by Ann Herrick
"Wait, Mildred, I'm getting this too." Harold plunked down an old brass plumb bob.
I checked the price. Ninety-five dollars. Whoa. I was racking up a bigger sale than Mom did yesterday with that old whale oil lamp Mrs. Carlson bought. "Okay, let's see, that'll be $285."
Harold laughed as he pulled out his wallet and handed me cold hard cash. "Well, Mildred, at this rate we'll have to cut a couple days off our vacation."
Mildred smiled. "It isn't every day you find just what you're looking for."
"Of course, we didn't know it was just what we were looking for until we found it," Harold said.
I actually found myself smiling as I closed the cash register. I figured I'd have to bug Mom about what a great salesperson I was.
I decided to hang out in the store for a while, in case more customers dropped by. There were a couple of lookers, then a woman came in, browsed for a while and was just about to leave when she picked up a painting. It was just a picture of the lake done maybe fifty years ago by some local guy. It ended up in a garage sale and Dad picked it up, thinking it might be something for Mom's store. It wasn't really an antique, but Mom thought it was good folk art. The area around the lake was way less developed back when the painting was done, so it was sort of a piece of local history too.
The woman came up to the counter. "I'll take this."
Even though it was a fairly large painting, it was only fifty dollars. This put my sales up to three-hundred-eighty-five dollars. I wrapped the painting in newspaper, then covered it with brown paper and tied that up with string. "Would you like some help with this out to your car?"
"Oh, yes, thank you!"
The painting fit perfectly in the trunk of the car. As I set it down, I suddenly felt as if there were dark shadows around my eyes. It was as if I'd packed up a little piece of Dad and sold it. Totally dumb thought, but there it was.
I stood in the doorway and watched as the woman drove away. As I turned to go back inside, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was Glynnie riding slowly by on her bike.
A black pickup pulled up next to her. A guy was driving, so I decided to wait—just in case there was trouble. I could see that he said something to Glynnie. She said something back. He drove off. Probably he was just asking for directions. For a second it looked as though Glynnie was heading to the shop, so I tried to look as if I was busy rearranging some of the stuff out front. She sped up and rode on by.
Maybe Rolf was right. Maybe we should've stopped and invited her to lunch. If she was going to interview me, doing it in the kitchen with Rolf and Kirstin there would've been more relaxed than some one-on-one thing.
On the other hand, who said I had to let her interview me, anyway?
Chapter Four
The next morning I bragged about my sales in the shop. I got the cash out of the lockbox in the pantry where Mom wants the money stashed when no one is in the store.
"More than three hundred dollars? That's wonderful, Eric!" Mom pointed to some of her loot. "Look at this set of Jadite canisters, all in perfect condition. Maybe I should start charging more for the kitchenware."
"Maybe …." I said. "But the woman who bought the stuff today said how reasonable your prices were."
"That's just it!" Mom got this excited look in her eyes. "If she thought the price was good, maybe it was too low."
"Maybe …." I really didn't want to get dragged into a debate about business strategies. "The store does have a reputation for fair prices. I think that draws a lot of customers."
"Hmm …." Mom's eyebrows drew together in a concerned frown, but she let the subject drop.
***
At morning practice it was already broiling. I went all out. I hit at full speed, practiced aggressively. There was the feeling, as Coach Horton skulked around, that I had to step it up, that I'd better not make a mistake in front of him. The start of two-a-days was always tough, but suffering the constant evil eye made it a hundred times worse than usual.
It was a total understatement to say I was glad when practice was over.
As Rolf and I walked to his truck, we were on a direct path to where Glynnie was standing under a tree in front of the school talking to Jamar.
I don't know if it was guilt, or what, but I thought I should at least talk to her for a couple minutes.
"Hey, Rolf, I, uh, gotta talk to, um, Jamar and Glynnie for a sec."
"No problem," Rolf said. "I'll just plop down and wait for you."
True to his word, as soon as we got near the maple tree, Rolf dropped down and stretched out in the shade.
