He ran his fingers over the rug in admiration and bit the inside of his cheek, his chest filling up with that rare wonder of having found something so special that it seemed worthy of keeping. Which was a dangerous habit in the antiques business— and a rule to which Ladden had made very few exceptions in the last fifteen years. Oh well, he would keep it for a few days at least. Satisfied, he secured the carpet in a wooden hanger and hoisted it high against the rear wall of the crowded room, then called and left a message with an acquaintance who knew more than he about valuing rugs.
Shooing as many of the mysterious stray butterflies outside as possible, he carried the crate with the questionable contents into his showroom. Since Mondays were set aside for estate sales, yard sales, and tracking down special requests, Tuesdays were typically busy with regular customers coming in to check out the latest acquisitions. Which meant Jasmine would be in this afternoon. He would have to decide whether to tell her about the carpet or save the unveiling for another day.
As always, pride welled within him as he glanced over his small but impressive display room. The building was old but beautiful and structurally intact. He owned the two rooms that housed his business, and although he needed to expand, the glorious display windows and enviable location on Pacific Street kept him rooted to the spot. He had liked the storefront on sight, especially since the alley gave him great access to the storeroom and space to park his big, ugly truck. He'd gambled and bought the place, although he and his eclectic mix of retail neighbors couldn't have known that a few years later, a ramp would be built from the highway onto Pacific. Instantly, their exposure, traffic, and property values had skyrocketed. Which had proved to be a double-edged sword, since now the chance of expanding into the shops on either side of him was almost nil. Even if the owners decided to sell, he couldn't afford to buy.
High ceilings and wood floors were the perfect backdrop for his treasures, and floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the entire wall behind his antique mahogany counter, evoking images of an upscale general store.
Carrying a bucket of supplies outside, Ladden quickly swept the sidewalk in front of his door and, just as he had for fifteen years, moved down to do the same for Mrs. Pickney of Pickney's Vacuum Cleaner Sales & Service. The lights in her shop were low, telling him she had not yet arrived for the day. A streak of mud from last night's rain marred her window, so he wiped it clean. When he realized the mud was probably the result of a clogged gutter, he retrieved his ladder to remove a handful of debris.
After returning to his shop, Ladden noted he still had a few minutes to spare before opening. He turned his attention to the box he'd been railroaded into buying, wrinkling his nose when he pulled out a broken horse harness, a few worthless hubcaps, and a badly rusted iron skillet. He knew it—junk. Not even worth the trouble of hauling off. Next came a handful of odd hinges and cabinet hardware, a few holey hand saws, and a dented brass teapot blackened with tarnish.
He picked through the rest of the rubble, most of which was either unidentifiable or deteriorated beyond repair. From the entire lot, he set aside four glass doorknobs, and, at the last moment, the scarred pot, as his cleanup projects for the day to tackle between customers.
Sitting neatly on his large palm, the pot had a nice shape, although it appeared to have weathered a good deal of adventure. The piece was old, but he couldn't pinpoint the decade or even the century. Other than the lid, the pot was seamless, fashioned from a single piece of metal. The wide-throated spout narrowed along its upturned length, the opening so minuscule Ladden doubted its functionality. Most likely, it had graced some lady's parlor sideboard alongside other dishes that were meant to be seen and not used, then been relegated to a little girl's tea set where it had been bounced off a few hard surfaces.
He chuckled, turning it over in his hands. On the side, barely discernible, were faint etchings. Ladden squinted and rubbed his finger lightly over the surface... words, perhaps, but he couldn't be sure. One thing seemed certain, however—the lid was stuck, soldered into place by years of corrosion and disuse. Which might explain why it had been cast aside in the first place.
After turning the sign on his door to Open and choosing a moody blues station on the radio, he gathered a can of metal cleaner and a polishing rag and settled onto his high leather seat behind the counter. Whistling under his breath, Ladden concentrated on the brass pot to avoid mental calculations of how long it would be before Jasmine walked through his door, ringing his literal and figurative bells, respectively.
