Chapter 18 #2
To distract myself, I fan out, leaving Connor to peruse on his own while I do the same.
I spot an old typewriter I like. My grandmother had a similar one in her house before she moved into the retirement village.
Caroline nabbed it, and it caused a big fight between us.
My mom, ever the peacemaker, suggested we share it.
I kid you not, that was her solution. It was decided that the typewriter would belong to both of us, and we would take turns keeping it at our respective homes for a few months at a time.
Needless to say, it hasn’t worked out like that.
I take my phone out of my pocket and type a message.
It’s my turn to have Gran’s typewriter. And FYI, I’m keeping it for as long as you’ve had it.
I delete the message without sending it because I know all too well what her response will be. Where the hell are you? Mom and Dad are losing their minds.
I can’t deal.
I’m not in the mood.
I put my phone away and meander farther into the store.
I find myself in an alcove in a back room that isn’t as polished as the rest of the place.
There are a few imperfect pieces on display.
A chip here and a crack there. A painting of old roses above a dusty pink velvet settee draws me in closer.
Once there, the pressure of being on leaves me.
I’m out of sight. Finally on my own for the first time in what feels like an age.
Without the pressure of attentive eyes on me, I relax.
I open the tiny drawers of a jewelry box and close them again.
I flick through old books and test a fountain pen to see if it has any ink in it. It doesn’t.
I come upon a stained-glass table lamp and stop moving.
It’s intricately made with various shades of blue and teal sheets of glass that have been cut, their edges wrapped with copper foil before being fused together.
I don’t know my ass from my ear when it comes to antiques or vintage lamps, but it looks like fine work.
It’s tall for a table lamp, and the shade is curved, which I assume must be hard to achieve when working with a material as unforgiving as glass.
I carefully reach behind the lamp, find the cord, and follow it with my fingers until I reach the switch. I flick it, and the lamp bursts into life. Splashes of watery blues dance on the walls, and the crystals that hang from the lampshade glimmer.
I trace the lines where the copper has been soldered together with my finger. It’s smooth, with tiny bumps and irregularities that can only be felt when I close my eyes.
“Mm,” says Connor, making me jump. “You have a good eye.”
With that, he turns and strides purposefully to the owner.
It isn’t until he pulls up a chair at the front desk and gets handed a glass of water that I realize just how seriously Connor Lockwood takes this kind of thing.
There’s an easy smile on his face and his voice is soft and smooth like always, but there’s a determined glint in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.
He approaches the negotiation with humor and a lighthearted grin. He rattles off a long list of the lamp’s flaws and does his best to look sad about them.
The owner, a bald man with dark eyes and small glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, gives as good as he gets.
Or at least, he tries to. Connor wears him down in the end.
By the time my knees are feeling stiff like they usually do when I’ve had my back to the brick wall on campus for too long, the owner is flagging.
“So many crystals missing,” Connor says woefully.
“They can be replaced. You know that,” replies the owner.
“Yeah, but what a mission, and who really does that anyway?” Connor looks out the front window and sighs.
“Connor Lockwood, I know your father. You know as well as I do he could restore this lamp in a morning.”
From there, I zone out for a good long while, and when I come back to reality, they’re still at it.
By the look of things, Connor has the owner on the ropes.
He keeps naming a price so low that I’m deeply embarrassed to be part of this.
The poor man is twittering and shaking his head, but to my amazement, he appears to be having the time of his life.
Eventually, they shake on a number, and Connor whips out his card and pays. I stand there, delayed, as he seizes the lamp and hot-foots it out of the store. “Hurry,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, “before he changes his mind.”
“Just so you know,” the owner yells after us, “you didn’t rob me. I gave that lamp to you. Needed the space in my store.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say as we walk to the car. He’s holding the lamp in both hands, in front of his body, like it’s a trophy.
“I could tell you loved it, so yeah, I did.”
“I could have paid.”
“No, no,” he says. “It’s a welcome-to-the-apartment gift. Plus, it doesn’t matter what that guy says. It was a steal. We robbed him blind. Can’t wait to call my dad and tell him about it.”
“Um, thanks.”
The pit from before forms again. Deeper and heavier. Like I’m a door, and something or someone is knocking on my spine. Tapping to remind me of something. Or to let me know that I need to let someone in.