Finn-agled Page 4

  Anyway, most of the shelving had been installed by my own two hands, though Dad and Grandpa Andrzej popped in from time to time to help with the heavier stuff, Mom and Grandma Lena hot on their heels in a supervisory capacity, a role they executed with the utmost diligence. Once the interior had been completed, the fun part began; filling the shop with the treasures – heirlooms, knickknacks, tchotchkes – I’d spent months accumulating. It’d taken nearly as long to arrange each individual item in its place as it had for me to acquire them, but with that accomplished, Finn’s Finds had finally opened her doors almost five years ago to the day.

  I hadn’t looked back since. In fact, I was currently in negotiations with the landlord to buy the building. “Would you like a tour?”

  “You mean there’s more to it than this?” Spencer asked, waving his arm expansively.

  Biting back a snarky remark, for which I totally expected to earn points, I nodded and beckoned him toward the back of the shop where I keep the good stuff. Unfortunately, the exploration was curtailed by the arrival of a Shaker, Rattle and Roll tour bus out of Mount Legion, Connecticut. Pulling up to the curb, it opened its door and deposited thirty-seven members of the Our Sisters of the Fiery Pines church group – a collective of retirees that traverse the highways along the Eastern seaboard in search of original Shaker communities and discounted collectibles – onto the sidewalk in front of my shop. Eyes alighting like toddlers’ on Christmas morning when they saw my sign, within seconds they poured through the front door in an attempt to one-up their brethren with a one-of-a-kind find.

  Note to self – take down that danged wind chime!

  As the multitude of handbag and fanny pack accessorized seniors descended, I lost sight of Spencer, only to see him reappear for a moment before vanishing completely amongst a sea of silvery tresses. Startled when my pocket began buzzing (oh, right, my phone) I dug it out and smiled at the incoming text.

  I know when I’m outnumbered. Dinner tonight?

  Barely managing to type Y before two seventy-ish ladies rocking hot pink streaks in their snow-white hair advanced on me, arguing over which one had first spotted the whimsical ceramic figurine of a black kitten batting at a ball of real yarn, it was hours later before I remembered I’d never hit send. Crap!

  Waiting until the last customer of the morning left the shop (I moved quite a bit of merchandise in those first few hours as the tour group attracted the attention of passersby who, in turn, came in to see what the fuss was about and ended up exiting with items they just couldn’t live without, like a brass chamber pot and a Bitsy Burps-a-lot doll), I dialed Spencer’s number. Straight to voicemail. Preferring to speak to him directly, I hung up, flipped over the ‘Out to Lunch’ sign and clipped Garfunkel’s leash to his collar. After locking up, we hit the pavement for the short walk to Dough Knots to grab a bite to eat.

  In addition to offering the most delectable bagels, muffins, cookies, pies, cakes, scones (must I go on?), Wendi Steubens, proprietress and baker-extraordinaire of the eatery, also creates melt-in-your-mouth sandwiches that I swear could be on the menu of every Michelin five-star restaurant in the world. And should be!

  “What’ve you whipped up today, Wen?” I asked, sticking my head through the open take-out window.

  “Got a couple of specials to choose from,” came the answer, a seemingly disembodied hand appearing out of the depths of the kitchen to point in the direction of a chalkboard propped up on the sidewalk. The rest of the body followed in stages – marmalade-colored hair hanging in a braided rope over one deeply-tanned shoulder, a food-splattered apron tied around an ample waist, two rows of meticulously straight and blindingly white teeth – before Wendi materialized in her entirety and shuffled over, peering out at my companion. “Is that my Garfunkey? Hey, boy, how you doin’ today? I got something here – baked up a goodie just for you!”

  Amazing how the words ‘come’ and ‘stay’ are foreign to his Basset ears but say the word ‘goodie’ and you have Garfunkel’s full attention. With a throaty “Bar-roof!” my pooch plopped down on his haunches and began drooling, his tail sweeping the pavement.

  “Real appetizing, Garf!” I commented on his slobber, half out of love and half out of disgust as Wendi handed over a Fido Bar the size of my ulna. “No raw oysters for me today!”

  Ignoring me as was his habit, he accepted the treat delicately (so not his habit) and plopped to the ground, gnawing with a ferocity that would make his wolf ancestors proud.