To his surprise, after only a few minutes of elbow grease, the teapot showed vast improvement: underneath the goo was not brass, but beautiful, lustrous copper. Ladden pursed his lips, the names of at least two copper collectors coming to mind. It wouldn't bring a mint, but it would buy a nice steak-and-wine dinner for two.
Jasmine. How had he managed to fall for a woman he'd never have in a million years, not in his wildest dreams?
His raw, sensitive fingers grazed the unknown etchings beneath the thin cloth. Just as he lifted the pot for a better look, he felt the first earthquake tremor. The windows rattled and crystal pieces whined shrilly, sliding and bumping against the shelves. As the shaking grew more fierce, he realized this was no small event and dove under the mahogany counter.
For nearly a minute, he lay on his stomach with his arms over his head, listening to his store and its contents pop, groan, shake, and topple around him, thinking that at any second, something large and penetrating would impale him to the wood floor. The sound of crashing glass rang in his ears. The faces of family and friends flashed through his mind and he prayed they were all safe. Cool air blasted in and the bell above his door clanged with abandon as the doors banged open. The quaking grew more intense and Ladden felt as if he were spinning, held in place by centrifugal force.
And then everything stopped.
He lay still for a few seconds, then lifted his head cautiously. A foul stench filled his nostrils and he wondered if the sewers had ruptured. He pulled himself to his feet and leaned on the counter, slowly scanning the scene before him. Mayhem. Nearly every piece of furniture lay on its side amid broken debris. Dust motes rained down from the ceiling, coating the room's contents. Dismayed, Ladden dropped his head into his hands and groaned.
In unison with someone else.
He jerked his head up and glanced around, then heard the groan again, this time in front of the counter. Heart pounding, Ladden picked his way through the mess to find an elderly man sitting and leaning against the wood counter, his sandaled feet stretched out in front of him. The man wore a black turban over his white hair and seemed to be drowning in the layers of ragged sheets wrapped around his thin body.
Homeless, Ladden decided instantly. He must have ducked inside when he felt the quake. Ladden reached forward and gently pulled the man to his feet, suddenly realizing his visitor was the source of the powerful stench. "Are you okay, mister?"
The man lifted his gaze to Ladden, his black eyes wide. "Where... where am I?" His voice sounded rusty but richly accented, his dark skin hinted of Middle Eastern ancestry.
"There was an earthquake," Ladden said carefully. "This is my antiques store. Are you hurt?"
The old man shook his head and ran his hands slowly over his limbs. "I'm human," he whispered.
Ladden felt a pang of sympathy. "Sure you are, buddy. You're just a little down on your luck is all. Is anything broken?"
After a few seconds of silence in which the man tried to take in his surroundings, he croaked, "Yes, the spell—the spell is broken."
Senile, Ladden surmised. "Sir, are you hurt?"
"N-no," the man said, offering Ladden a weak smile. "I've been set free."
"Everyone in California finds religion sooner or later," Ladden agreed wryly, looking the man over. He appeared to be all right, at least physically. Ladden reached into his back pocket for his wallet, and extended a ten-dollar bill. "Here you go, pal. Get yourself something to eat, okay?"
&n
bsp; The man accepted the money, holding it in his long-fingernailed hands as if he'd never seen anything like it. "But you have given me my life."
Ladden waved off his gratitude. "My store was the one you just happened to be walking by, that's all."
"What do you want?" the man asked, grasping Ladden's shirt in his bony fists.
"Hey," Ladden said crossly, trying to pull away. "No need to get defensive—I don't want anything from you."
The man refused to relinquish his hold. "Gold? Jewels? Power? Anything you want, simply wish for it, and I shall grant you three of your heart's desires."
Ladden covered the man's icy hands with his own and gently pried loose the gnarled fingers.
"Look, mister, you need to get back on your medication. There's a shelter two blocks over on Hargrove. I'm sure they can help you, so move along, okay?"
