Chapter 14
After too many nights of not sleeping well to count, Madeline made the early morning mistake of opening her tablet and perusing social media while she was still in bed.
The things she read made her want to pull the blankets over her head and never get up.
Boots, however, was having none of it. He paced the mattress and yowled impatiently.
When she gently swatted him away and tried to grab the corner of her duvet, he sat on it and stared balefully at her.
For a very sympathetic animal, he was quite the drill sergeant.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Fine.” But before he could hop off the bed and yowl again, she scooped him into her arms and pressed her face into his velvety fur.
Madeline, however, appreciated this personality quirk almost as much as the way he curled up and slept against her back all night, his weight a comforting presence, his hilarious rumbling snore the banisher of nightmares.
He had solved her problem of being tempted to not get out of bed some mornings, something that would’ve been disastrous for her fledgling business now that it was open.
Even knowing the critical importance of adhering to her posted hours, she wasn’t sure she would’ve mustered the self-discipline.
That Boots also woke her like the most annoying, unignorable alarm clock on days off—like today—when she, in theory, could legitimately lounge around, was a small price to pay for the overall benefit.
She fed His Royal Highness, got dressed, and headed out.
Low, heavy clouds threatened rain but held off for the time being.
The early morning air was sweet and cool, and the gentle breeze carried hints of roses as Madeline walked to the store, Boots at her side.
She continued to be delighted by the prolific bushes edging the sidewalk.
They kept producing and producing. So beautiful.
Just yesterday, a new customer—a tall, frazzled, softly-graying blonde, Madeline’s age or even older, with three young children in tow—mentioned the roses in passing, calling them “magnificent.” It was the perfect word, as lovely and old-fashioned as they were.
When Madeline enthusiastically said as much, the woman smiled, seemed a little less tired, and said they’d bloom right through August.
“It really is the little things that help get a person through,” Madeline observed gratefully.
The woman looked surprised, then nodded. “So true.”
Reaching her destination, Madeline breathed in deeply, appreciating the heady fragrance yet again.
Then she paused beneath The Second Chance Shop’s sign, taking in every detail of her store with a critical eye, as was her habit.
The flowerbeds, a mass of greenery and eye-catching blooms, were starting to look overrun.
A close observer might admire the cheerful profusion of color—or might only see how badly everything needed weeding.
The paint colors continued to please her, even if she had been the one to choose them.
The window display triggered a thrill of curiosity, though she knew every item it held.
She nodded to herself with satisfaction—and no small amount of awe.
The shop had already been open for over a month. It hardly seemed possible.
To her relief, she’d discovered she enjoyed working with the public again, and—an even bigger relief—most days, there was a slow but steady flow of customers.
No one would mistake her first month’s earnings as lottery winnings or anything, but she’d covered all the store’s costs, including the monthly amount she estimated she needed to set aside to cover property taxes so they wouldn’t hit like a shovel to the face in a year.
She’d even drawn a small wage to pay her personal rent and had only dipped into her now almost non-existent savings for groceries.
An often-quoted bit of advice for entrepreneurs was to expect—and be able to survive—losing money in your first year, breaking even in your second year, and not seeing profits until your third year.
Madeline’s business plan demanded accelerating those goals.
She couldn’t really afford to run at a deficit, period.
And while she didn’t need to make a lot of money—thank goodness she owned the building outright!
—she had to show a profit, at least enough to pay herself a living wage within six months, or her second chance wouldn’t have a chance.
She wasn’t leaving it up to crossed fingers or wishes for luck, however.
The physical storefront was only part of her concept.
The online element, which she had yet to build, was—and this was where a little luck would be appreciated, so knock on wood—the side that would yield the most income.
On that note, she let herself and Boots into the shop, then relocked the door and left the lights off.
It was Monday, and since the Second Chance Shop was closed Mondays and Tuesdays, it was technically a day off, but even though she was all caught up and had no pressing tasks, what else did she have to do?
It would be good when she resumed buying trips to estate sales and other various destinations across the province, but until she’d sold more of the larger ticket items and built up some cash flow again, it wasn’t practical.
For now, she put coffee on, gave Boots fresh water, and planned to putter—not unhappily.
As relieved as she’d been to realize the people side of the business wasn’t going to be her downfall, this was still her favorite part of the shop: working alongside the shadows, letting her mind drift as she toiled amidst beautiful, interesting objects from the past, visiting her loved ones in her mind.
When her coffee was ready, Madeline fixed herself a mug.
Then she settled into one of the big oak armchairs currently residing around a French farmhouse table, circa 1840, in the Second Chance Shop’s dining room—not to be mistaken for the kitchen, which had been remodeled in the 50s.
She’d repainted but kept the exact same look, complete with lemon-yellow walls and a turquoise refrigerator and matching stove.
Restoring the ancient appliances to a like-new state had been a job and half.
If her second chance failed, maybe she could start a website that focused on cleaning impossible projects.
Or, to put a more optimistic spin on it, maybe if the store took off, she could add a how-to feature to the website.
With the upcycling, restoring, reusing, and repurposing movement growing so wonderfully across all sectors and economic levels, it would probably be popular.
As Madeline sipped and thought, she was struck by the bittersweet realization that she was enjoying a morning coffee while dreaming of the future, envisioning success, and making even more plans.
She smoothed her finger along the curved rim of a Royal Albert teacup sitting on the table in front of her.
It was part of a set that included four cups, matching saucers, a teapot, a sugar bowl, and a creamer.
It had probably been some blushing bride’s wedding present many years ago, and no doubt the giver intended to add to the set over the years, for birthdays, anniversaries, and so on.
Madeline would never know if that plan had come to pass because these pieces were all that had come to her, sold by a woman who thought they were “too worn.”
Her inability to see beauty, my gain, thought Madeline.
It was something that set the pieces apart from most of the other fine china she’d collected to sell.
Each piece had noticeable signs of wear.
The gold on the handles was worn thin in places.
The pattern on each cup’s lip was the tiniest bit faded.
Its original owners—and any on down the line—had used it and used it well.
Madeline liked to think it was a family heirloom that many generations had shared tea in over the decades, and she imagined various cozy tea scenarios.
“Tea, dear?” a new bride had perhaps inquired as a bit of a joke—then beamed when her enamored groom replied, “Ah, yes, that’d be just the thing! Thank you,” thus starting a tradition they’d maintain through sixty years of marriage.
Or maybe an adult daughter sipped the same orange pekoe that her mom always had but enjoyed it with her own daughter now, laughingly reminiscing about how she used to call the tea set they were using “princess cups.” Then, years down the road again, maybe there was a set of little sons wanting to eat cookies off the “pretty” plates.
That’s what initially drew Madeline, practically as a child, to thrift stores, secondhand goods, and antiques—and what had later so enraptured Lauren: objects’ stories.
The lives they’d been privy to. The joy, love, and passion they’d witnessed.
The heartache, sorrow, fears they’d possibly eased.
Think, after all, of the myriad reasons one might put on a pot of tea.
Of how many conversations coffee mugs listened in on.
Of how many moods and emotions settled into a comfy chair’s cushions.
Of all the items that made up a person’s daily life—and all those that made up past generations.
And lately, used items carried more significance than ever for Madeline because, while the stories of objects had always caught her imagination and made her ponder other people’s lives, she recognized and felt the weight of the other side of that now too: that so often, household goods or random items—a coat, an expensive purse, a vinyl collection, or Tupperware—were the only tangible things left from people long dead, a record and representation of who they were. How they’d lived. What they’d loved.