  As for me, I ordered the clams casino salad on freshly-baked, warm-from-the-oven whole wheat (it shouldn’t work, but it does), and claimed the last umbrella-shaded table on the deck, ignoring the nasty look flung in my direction from a family of four who’d piled out of their RV looking for a place to picnic. Hey, I’m a paying customer, thank you very much! The campground is two blocks over on the right.

  There’s something about a fresh clam that soothes away stress, and a quarter pound of them is better than any spa treatment! Devouring my sandwich with the same enthusiasm as Garfunkel gobbling up his Fido Bar, I pushed the empty plate aside and leaned back in my seat, inhaling deeply. One of the nice things about owning my own business is that I can come and go as I please, and after the profitable morning I’d had, indulging in a few extra minutes of relaxation wasn’t going to hurt my bottom line. Closing my eyes, I tuned out everything but the sound of the waves as they rolled to shore, synching my breathing to the rhythm.

  I love living in Port New. Those long stretches of crystalline beaches, perfect for strolling along with that special someone under a harvest moon. The hidden coves tucked out of sight; ideal getaways for romantic trysts. The fine mist of salt coating every surface it comes into contact with, from skin to clothing to Lance, and the unrelenting humidity that perpetuates the definition of a bad hair day. Oh, yeah. Living near the ocean is grand. But as much as I bitch about it, I could never move to the city like Spencer did, surrounded by high rises and concrete and–

  Spencer! Shoot! I forgot to try him again. Balling up my paper plate and tossing it into a nearby trash can, I hit redial and waited for the call to connect.

  Isn’t it funny how a person can customize their phone with a personalized ringtone, but all the caller hears is brring…brring…brring? Not wanting to leave a message, I was about to hang up, nearly choking when he answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Spencer. Hi. Sorry about not texting you back. I started to, but then these two women came up to the counter and were all like ‘I saw it first.’ ‘No, I did.’ ‘Marjorie Littman, you’re a liar’ ‘Pamela Smythe, you take that back!’ and I was afraid it’d turn to fisticuffs, and I’d have to call the cops, and–”

  “I was hoping you’d call,” he interrupted.

  “You were?” He was? He’d been thinking about me? Like, ‘where has she been all my life or how long do I wait to file a restraining order’ thinking about me? Raucous laughter in the background distracted me from both scenarios. “Where are you?”

  “In a limousine bus on the way to Foxwoods. Apparently, my future brother-in-law planned this guys’ day out and forgot to mention it. We probably won’t be back until late, so I can’t take you to dinner. I’m sorry, Finn.”

  “Oh.” My spirits plummeted.

  Continuing on as if he hadn’t heard me, he said, “It’s just that I came back for the wedding, you know, so I’m sort of obligated to do family stuff. I was waiting until we got there to call you. I didn’t want to explain by text.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course. I appreciate that.” Another burst of laughter erupted on his end, and the thought that his compadres were laughing at me popped into my head. In a sudden rush to end the call, I said quickly, “Have fun, and I’ll see you on Saturday.”

  “Finn–”

  I hung up on him.

  Well, that went well – not! I’m sure at this very moment he’s wishing he’d asked someone else to the wedding.

  About to return to the shop, I stoppe
d midway to standing, frozen in a crazy, contorted yoga pose. He wouldn’t do that, would he? Ditch me and ask someone else? Who does he have in mind? Almost everyone we went to school with is married or has moved away except for…oh, no…he couldn’t. He wouldn’t! Surely, he won’t ask her! If he does, I’ll never hear the end of it from everyone I know. And how on earth will I ever be able to explain it to my mother?

  The ‘her’ in question is my high school nemesis, JoBeth Halpern – JoJo, as she’s known to her friends. I had my own private nickname for her, which also happened to be the name of a popular snack cake. JoJo Halpern was head everything back then – head cheerleader, head of the yearbook committee, head of the debate club, and if the rumors were true, she gave good…well, never mind. Suffice it to say, she’d always been extremely popular, and fifteen years later still gave the men of Port New a run for their money. She and Spencer had also dated a few times junior year.

