Chapter Four
Harriet
There’s a crack on the bottom. See? It’s right there.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and feign interest as I examine the minuscule crack at the bottom edge of the music box I sold last week.
This piece is one of my favorites. A gilded cage with a songbird in the middle, wrapped in flowering vines.
I had been happy to sell it to someone who wanted to give it as a gift. I spent extra time on the packaging.
I used the good wrapping paper. I curled the ribbon.
Now there’s no ribbon. Or delicate gold paper. I imagine my hard work discarded in a trash bin somewhere and frustration licks at the inside of my chest. I let it have its moment, then take a deep breath and push the irritation somewhere else.
It’s just paper. Just ribbon. Easily replaceable.
The woman in lululemon leggings turns the music box on its side and jabs her finger repeatedly at a crack the size of a thumbtack.
“I can’t give my sister a broken music box for Christmas,” she says. “I can’t believe you even sell broken music boxes.”
“It’s not broken,” I explain. I turn the box carefully in my hand and twist the hinge at the bottom. The bird begins to spin and a lovely, tinkling melody spills out. “See? It plays music.”
The woman ignores the song, tipping it back on its side. It makes a dull thunk against the countertop and I clench my jaw so tight my teeth snap. She’s not being careful.
“But there’s a crack,” she says again.
“Yes, but—”
“There’s a crack,” she repeats, slowing down her words and enunciating each syllable like I didn’t hear her the first forty-seven times she said it.
The frustration in my chest spreads to my cheeks, my face burning hot.
The urge to apologize bubbles in the back of my throat, but I ignore it.
She narrows her eyes. “A crack means it’s broken. ”
A crack doesn’t mean it’s broken. A crack means it’s done exactly what it’s supposed to do for generations. A crack means hundreds of hands have held it … have listened to that little bird sing. A crack means it’s one of a kind. Different from anything else.
A crack means it’s special.
One tiny imperfection and this woman is ready to abandon it.
I pull the music box closer and push down on the parts of myself that want to argue.
I’m tired today, and no amount of fancy coffee from the café across the street is reviving me.
I had strange dreams last night. A handsome man in an old, faded flannel.
A frown on his face and his hand outstretched toward mine.
That’s what I get for falling asleep in the glow of my Christmas tree after drinking half a box of expired peppermint tea. I woke up on the couch with my hair in my mouth, White Christmas somehow still playing on my television, no sign of the man who claimed to be a ghost.
I checked the locks on my windows just to be sure.
“What would you like me to do about the crack?” I ask. I know what I’d like to do. I’d like to press pause on this entire day and go back to bed. I feel like I’m two steps behind every conversation and annoyed because of it.
“Well, I’d like another music box,” she says, still talking to me like I’m stupid. “Without the crack.”
I frown. “I don’t have another music box. This is an antiques shop. Everything is unique.”
Unique and original and handpicked by me from online auctions and estate sales and Goodwill bargain hunts across the state, just like my aunt Matilda used to do.
I spent my childhood running up and down the crowded aisles while my parents attended to business at the statehouse.
It seemed magical back then. Necklaces and rings the size of my palm with shiny, colorful gems. Music boxes and plates with painted horses.
Handwoven baskets and crystal glasses casting rainbows across the ceiling.
Aunt Matilda used to say walking through the front door of the Crow’s Nest was like stepping into a treasure chest.
It still has that magic, but I’m having trouble feeling it this morning. I don’t like when people come in here and treat everything like it’s an amusing little novelty.
And I still haven’t had a chance to put my trees up.
The woman’s frown deepens. “You’re telling me you don’t have another music box like this? Not even one?”
That’s exactly what I’m saying. That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. “We have music boxes. Different music boxes,” I say, settling on brevity. “Not one exactly like this, but something just as special. Would you like to look at the rest of our selection? I’m sure we have something—”
“I want this one.” She taps the top of the gilded cage. “The bird one. My sister is an avid bird watcher. She loves sparrows.”
I stare at her. The bird in the cage is not a sparrow. It’s a dove. “Would you … would you like me to rewrap it for you?”
“No, I’d like the same one without the damage to the base. I can’t believe how many times I’ve had to explain this to you.”
