12
Bad Bella.
She’d been emailing Slade. About Penny’s ornate jewelry. About her ideas for redecorating the shop. About furniture.
Slade emailed her back, mostly links to websites of fabulous shops, homes, churches, restaurants, all over the country, all over the world. Her mind swarmed with ideas.
You need to change the name of the shop, Slade emailed her. “Barnaby’s Barn” is not right.
I agree, she emailed back. Ideas?
Something short. Maybe just one word.
“Barnaby’s?”
No. Something too Mother Goose about that.
Oh, thanks so much.
Also, it’s got the word “barn” in it. How about “Bella’s”?
Bella sat staring at his last email with her heart thumping away like a brass band. Bella’s! She didn’t know how to respond.
Slade sent another email: Bella’s: Art, Antiques, Jewelry.
After a moment, Bella got her breath back and emailed Slade. Yes. I like that.
Another email:
I have to go to the Berkshires and southern Vermont to check out some antiques for our store. I think you should come, too. I’ve thought about it, and you can’t keep a shop running on the stuff your parents have in their storage unit. You’ll need to be able to find other pieces. I’ll show you how it’s done. I’ll pick you up early Thursday morning, have you back Thursday night.
Bella hesitated. This wasn’t a date. It shouldn’t make Aaron jealous. She remembered with guilty relief that Aaron was driving down to the Cape on Thursday to see his family for a long weekend. He wanted Bella to come with him, but she’d declined, claiming she needed to stay in the shop. And while this wouldn’t be staying in the shop, it would be work.
I’ll be ready, she emailed Slade.
Thursday morning, in the privacy of her bedroom, Bella tried on just about everything she owned to find the right outfit for the antiques jaunt with Slade. Should she try to look impoverished so the owners would take pity on her and she could get the bid down on a piece of furniture? But she wanted, as much as she refused to let herself dwell on it, to look really good in front of Slade. Also, to look professional. Also, to look sexy. Stop. How did that thought get in there? She didn’t want to look trashy, or easy, and she had to remember this was work, so she shouldn’t look sexy. She needed to look casually intelligent. In a summery way.
She wore a severely cut, sleeveless brown linen sheath and high brown heels that made her look taller, therefore more grown-up, and also, just as a side effect, sexier. She told her parents what she was doing and that she’d be back late. She wasn’t keeping this a secret from Aaron—she’d tell him about it tonight, when he called from the Cape. He was driving there now.
Slade arrived in a big white Chevy Suburban that said “David Ralston Antiques” in gold print on the side. Bella waved at her mother, grabbed her enormous purse, and clicked down the steps to the driveway. Slade hadn’t gotten out to knock on the door; he’d only tapped the horn. Businesslike.
“How many cars do you own?” Bella asked as she climbed with as much grace as possible into the passenger seat.
“This van belongs to my boss,” Slade explained. He wore a white button-down cotton shirt, khakis, and loafers without socks. Aware of her curiosity, he said, “Work clothes. Disguise.”
“So the real Slade Reynolds wears all black?” Bella inquired.
“Maybe. Maybe I’m a man of many façades.”
“But are you all façade?” she asked flippantly. Her hand flew to her mouth. Slade’s presence made her act so strange! She hoped she hadn’t insulted him.
Slade threw back his head and laughed. “Stick around and find out.” He put the key in the ignition and started the massive engine. Off they went.
She’d been nervous about being alone in the car with this man for the roughly two hours it would take to drive through the mountainous countryside. Of course they could discuss antiques. She’d been researching them online while she sat undisturbed by customers in Barnaby’s Barn.
Slade hit the button on the CD player. “Radiohead?”
“Love them,” she answered, relieved when the music filled the air.
Slade drove north from Northampton, zooming up I-91, taking an exit to a smaller road, turning off that to an even narrower road winding through farmland. Trees flickered past; green leaves fluttered and parted to expose a stream flashing with water racing over rocks. Hills rose and fell as they sped by rocks embossed with moss, ivy, and wildflowers like badges in a garden show.
After almost an hour, Slade turned down a dirt lane fenced in wire. He stopped in front of an old house smaller and less freshly painted than the barn next to it.