The sounds of the street floated in, reminding Ladden the double doors stood open. He straightened his shirt, then gently guided the man toward the door, dreading the certain melee out in the street. But instead of smashed cars, sagging utility lines, and buckled sidewalks, Pacific Street lay as calm as a deep lake. Pedestrians strolled by, engrossed in reaching their destinations, unconcerned by the recent disturbance. Ladden glanced back to find the homeless man had slipped away. Remembering Mrs. Pickney, he hurried next door and burst into her shop.
Mrs. Pickney stood at her counter watching a black-and-white portable television and drinking a cup of coffee. She smiled broadly. "Oh, good morning, Ladden. Would you like some coffee?"
"The quake—didn't you feel it?"
She set down her cup with a frown. "What quake? When?"
"Just now!"
"No," Mrs. Pickney said, shaking her head slowly. "I didn't feel a thing—it must have been a very minor tremor."
"My place is in a shambles," he said, glancing at her undisturbed glass cases and wall displays.
She squinted. "Are you sure, dear?"
"Yes!"
"There has to be an explanation—" she began, then glanced up as a customer walked in. She smiled at Ladden. "I'll be over in a few minutes."
"Sure thing, Mrs. Pickney." He stopped the young man who had entered her shop. "Did you feel an earthquake about five minutes ago?"
"No," the man said, his brow creased. "Did you?"
"Uh... no," Ladden said with a small laugh. "I... I guess not." He waved to his neighbor. "Forget it, Mrs. Pickney—I'll see you later."
Apprehension descended over him as he returned to the quiet sidewalk. He poked his head into a handful of retail stores neighboring his and asked the retailers if they'd felt any ground disturbances, but each responded with an emphatic no, including the upholstery shop on the other side of him. He had almost convinced himself it hadn't happened at all until he stepped back into the bedlam in his showroom.
How was it possible that, other than the homeless man, he was the only person who had felt the earthquake? The only business on the street that had suffered any damage? He sighed.
Days—it would take him days to get things back in order. Ladden mentally ticked off the things he'd have to do: call a building inspector, call his insurance agent, file a claim... He yanked off his cap, then ran his fingers through his hair. And he'd have to close down for a while. No one could conduct business in this mess.
He suddenly noticed the copper teapot in the middle of the floor, and squatted to pick it up. The lid was missing, undoubtedly dislodged when he dropped it. The homeless man's rantings echoed in his mind, and Ladden smiled. Three wishes. If only life were that easy.
Turning his sign back to Closed, he stopped in mid-motion. Across the street, Jasmine Crowne alighted from her luxury sports sedan, flipped her dark ponytail over her shoulder, and walked toward his demolished store.
"Damn," he muttered, his mind racing for a sane explanation for the colossal mess. You see, Jasmine, this morning I experienced my own personal earthquake...
Chapter Two
JASMINE REACHED into her purse and made sure her phone was turned on in case Trey called her for lunch. She sighed. Such a call did not seem likely, considering the frantic pace of his campaign as election day drew near. Jasmine stepped up onto the sidewalk and put her hand on the familiar gargoyle doorknob of one of her favorite shops, Ladden's Castle. Her heart thumped when she realized someone was standing on the other side of the glass door, but she smiled warmly when she recognized Ladden.
When the knob refused to yield beneath her hand, she glanced at her watch, noticing the Closed sign. "Am I too early?" she yelled. She needed a lift today and Ladden Sanderson never failed to boost her spirits. The man was always so optimistic, his unreserved laughter so cheering... usually. This morning, he wore a strange expression.
"No," he yelled. "You're not too early."
But when he made no motion to unlock the door, she laughed. "Am I too late?"
Through the glass, she noticed how his dark hair curled up around the edge of the dusty baseball cap he wore. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. "No, you're not too late."
Puzzled, Jasmine gave him a wry grin. "You got a girl in there?" Which wouldn't surprise her, she decided. Although she hadn't noticed a girlfriend hanging around on her frequent visits to his store, Ladden was attractive: tall, with dark eyes and a muscled, workingman's physique.
Finally, he grinned, too. "No girl," he yelled, then slowly unlocked the door and swung it open.