Around and around we go. I wonder if this woman is related to the man who wanted the unassembled nightstands.
“How about I give you a refund instead?” It’s always been easier for me to take the hit than fight the fight, and this fight is hardly worth it. I lift the music box. I’d rather keep it with me anyway. “And then I can direct you to a shop two blocks over that you might have better luck with.”
It only takes me a few moments to issue the refund and then the woman is sweeping back through the front door, oversize glasses perched on the end of her upturned nose. I twist the knob on the bottom of the music box and listen to the first few warbly notes as the door shuts behind her.
“You’re not broken, are you? Just a little bruised.” I trace the tiny crack along the bottom. “That’s okay. It’s her loss.”
I set the music box down and close my eyes, digging my knuckles into the middle of my chest. There’s an ache there I can’t quite chase away, no matter how much I try.
Maybe that weird dream last night was some sort of prophecy. A mirror held up to my consciousness. Maybe I have made bad choices. Maybe I am a bad person.
“Well, she sucked.” Sasha, my store manager, emerges from the shelves like a wisp of smoke. I jump slightly and she gives me a narrow-eyed look. “What’s got you so twitchy?”
“You mean, besides your lurking?”
Sasha shrugs.
“Nothing.” I push my hair away from my face. “Weird dreams. Expired tea.” A man who says he’s a ghost sent to haunt me as retribution for being a terrible person.
She gives me a considering look as she shuffles behind the counter to her rightful place. The place I left her twenty-five minutes ago so I could finally put up my trees. The place she certainly wasn’t at when lululemon came through the door.
“We can add her to the banned list,” Sasha says.
“We don’t have a banned list,” I tell her, watching as she taps away at the ancient cash register.
Her nails are topped with chipped black polish, a number of mismatched rings decorating her fingers.
Her strawberry blond hair glows pink against the black of her sweater, the muted light from the stained glass lamp above us making her sparkle.
For someone who looks like she belongs on the top of a cupcake, she’s never had any trouble holding her boundaries.
I want to be her when I grow up.
“We also have a no return policy,” she says, singsonging the words. “But that’s never stopped you from giving in.”
I ignore her. The state of the return policy is not something we agree on, nor is the banned list. Sasha and I have sort of a good cop/ bad cop routine. I give in to every customer demand and Sasha stares blankly without responding whenever she’s annoyed.
“Where did you go?” I ask. “I thought I left you behind the counter.”
She pushes her glasses up her nose. “I could smell the Victoria’s Secret Love Spell when she opened the door. I was needed in inventory.”
“Who needed you in inventory?” We’re the only two people in the store.
“I needed me in inventory.”
I snort. “You mean you needed to sit on the beanbag in the back corner of the inventory room that you think I don’t know about and catch up on your reading while I handled the difficult customer.”
A small, pleased smile curls the edges of her mouth. “Poh-tay-to, Poh-tah-to.”
She jabs another button and a receipt slowly starts chugging out from the top of the register.
We really need an upgrade, but every time I hear the squeaky bell that accompanies the change drawer being ejected, I swear I can hear Aunt Matilda cursing under her breath.
Missing her still feels like a heavy stone in the middle of my chest. I’m too sentimental to part with anything that makes me think of her.
The register lets out another beleaguered groan. I wince. “Can you fulfill the order for the staging company today?”
Sasha nods, her dark eyes already scanning the report. “Yep. I’m loading pallets in the back. Everything should be ready to go for the truck this evening.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” I might let customers walk all over me, but that same positive energy has helped me secure a number of contracts with local partners that have scraped us out of a decade of debt.
For the first time in a long time, the Crow’s Nest is operating with a profit.
Sasha rips off the receipt that’s dangling limply above the floor and folds it into three neat squares. “The girlies love an aesthetic moment.”
“And we love them for it.” I bump my hip into hers. “Don’t act like you haven’t been hoarding the bronze candlestick holders.”
Sasha snickers. “Guilty.” She reaches under the counter for a clipboard and a small bag of trail mix she must have hidden at some point last week. “All right. I’m going to be in the back. Shout if you need me.”
I watch her weave through the shelves. “Will you come if I do?”