Slade slipped out of the driver’s seat, stretched, tucked his shirt in. Bella stepped out, too, glad to move. She followed him up to the front door, which was open. An old dog hurried to the screen door, barking and wagging his tail.
“Spot, old fella, how are you?” Slade asked.
The dog wiggled all over at the sound of Slade’s voice.
“Is that who I think it is?” An old man appeared in the gloom of the hall. “Slade, as I live and breathe. You son of a gun, where have you been?” Dressed in overalls and a torn light flannel shirt, the old man was bald, wrinkled, and stooped, but his brown eyes were bright. “And who is this you’ve got with you, you lucky guy?”
“Mr. Wheeler, this is Bella Barnaby. She’s learning the antiques business.”
“She is, is she? Well, she’s got a good teacher. Come in, come in.” With a liver-spotted, veined old hand, Mr. Wheeler reached up to unlatch the screen door.
Bella followed Slade into the dusty hallway.
“Business first, then cider?” Mr. Wheeler asked.
“If you don’t mind. You know I hate being kept in suspense.”
Mr. Wheeler opened a door to the front room. He went in. Slade went in. Bella froze in the doorway, stunned.
The room was chockablock with furniture in no particular order. Desks, armoires, chaises, headboards, chairs, tables, secretaries, in all styles and woods. In some cases, towels were laid over tables or chest tops so that smaller pieces, trunks, and benches, and cabinets, could be stacked on top.
“Mr. Wheeler is not a dealer,” Slade told Bella.
The old man laughed, “Hee-hee-hee. That rhymes. Plus, it’s not the God’s pure and honest truth. I can deal all right when I want to.”
“I mean he doesn’t own an antiques shop,” Slade continued.
“Couldn’t if I wanted to! I’m still running the farm my parents and my grandparents ran before me.” The old man waved at Bella. “Come on in, darlin’. Look around.”
Bella stepped inside. She squeezed herself down a crooked aisle between a dry sink and a glass-front bookcase.
“Mr. Wheeler is my unofficial assistant.” Slade’s voice came from the other side of the room. “He knows everyone in the area. If someone moves out—”
“He means if someone kicks the bucket,” Mr. Wheeler corrected, and did his wheezing “hee-hee-hee” laugh again.
“—Mr. Wheeler knows what kind of furniture they have, who the relatives are, and drops by to offer a fair price to help clean out the house.”
“These young people, you know,” Mr. Wheeler said, shaking his head. “They move clear across the country. Seattle. Phoenix, for Christ’s sake. No interest in their own home, in the farm, in the furniture. Just want the money.”
“I come out about four times a year to check on Mr. Wheeler’s discoveries,” Slade said. “I pay him what he’s paid the original owner, plus a finder’s fee.”
“Adds to my Social Security. The farm don’t make a dime. I need the money; plus, I will admit I am a nosy old bugger.”
“I like this.” Bella paused in front of a slant-top mahogany desk. “I really like this.” She ran her hand over the wood. Silk.
Slade slid sideways down the narrow aisle. Standing next to Bella, he surveyed the de
sk, his arm brushing hers as he bent. “Yeah. That’s nice.”
“Slade,” Bella whispered, fighting to keep her voice steady, “I’ve been doing some research. I’m sure this piece is English. Georgian, I’d say.”
Slade squatted down, pulled out a drawer, looked at the pulls. “You have done your homework. Mr. Wheeler, how much for this desk over here?”
Another “Hee-hee-hee” came from across the room, behind rows of furniture. Then, “Five hundred.”
Slade snorted. “You are a wheeler-dealer.”
“I ain’t worked with you for three years without learning something.”
“I’ll take it,” Bella called.
Slade gazed at Bella with a light of admiration dawning in his eyes.
“And what about you?” the old man yelled from the other side of the room. “You find anything you like?”
Slade was pressed almost against her. “Yes. I have.”
Bella wanted to kiss Slade. She wanted to lick his neck. Among all this antique furniture, she felt caught in a dream: She was the maid, he was the master; she was the peasant selling flowers, he was the soldier. He was the pirate. She was his plunder.
But, Bella thought triumphantly, her hand on the desk, she was the one who had found the treasure.
