips didn’t move, but the voice sounded like it came from the painting. Brock picked it up and ran his hands over the sides of the frame, but found nothing. He set it down, hard, and headed for the back door. Knowing the next few minutes could make his life a viral hell, he stopped at the window to peek at the alley. This required moving a stack of boxes and an eighteenth-century bedframe. He fully expected to find a cluster of guys from the cross-country team outside the door with their phones raised for the humiliating video.