  Recently divorced from her second (or was it her third?) husband, JoJo had made it no secret that Spencer Dane was her heart’s desire. Now that he was back in town, it was only a matter of time before she dug her talons into him.

  Sinking back down to the wooden bench (not as easy as it sounds with my muscles twisted up like a pretzel) I dropped my forehead onto the tabletop and banged it a half dozen times, stopping only when Garfunkel nudged me with suspiciously sticky jowls in a rare display of canine concern. Exhaling a sigh that would make Sarah Bernhardt – the consummate drama queen, in my opinion – proud, I looked over at my pooch and cringed, my own miseries evaporating at the sight of what could only be described as ‘a mess’.

  Apparently, while otherwise occupied having my moment, the stomach-on-legs-disguised-as-a-Basset-Hound I own had rooted out and feasted upon an ice cream cone some unfortunate youngster had dropped. Tutti-frutti encrusted ears dragged along the ground collecting sand, food particles, and God-only-knew what else as my pooch dutifully hunted for any morsel of dessert he’d overlooked.

  “Come on, you. Let’s go,” I muttered, standing up and tugging on Garfunkel’s leash. Aside from the clean-up wrestling match awaiting me once we returned to the shop, my insides were shuddering in anticipation of the late-night accident that was sure to follow. Have I mentioned my hound, aside from sporting more skin than fur, is also afflicted with a sensitive tummy? No? Well, he is, and an emergency trip to the vet’s office is not how I want to spend my evening.

  Arriving at Finn’s Finds without further ingestion of unknown substances, Garfunkel was surprisingly cooperative sequestered in the tiny restroom in the back of the store as I washed the sticky residue from his ears and face with a wet cloth, the chore turning into an impromptu game of tug-of-war when the rag neared his mouth and he snagged it between his teeth.

  “Give me that, you beast!”

  Tugging fiercely, his low center of gravity gained him the advantage as a low growl rumbled deep in his chest. Planting his feet, he shook his head back and forth vigorously, jerking me off-balance, my knees connecting with a resounding thunk against the wooden floor as I fell forward from my squatting position. “Owww! Beast!”

  Indifferent to my injury, Garfunkel nudged open the restroom door and absconded to his king-size Reginald bed with his prize, gnawing delightedly, one ear still encrusted with sprinkles. Oh, well, it’s not like he’s going to bring home a prize from a beauty contest anyway. They’ll fall off eventually. Besides, a quartet of tourists just walked in eager to spend some hard-earned dough. Who am I to deny them the pleasure?

  The afternoon sped by quickly. Not a mad rush like the morning, but enough traffic to keep me on my feet until closing. Ringing up the final sale of the day, I pondered how to occupy the rest of my evening. Originally intending to rush home and get ready for my date with Spencer, with that plan eighty-sixed, the prospect of spending the evening alone feeling sorry for myself sounds unappealing, and with a stack of paperwork waiting for me in my office, I might as well order take-out and put the time to constructive use.

  Just as I flipped over the ‘Closed’ sign, an attractive, middle-aged couple dressed to the nines appeared at the door. These two weren’t your run-of-the-mill tourists looking to snag a kitschy souvenir to commemorate their vacation. No, they were the real deal, antiquers on the prowl for specific prey and my shop was their hunting ground. The prospect of a big sale rejuvenating my spirits, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to extend my hours and opened the door, welcoming them in with a broad flourish of my arm.

  “Oh, thank you so much for letting us in,” the woman gushed, breezing by me without so much as a glance in my direction as she tucked a golden curl behind her ear, her dark-eyed gaze homing in on the shelves of wooden boxes displayed along the far wall.

  “Yes, quite nice of you.” Immaculately groomed, not a strand of russet hair out of place, the gentleman followed closely on her heels, making a beeline for the same shelf that held his companion’s rapt attention.

  Ah, these are the kind of people I love dealing with; those who know exactly what they’re looking for. Adopting a professional demeanor, I followed them and launched into my polished sales script having learned early on not to hit prospective buyers with a hard-nosed pitch. “Ah, so you’re interested in antique boxes. Very good. As you can see, there’s some beautiful craftsmanship among these. Is there something, in particular, you’re looking for?”