I walked up to Glynnie as calm and casual as possible and said, "I'm ready for you now." Man, what made me sound like such a jerk?
She gave me a cool stare. "Excuse me?"
"I've got a couple minutes. I could answer a few questions. If you have time."
"I guess I could squeeze you into my schedule," she said, all business-like. "Give me a minute, and then I'll be right with you."
I noticed Hedy and a couple girls from band walking by with their instruments. I put my hand on Glynnie's shoulder and said, "Sure, I'll wait."
Glynnie glanced at my hand for a nanosecond before saying, "Okay."
I plopped down next to Rolf and told him about my "interview" with Glynnie. "It won't take long. A couple of quick questions, then we can go to my house."
"No problem," Rolf said. "It was great of Kirstin to want to fix us lunch again."
It's not as if I was eavesdropping, but I could hear Glynnie talking to Jamar. Standing there in her black bike shirt and shorts, she looked as slender as a thread. She glanced at me. "Be with you in a sec." She turned back to Jamar. "Thanks again. I hope I didn't take up too much of your time."
Jamar pointed to his taped toes and laughed. "It was a nice change from, 'What's it like to be the coach's son?' or 'What's it like to be one of only three black guys on the team?'"
"You'll probably get tired of being asked about your fractured toe too. But at least I got first crack at it." Glynnie groaned. "No pun intended."
"Your questions were different than most sportswriters," Jamar said.
"That's because I'm not a sportswriter," Glynnie said in mock seriousness, as she lifted on eyebrow. "I'm a columnist."
It was then I realized she had a funny way of saying her esses. Not a lisp exactly. Just sort of a faint buzz, as if maybe she'd overcome a lisp. I hadn't really spent much time with her before, so I guess that's why I'd never noticed.
After Jamar took off, I expected a quick getaway after a couple questions from Glynnie. So it kind of threw me when she came over and said, "How 'bout if I take you guys to lunch? I'd like to talk to you both. In depth. It'll take a while, and I know you must be hungry."
"Sorry," I said, "we already—"
"I've got a better idea!" Rolf said. "Have lunch with us at Eric's. His sister loves to cook and she makes enough to feed an army."
For a second I stared wordlessly at Rolf. I really did not want some girl I barely knew chowing down at my house. "Glynnie probably has other plans. Besides—"
"I've got all afternoon." Glynnie brushed off my remark with a wave of her hand. "I rode my bike. You live in the center of town right on Main Street, don't you, Eric? Where that antique store is, The Treasure Chest? I live just a couple blocks from there on Grove Street, so it's right on my way home."
She pretty much defused my excuses before I could even make them.
Rolf didn't help any. "It's set. See you at Eric's in a few minutes."
"Okay." With a quick wave Glynnie headed for the bike rack.
I glared at Rolf and said, "Thanks a lot."
"Hey," Rolf said, "It'll be fun."
"Yeah. You, me, my sister and some nerdy girl I barely know. What could be more fun than that?"
"Maybe Glynnie's okay. You know she's smart, at least. Anyway, it's just one afternoon."
"It's just for lunch. I don't plan on spending the whole afternoon being interview
ed."
Rolf shrugged. "Whatever."
I was too wiped out to argue.
***
Rolf waited until Glynnie locked up her bike at the rack next to the shop then held the door open for her. I wondered what he was getting us into by inviting her to lunch. Sometimes he was too polite for his own good—and mine.
As we walked through the living room, Glynnie oohed and aahed over all our furniture, especially the old upright piano. "I love all these antiques!"
"Thanks." I respected her appreciation of our stuff. Though sometimes the clutter got to me, I did like the sense of history behind most of the things in our house.
"Hi, Kirstin," Rolf said when we got to the kitchen. He introduced Glynnie. "Hope you don't mind a guest."
"'Course not." Kirstin turned over a couple of meatcakes, put others on a platter and set it on the table. "There's tons of food."
"I figured," Rolf said. "This looks like a real smorgasbord!"
