Chapter 4
ELEVEN MONTHS LATER
On a chilly November day, Adelaide Springfield bursts through the door of my antique shop, The Memory Bank, holding something wrapped in her gloved hands. “This is your lucky day! Such a treat for you, dear Greta.”
My definition of treat involves sweatpants and sugar. Both of which are not in my near future. “Good afternoon, Adelaide.”
“It’s going to be a good one for you,” she singsongs the last word, and my toes curl in my Chelsea boots.
She gently places the swaddled item on my counter.
She peels back some protective lining, followed by bubble wrap, and lastly tissue.
Each layer is removed painstakingly slow, as if she’s building suspense. “Ta da!”
I must have missed something. “It’s a bowl.”
“Not just any bowl, mind you. It’s from the Ming Dynasty. These babies go for five hundred thousand.” She grins at it fondly, like it’s her firstborn. “I found it at my weekly browsing of the flea market. And what a find it is!”
I reach deep, deep within me to scrape up a morsel of patience.
“It’s a beautiful dish.” Most likely from Target.
Movement passes my front window. It’s just Mitzy and her legendary baby carriage.
Mitzy Clemens is nearing eighty and takes daily walks, pushing a stroller holding a doll from her vast collection.
My gaze bounces between Adelaide and Mitzy.
And the town council wonders why Silver Creek isn’t attracting new families.
Mitzy is eccentric but harmless. Adelaide, on the other hand?
I look at the bowl. “However, this is not a fourteenth-century piece. Or from any century of that imperial reign.” Usually, Adelaide’s visits are somewhat amusing, but they’ve been occurring more frequently.
Last week she’d attempted to pawn off a copy of Pride and Prejudice, saying it was a first edition.
I had to inform her that the binding was too modern to be an early nineteenth-century text.
Poor Adelaide. She tries so hard to be a con artist but is very much lacking the con factor. And perhaps the artist part too.
She gently runs a finger over the bowl. “I’m almost certain this is a high-quality heirloom.”
“There’s a ‘Made in China’ sticker on the bottom.”
“Right! The Chinese claim this piece as their own. Certainly, you can’t disagree now.”
I pick up the bowl and refrain from frowning when Adelaide tells me to “Be careful!” I give a good show of examining it, but, really, I’m thinking that I only have fifteen minutes until I can flip the CLOSED sign on the door.
“Ming pieces are top-tier porcelain. During the Ming empire, no other country had the ability or technology to produce porcelain. So basically, the pieces were the first of their kind. Which is why the china is so rare and valuable.”
She blinks at me.
I sigh. “This, here, is cheap ceramic. The famed dynasty pieces are also known for their curved rim. This one has an oblong ridge.” There’s also the aspect that Ming pieces have a certain color palette, usually an under-glazing of cobalt blue.
It’s not remotely close. I’m kind of disappointed in Adelaide.
It’s like she’s not even trying. “I can’t accept this. ”
Her shoulders lower with a heavy exhale. Next, she’ll pout her lips in 3, 2, … ah, there it is. At least she’s consistent in her acting. “You can’t?”
“Sorry, no.” Because I like Adelaide, despite her endeavors to cheat me out of half a million, I say, “But I can spring five bucks for it.” I need a good cereal bowl for my apartment. I moved into the space above the store a few months back.
The first part of the year after Gran passed was grief-filled misery.
But if any good came from her passing, it is my wayward mom’s return to Silver Creek.
It’s weird. All my life, April Carlton only made appearances at big events—Christmas, birthdays, graduation.
Things like that. Now she’s living with Pap while also trying to shove two decades of neglected mothering into a span of a few months.
Speaking of which …
The bells jingle over the door as Mom breezes into the shop.
“Hi, honey.” She waves exuberantly as if I’m five and she’s trying to catch my attention while I’m jumping rope with school friends.
Which she never actually did during those formative years.
I remember watching with longing as other moms would collect their kids from the playground.
I had either Gran, Pap, or one of the Mavericks.
“Hey, Mom.” I offer a smile and return to Adelaide. “What do you say?”
She arches a brow. “How about ten fifty?”
Some people assume that an antique store is like a pawn shop’s rich aunt, as in, it’s customary to negotiate the price tag. I’m usually okay with a small amount of bargaining, but I’m starving and feel the onset of a headache. “I’ll help you wrap it back up to take home.”
She holds out both hands. “Five, and that’s my final offer.”
“Okay.” I forego all the paperwork because the bowl isn’t going anywhere near my antiques.
It’s new home is by my plastic Walmart plates in my cupboard upstairs.
I hand her the money. She smiles as if she pulled one over on me.
But she doesn’t realize I would fork over the money just to get her to leave.
With a hasty wave, Adelaide nearly bounds out the door as if nervous I’ll change my mind. I watch the door swing closed with a relieved exhale. “The Silver Creek Swindler needs a more vivid imagination. Ming Dynasty? Pfft.” I place the bowl under the counter to take upstairs later.
Mom laughs. “You want her to give you more of a challenge?”
“Is it too much to ask?” I don’t hold claim to many talents.
Sewing and my knowledge of antiques. That’s it.
I’ve been taking on more difficult sewing projects to keep my skills sharpened.
Regarding my vintage prowess, my mind feels kind of dulled.
I have two types of customers—those who want to browse the inventory and those who are looking for specific pieces.
While I’m all about any interest in the store, I actually prefer the second.