  “Not really–”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” the man interrupted before the woman could continue. “We’re looking for a 19th-century writing case made of mahogany and brass. Would you have such a piece on hand?”

  About to confirm that there was such an item in the store, I clammed up at the last second. First of all, isn’t it the teeniest bit coincidental that the day after Beady Eyes appears looking to unload the piece for a fraction of what it’s worth, these two show up looking for the same thing? Not to mention, I’m a tad reluctant to part with my treasure before I’ve had adequate opportunity to examine it thoroughly, and I really, really want to extract that hidden piece of correspondence from between the box’s seams. Since it hadn’t been entered into inventory yet, technically I wasn’t lying when I said, “Sorry, no, nothing like that, I’m afraid. But I get new pieces in all of the time. If you’d like to leave your name and number, I’d be happy to give you a call if I come across what you’re looking for.”

  Closing the gap between us in the space of a second, the man thrust his face in mine and leveled me with a sinister gleam. “Are you sure? Maybe you should check again.”

  Okay. This isn’t good. I mean, I’m all for an enthusiastic customer, but this one’s taking it a step too far. What’s that? Why not say I made a mistake and give up the box right then and there? To be honest, the thought crossed my mind for like a nanosecond, but why should I part with something that’s rightfully mine just because this guy’s acting like an ass? Not to mention, I’m finding the entire interaction more than a little suspicious. I did these folks a favor letting them come in even though it’s closing time…all right, yes, greed may have played a part, me thinking they were big spenders and all, but that doesn’t mean I have to put up with their shenanigans.

  Holding my ground, I crossed my arms and nodded firmly, praying the thunderous booming in my chest would go unnoticed. “I keep impeccable records, sir, and know each piece that’s available for sale.”

  He sneered (like that’s supposed to intimidate me), but apparently, my poker face was convincing because he took a step back, grabbing the woman’s hand. “Let’s get out of here! I told you this was a waste of time.”

  My mouth getting the better of me, I called after them, “Thanks for stopping by. Please come again,” before locking the door and shutting off the lights, plunging the store into semi-darkness. I don’t often get the willies, but those two set off alarm bells similar to the ones I heard when dealing with the man who sold me the box. What is it about that piece anyway? Is it cursed or something?

  Mak
ing my way across the floor in the dim lighting, I nimbly skirted various vertical display cases and solidly-built furniture on the way toward the back of the shop, glancing over at the Reginald bed as I passed. Curled into a tight ball, Garfunkel was sound asleep, the ear draped over his face fluttering softly when he snored.

  “Hmphf! Some guard dog you are! I’m practically threatened with bodily harm, and you’re over there snoozing!” He responded with a groan, sinking further into the padding.

  Stopping long enough to retrieve the vexatious writing case from a cubby behind the counter, I entered my office and plopped down onto an 1890s Victorian chair that needed reupholstering, setting the box on top of a cluttered Mid-Century coffee table. With the dissolution of my dinner plans (hope Spencer’s killing it at the slots), my evening’s open, and since the shop is closed tomorrow (as it is every Wednesday), I have plenty of time to investigate my new acquisition. Maybe the thing poking out from the seam is actually a vendor tag or something along those lines. I’ll do some research on the internet, see if I can track down its origins, but first, food. I’m starving!

  My phone rang just as the delivery guy from Chen’s Chinese Palace dropped off my number seven. Thinking (hoping) it was Spencer, I snatched it up without looking at the Caller I.D.

  “Hi, Mom. What? Oh, okay. That’s not a problem. Yes, I’m sure. Mom, I’m perfectly capable of finding a suitable dress for the wedding on my own.” Placing the call on speaker, I popped a wonton into my mouth and chewed quickly. “Of course, I understand. An abscessed tooth is nothing to fool with, and the sooner Dad gets in to see the oral surgeon, the better. What time is his appointment in the morning?”

  Anita Bartusiak’s voice filled the room. “Eight o’clock. Remember Mindy Carson? Carol’s daughter? The two of you used to play Pony Tails together. Drove me crazy finding little horsey accessories all over the place.”

  “We were five, Mom.”

  “I’m well aware of how old you were, Finley. I’m the one who gave birth to you, remember? How I hope to someday pass your toys onto my grandchildren…”