She pulled away. Her heart was beating so fast she was afraid it showed beneath the light linen of her dress. She stepped away from Slade, squeezing between an Early American pie cupboard and a high-backed bench, aware of Slade’s eyes on her body as she twisted and slid. Her skin felt so hot she was surprised she didn’t ignite the furniture. Her senses screamed at her to go back to Slade, but Natalie had told her that Slade was a flirt, a scoundrel, a user, a hound dog. Bella needed to wear Natalie’s warning words like a shield of armor.
The rest of their time in Mr. Wheeler’s amazing room, Bella spent in rows as far away from Slade as she could get. When she’d chosen three pieces, and Slade had chosen four, they were invited back to Mr. Wheeler’s kitchen for cider and cookies while they concluded their business.
Mr. Wheeler’s kitchen was tidy and immaculate. His cider was homemade and sweet, taken from the freezer that morning in honor of Slade’s arrival. They sat at the table—a scarred but steady walnut drop-leaf—and talked. Slade opened his briefcase. He lifted out a pastry box of fresh cookies, sweet rolls, and doughnuts from Boston.
“You are a fine fellow.” Mr. Wheeler laughed, clapping Slade on the shoulder. He explained to Bella, “My wife died two years ago. I can’t bake and I can’t tolerate the sight of the poor old widows who used to drive all this way to bring me a casserole or cake, so I wasn’t as appreciative as I should have been. But this guy knows what I like, and he doesn’t want to marry me and iron my tea towels. Hee-hee-hee.”
“Do you have other dealers who come to check out your finds?” Bella asked.
“I do. A few. No one as nice as Slade. Usually in the autumn, when they can combine it with some leaf peeping. Mostly people who want antiques don’t want to spend so much time driving this far out into the boondocks. If it ain’t down in Sheffield, they can’t be bothered.”
After they enjoyed some pastries, they wrote out checks and proof of ownership documents, and then Slade and Mr. Wheeler carried the furniture out to the van. At first Bella worried that the furniture was too heavy for such an old man to be lifting, but Slade shot her a glance when she started to object, and as she watched, she understood that Mr. Wheeler might be old, but he was wiry and plenty strong.
When they said good-bye, Mr. Wheeler shook Slade’s hand and patted his shoulder with real affection. To Bella he said, “Now you treat this young man right.”
Her jaw dropped. Are you nuts? she almost cried. Aware of Slade’s mocking grin, she replied sweetly, “It was a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Wheeler. I hope I see you again.”
Driving away, Slade said, “I should have told you about him. He is one foxy old devil. For one thing, he’s not as old as he looks. I phoned to tell him we were coming, so he went into his local-yokel act. He’s not stupid. He is lonely. And sometimes the furniture he finds is amazing. He’s got a real eye, and the farmers for miles around welcome him into their homes when they wouldn’t let us in.”
“I can’t believe what we got,” Bella said. The furniture was wrapped in quilted pads and secured by bungee cords in the back of the van. She wanted to crawl back, peel off a quilt, and gaze at her purchases.
“You did well, Bella. You found some prizes. This was probably the best part of the day. Mr. Wheeler is one of a kind, I’m afraid. This is prime antiquing country. Sheffield, down in Massachusetts, is basically an antiques town. First-rate stuff in pricey shops. Near Williamstown, Bennington, both college towns, you’ve got some great shops, too. Between here and Albany, you’ve got, basically, mountains. Snow in the winter, mud in the spring. Still, most old farmhouses like Mr. Wheeler’s have been tapped. Antiques dealers have checked out attics and barns. Or they attend auctions.”
“How do you find something for your shop, then?” Bella asked.
“Just this way. Searching. Driving far out on no-name roads. Buying, like we’re going to buy from a few dealers. We won’t make as much profit as we will from Mr. Wheeler’s pieces. But still. The thing is, Bella, lots of people want what they want now. They don’t want to drive all the way from Boston or New York or the Vineyard to find their Chippendale side table. Basically, they’ll pay a whole lot more for something if they can just walk into our store in Boston and point.”
“What about my store?” Bella bit her lip, thinking. “You’ve got a much bigger population in Boston than we do out in the middle of the state.”