It’s like an antique scavenger hunt to find those items for my clients.
If I don’t have that particular piece, I have a network of connections that can help me locate it.
The thrill of the challenge is in the search, and that’s where my heart is.
“Are you hungry?” Mom’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I almost forgot she’s here. Which is kind of a habit. I’ve seen more of my mom in the last several months than I have in my entire life. “I’m starving actually. I have some leftovers?—”
“No need!” Mom pulls a Chick-fil-A bag from the giant tote slung over her shoulder. “I brought this.”
Another meal. She’s been doing this too.
Feeding me every time she gets a chance, as if trying to make up for all the missed meals over the years.
I’m not sure if this is healthy, emotionally speaking.
Should I assuage her guilt? Call her on it?
I don’t have the energy, and honestly, I don’t have the willpower to turn down waffle fries.
So like the adult I am, I’ll ignore this issue and postpone any impending drama until further notice.
“Thank you.” I accept the savory offering.
She gives me a quick hug. “Love you, sweetie. I have to go make sure Pap hasn’t burned down the house.
” As much as Mom’s sudden reappearance in my life has confused me, I’m grateful for her taking over Pap’s care.
Those years as Gran’s primary caregiver seemed both a blur and an eternity.
“Oh and I bought the turkey for Thanksgiving. Thought I’d beat the rush. ”
This year, Thanksgiving is later in the month.
This means Light-Up Night is the week before the fall holiday.
I have lots to do and zero enthusiasm for it.
My mind drifts to last year’s event. The turtledoves fiasco.
Meeting Leo. Sledding and carefree smiles.
He flirted like he meant it, then ghosted like he didn’t.
I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Which is probably for the best because that night waiting for him in the cold haunts me.
For so many reasons. “That’s great.” I muster all the enthusiasm I can.
“Maybe we can go Black Friday shopping.” Her eyebrows raise, her voice hesitant.
“I have to work.” I won’t get the foot traffic that department stores will, but every year I have my faithful customers.
I glance around at my very Christmas-less store.
I need to get all my decorations out of storage for the shop.
Those need to be up by Friday too. Plus, I have to decorate the float.
I haven’t decided on the theme yet. If I think too long, I get overwhelmed.
I’m behind.
It’s that time of year when people measure your festiveness by your efficiency.
Do you have your tree up? Got all your presents bought?
Wrapped? Me? I shaved my legs last night.
My leg hairs no longer hold up my socks.
How’s that for productivity? Next time I’ll hum “Jingle Bells” so I can claim it as a festive activity.
It’s not that I don’t like Christmas. I love it.
I’m just tired. Caregiving these past few years required so much of me.
Like I lived through a thousand lifetimes yet never actually lived a single one.
But I don’t regret a second that I cared for Gran.
I sacrificed, sure, but I had her. Memories I wouldn’t have if I’d gone off to college like I planned, if I hadn’t stayed to care for her.
Now this is my first full holiday season without her.
That’s the heart of it all. She’s gone, and I’m missing her. This is her favorite time of the year, and the ache seems to grow as I look around at all she loved.
“Okay, sweetie.” Mom smiles. “Just don’t work too hard this season. Leave time for yourself and what you want.” Motherly wisdom at its finest. Where was the sage advice when I was fifteen and cut my own bangs? I shrug off the negativity.
“Will do.” I give an awkward thumbs up.
“I have some business of Gran’s to finish up then back to Pap.”
I blink. “What kind of business?” I handled everything after she passed, the insurance, the finances, down to the little stuff like canceling her Woman’s World magazine subscription.
Mom waves me off. “Just some stuff I ran across while cleaning out a drawer or two. It’s nothing big.”
This is another feature of April 2.0. If she sees something of Gran’s that I hadn’t already done, she snaps it up.
I’m unsure if it’s a bit of daughter remorse because she hardly had much contact over the years, or if this is mom guilt because I had to sacrifice so much to take care of her parents.
Probably both. But again, I let it slide.
I know I took care of the major aspects of Gran’s affairs.
If Mom found some trifle to appease her conscience, I’ll let her run with it.
Plus, I have only a few minutes till closing and my pajamas are summoning me.
I say goodbye and savor the quiet settling around me.
My antique shop is my haven. I stand among hundreds of stories.
Treasures from the hands of the past. I never feel alone here.
With another appreciative sweeping gaze of the floor room, I head back to my office to put the food there.
I only have a few things left before closing, but one of my rules is never to have food out on the counter.
I wouldn’t want my customers walking around with food because I have some furniture that costs thousands.
So I keep my own back in my office. Though that doesn’t mean I don’t stuff a couple of waffle fries in my mouth.
I hear the bells jingle from the door, signifying Mom’s exit.
I’m in the process of squeezing some ketchup into my mouth when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s Tilly.
Tilly
SCSS Sighting!!!!!
SCSS is code for Silver Creek Secret Santa. I wipe my fingers on a napkin and text back.
Greta
Where? When?
My stomach yells at me for teasing it with two fries, so I shove as many as possible in my mouth before moving to the front of the store.
Tilly works at the café, four shops down.
I’m uncertain if this sighting is recent or if she’s saying the man is walking down Main Street.
Either way, I’m scurrying toward the picture window.
My best friend brags that she could sniff a rich man from a mile away.
I must be nose-blind to such a scent because the Silver Creek Secret Santa is standing only a few feet away from me.
Just in time for a dollop of ketchup to drip from my chin.