"Oh, Rolf. Puh-leeze," Kirstin said, pretending to dismiss his compliment. But her bright pink blush gave her away. "This doesn't even come close. There's not nearly enough food—and not a bite of sill."
"Sill?" Glynnie asked, thoughtfully chewing a bite of meatcake. I could see the question mark forming over her head.
"Marinated smoked herring in cream sauce," I explained.
"It's not a traditional smorgasbord without sill!" Kirstin and I said simultaneously.
"One of our grandmother's favorite sayings," I explained.
"Piling your plate high with food is one of the traditions too," Rolf said. "I'm keeping that part alive."
"So I noticed." A smile played at the corner of Glynnie's mouth.
It was then that I noticed she was jotting notes into a small notebook next to her plate. I wondered how sill and smorgasbord would fit into an article about football. But I didn't say anything. It was her article.
I munched some red grapes. Once when I was little, to get me to try some, Dad told me they were little balloons filled with grape juice. I ate one and decided he was right, and they've been a favorite food ever since.
Between crunches I noticed that whenever Rolf said something about his family Glynnie scribbled furiously, as if she were writing the entire Holst history. I figured she was like those actors who had to know everything about a character before playing a role. Well, if Rolf wanted to pour out his entire life history, fine. I would stick to football.
"What's it like being a team captain, Rolf?" Glynnie asked as she nibbled a rosette. It was the first football question she'd asked.
"Tougher than I thought it would be," Rolf said. "I'm kind of in the spotlight, and some of the guys … well, they look at me differently. Like I'm not just one of the guys anymore."
"What do you mean?" Glynnie rested her chin on her hand and leaned forward.
"Well, uh, I've always been kind of … loud. Enthusiastic, Coach Short always said. When the defense is on the sidelines, I always cheer and stuff, to help the team keep going." He popped a spritz cookie in his mouth, downing it in two chews. "You know, when guys are down sometimes sideline enthusiasm can turn into on-field enthusiasm. Now that I'm captain, though … I don't know … some of the guys don't like it. It's weird. I wonder, am I the right guy for the job?"
"Of course you're the right guy for the job, Rolf." Kirstin jabbed her finger at him for emphasis.
Rolf smiled and gently tweaked Kirstin's chin. "My loyal fan club."
Glynnie took notes on all of this.
"What are you writing … a book?" I asked.
Glynnie shook her head. "For now, just an article."
"And someday …?" I asked, figuring there was more.
"The Great American Novel, of course," Glynnie said, not quite keeping a straight face.
"Oh, of course," I said. I did not add, Give me a break … doesn't everyone who writes think he'll write the Great American novel?
"You want to be a writer? For a living?" Kirstin asked.
"'Want to be' is the key phrase," Glynnie said.
"You'll make it," Kirstin said, ever the optimist. "I can say I knew you when."
"Check back in ten years and see if you admit to ever knowing me," Glynnie said, half-seriously.
When we finished eating, Kirstin managed to duck out of cleaning up again by insisting on showing Glynnie the goldfish. Just as Rolf and I finished cleaning up, Kirstin and Glynnie came back in.
"Perfect timing," I said.
"What did you think of the goldfish, Glynnie?" Rolf said.
"They were fun to watch," Glynnie said. "And the yard, it's just beautiful! I could've sat back there all afternoon."
"Kirstin did most of the work in the yard," Rolf said.
"Really?" Glynnie asked.
"Well, Mom and me," Kirstin said, "with a lot of advice from Rolf about native woodland plants."
"I'm impressed." Glynnie scribbled some notes.
"Are you through reviewing the yard?" I asked. "I mean, I'd like to get some rest before afternoon practice."
"Isn't the antique store closed today?" Glynnie asked.
"Yeah, but the sign also says that it's open 'By Chance.'"
"Meaning, if anyone's home, the store is open?"
"You got it," I said. I was thinking it would be nice if Glynnie would leave.
The buzzer sounded.
"Rolf and I have some errands to run," Kirstin said.
"Hey, it's your turn," I said, but she and Rolf were out the door before I got the last word out.