“True. Also, more of your population is earthy-crunchy, hippy-dippy, less-is-more, and mobile. Students won’t buy. Lots of professors won’t buy, because they aren’t making any money and they’re planning to move to another college sooner or later. But you’ve got some established, distinguished scholars with historic homes and lots of rich parents coming up from Connecticut to visit their brilliant offspring. You’re close enough to New York and Boston that you’ll get some of that traffic.”
“Gosh,” Bella said. “You really do know a lot.”
Slade smiled. “You’d be surprised.”
Bella dropped her eyes.
Near Troy, New York, they stopped in a shop carved out of a garage attached to a white colonial house. The owner was an elegant woman with a snooty nose, savvy eyes, and a piercing voice. Bella saw at once that Slade’s charm bounced off Mrs. Eachern like bullets from Wonder Woman’s bracelets. Still, Bella found a table on which Slade promised her she could double her price, and Slade bought a cabinet. They drove west, stopping twice on different roads with the word Hollow in the name. At one shop, set up in the front rooms of a Victorian farmhouse, they found nothing, but at the other, located in a barn, they each made a purchase. They grabbed a late lunch to go from a drive-through fast-food place and headed on Route 2 back over the mountain into Massachusetts.
Near Williamstown, they stopped at a shop straight out of Marie Antoinette, or some ancient French monarch with a taste for chandeliers and nude marble statuary. At first Bella thought the owner, clad in a dapper white summer suit, was Rob Lowe. Couldn’t be, she told herself, and as he came closer, she saw that of course it wasn’t.
Gary Errick’s eyebrows arched with delight when he saw Slade. They fell when Slade introduced Bella. Slade talked with Gary about business while Bella strolled around the shop, nearly tripping on antique Far Eastern carpets piled on top of one another. She picked up a marble statue of some old Greek god overwhelming some poor female, saw the price tag, and set it back down with extreme caution. Nothing here was anywhere near her price range, and she was glad when Slade said they had to leave.
She thought he’d put on music again for the hour they had left to drive back to Dragonfly Lake. Instead, Slade was in an expansive mood.
“So you’ve seen a variety of antiques shops. What do you think?
” he asked.
She took a moment to deliberate on his question. “Each shop is unique,” she decided. “What is your shop like, Slade?”
“I suppose Ralston’s is most like Errick’s. Very posh. Quite pricey. But excellent value, never any doubt about provenance or authenticity. We know our clients and what they’re looking for, so they don’t have to search far for what they want.”
“I can’t do that,” Bella mused. “I don’t want to do that. I want a range of prices, and lots of different people coming in. I want a young couple to fall in love with one of Natalie’s abstracts and be able to afford it. But I want to price her charcoals high. They look like museum pieces. I don’t want Early American furniture. Half the shops in New England carry Early American. I love the more ornate, but I want the shop to have an airy feeling, so people can walk around and not be afraid they’ll knock something off a pedestal like at Errick’s.”
Slade laughed. “He does crowd pieces in.” He glanced over at Bella. “You’ve done a lot of thinking.”
“I guess I have. This trip has been enormously helpful, Slade. I can’t thank you enough.”
“What’s your next step?”
She counted off on her fingers. “I’ve got to close Barnaby’s Barn. Which means advertising a huge sale, so I can get rid of as much as possible. I’ve got to completely redo the look of the place, inside and out. I can envision the exterior.… I want to paint it sort of umber, instead of white, with huge topiary plants on either side of the door.”
“You need to replace the door.”
“You think? Aren’t Dutch doors kind of … European?”
“What about hanging big wooden shutters on each side of the door, and leaving the door open? You could have a glass inner door for cold or hot weather, but an open door is inviting.”
“Oh, what a good idea!” They were on a small, curvy road now, winding through forests, but Bella saw the shop, not the trees. “What color do you think I should paint the interior?”
“What color do you think you should paint the interior?”
“The floors are dark-stained pine. They’ve been polyurethaned against use and they’ve held up pretty well. I’m thinking something between beige and pale coral. Not pink. But pale brown with a touch of pink. Do I mean a pale umber? I need to look at paint chips.”
Summer Beach Reads Page 139