"For a minute, I thought you were trying to get rid—" Stopping just inside the door, she gaped at the clutter. "What on earth happened?"
Remarkably calm, Ladden cleared his throat, offering a little shrug. "Spring cleaning?"
She frowned. "It's almost November."
He rubbed his big hands together. "Then I'm even more behind than I thought."
Jasmine jammed her hands against her hips. "Ladden, what's going on? Were you burglarized?"
"No—not exactly."
"Then what, exactly?"
"A quake?" His voice climbed in question, as if he weren't sure himself.
"An earthquake?" Jasmine gasped. "When?"
"Just before you arrived?" Again, he sounded uncertain.
Her exasperation escalated. "Well, was it a quake, or wasn't it?"
"Er, yeah, I think so."
She blinked. "Weren't you here?"
"Yeah."
"And did the earth suddenly start to move and things begin to fall?"
"Yeah."
She had always considered Ladden very bright, but now she was starting to wonder. "Did you get hit on the head?"
He laughed, swept off his hat, and ran his hands through his flattened hair. "No, but that would explain a lot of things, I guess. To be honest, I'm not sure what happened, but if it was a quake, this might not be the safest place for you to be right now."
"Funny," she said thoughtfully, "I was having coffee nearby and didn't feel a thing." Her gaze fell on the remnants of black pottery littering the floor a few feet away. She gasped in dismay and scooped up a large broken chunk. "Oh, the McCoy punch bowl—I nearly bought it last week and now I could kick myself!"
"Aw, it could have been much worse," Ladden said, putting his usual cheerful spin on things, she noted. "I haven't been back to the storeroom," he added, picking his way toward the rear, righting small pieces of toppled furniture as he went. "But the table I'm holding for you is sturdy, so it should be all right."
Jasmine followed Ladden. Her heart felt heavy for him. He worked hard and ran a reputable business, and this bit of misfortune didn't seem fair. She stopped when a pile of broken glass blocked her path, then glanced up in surprise when she felt Ladden's hand on her arm.
"Careful." His broad fingers felt warm and strong on her skin. She watched the muscles bunch in his tanned forearm as he assumed her weight to help her across, amazed at the thrill of awareness that barbed through her.
"Thanks," she murmured when he released her. Ladden inclined his head, his easy smile crinkling his dar
k eyes around the corners and lighting his smooth face. Despite the dust, his uniform of jeans and T-shirt seemed to fit him especially well today, emphasizing his broad shoulders. Jasmine shook off the train of thought, telling herself it had been too long since she and Trey had spent a romantic evening together.
They entered the brightly lit storeroom and Jasmine was pleased to see the damage looked minimal since the contents consisted mainly of larger, less fragile pieces.
"Looks like the table is fine," Ladden announced.
But Jasmine was no longer listening. She was enthralled. She crawled over an old trunk, sneezed, then ran her hand over the short, nubby pile of the most beautiful carpet she had ever seen. Static electricity crackled, sending a tingle through her fingertips. Only then did she notice the butterflies. At least a dozen brilliantly colored specimens dotted the carpet, their bodies still, but their wings moving with the quiet regularity of intermittent windshield wiper blades. The entire scene was somewhat... magical.
"Ladden," she said in wonder, "where did you get this rug?"
He turned, eyes wide, then glanced at the bare wall behind her before answering. "I found it at an auction hall this morning." He picked up a large wooden clip from the floor, frowning at its clasp. "I hung it up to air out. The quake must have knocked it down". He scattered a few butterflies with a sweeping motion, then he turned a smile her way. "I thought you might like it."
"Like it? I love it," she breathed. "It's Persian, isn't it?"
Ladden nodded, running the back of his hand across the fibers. "But I can't date it—its condition is too good to be as old as I first guessed."
Her heart pounded. "I want it."
She looked up and saw his lips pressed together. Finally he dropped his gaze. "It might not be for sale."
Jasmine laughed merrily. "Ladden, I've seen you take down light fixtures from this store and sell them."
Mad About You Page 37