"Duty calls," I said to Glynnie. "See ya."
I suppose I could've walked her to the front door first, but I figured she'd find her way out.
In the shop were two men who seemed to know exactly what they were looking for. They circled the shop and within five minutes had picked up a batter bowl, pitcher, salt-and-pepper shaker set and a one-quart casserole dish all in a red-dots pattern from the early thirties.
As I totaled things up the shorter guy with the mustache said, "I can't believe these marvelous finds!"
"Everything is so perfect for our kitchen!" the tall guy wearing vintage rimless eyeglasses exclaimed.
I couldn't believe how quickly they'd dropped over two hundred dollars, not that I was complaining.
As soon as they left, I was ready to head back into the house. I needed at least a quick nap before afternoon practice or I'd never make it through. I was feeling pretty good, thinking of the money I'd pulled in and how good it would be to sack out for a while. Just as I took two steps, however, another customer entered the store. He was a tall dude, black hair, blue eyes and a face so tanned and chiseled it looked as if it'd been cast in bronze.
He nodded at me, but then immediately started poking through the box of tools near the end of the counter. It didn't look as if he needed any help, so I didn't ask. It didn't take long for him to pull a ruler out of the box.
He opened it, looked it over, folded it up. "Hmm. It's got clear markings, folds tight, very nice condition. I'll take it."
"That'll be seventy-five dollars."
"Do you take credit cards?"
"Yes sir." I took the card, ran it through the machine, which to me is practically an antique. Maybe that's why Mom insists on keeping it even though I've tried to talk her into going electronic instead. I guess the old machine fits in with the cash register and the phone, which is a replica of an 1820's wooden wall phone. I check the receipt twice to make sure I filled it out right. Once I forgot to write down what the item was and Mom had a fit.
I asked for I.D. and checked it carefully. Trevor Rock. Huh. The name fit his sculpted looks. I saw that he was from L.A. Mom would want me to be "friendly" and ask if he'd just moved here or if he was in town for the Scandinavian Festival, but he didn't look like the kind of guy who wanted to make small talk. Instead, I said, "You want a sack?"
"No, thanks." He started to leave, then stopped and asked, "You run this place?"
"Me? No. It's my Mom's."
/> "Mmm. Nice shop."
"Uh, yeah. Thanks."
"See ya."
He turned and left. As he opened the door, I noticed a black pickup parked there. I went over and peaked out the front window. Sure enough, he got in the pickup. Huh. Was that the same guy who stopped to talk to Glynnie? Why was he still hanging around town?
Okay. Maybe he was here for the Scandinavian Festival. Or maybe he did just move to town. Wait. What did it matter? I sold close to three hundred dollars worth of stuff in less than twenty minutes. Not bad.
I started whistling, but my good mood was cut short when I opened the door to go back in the house. I heard piano music and Glynnie singing from "All Through the Night."
I stormed into the living room and slammed my fist on the piano. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Chapter Five
Glynnie's eyebrows flew up. "I saw the sheet music, so I assumed it was okay to play the piano." She stood up and closed the lid over the keys. "If it's too fragile, I apologize."
For a second I froze, staring at Glynnie, confused by her response. Of course, how could she have known? "Look," I finally said, "it's not the piano. It's … it's … I'm tired. I really think you should go."
I grabbed her elbow and propelled her out the door onto the front porch.
"But I haven't really had a chance to interview you yet," Glynnie said, apparently unfazed by being rushed outside. "How 'bout just a few minutes?"
"Look, I—"
I heard loud, thumping music. I saw Jenny Lund driving down the street with Hedy riding shotgun. "Well, okay." I quickly guided Glynnie over to the porch swing. We sat down and I not-quite rested my hand on her shoulder. "I guess you could ask a few questions." I sneaked a look at Jenny's car to see if Hedy was getting an eyeful. She was. "What would you like to know?"
"For starters," Glynnie said, her big gray-blue eyes sharp and assessing through her thick round glasses, "you could tell me what the heck is going on."
