Chapter Five #3
back in New York. There’s a bluebird. A delicate and intricate garden. There’s even one that I think is supposed to be the
Empire State Building. Then there’s a celestial scene of the Gemini astrology sign.
My sign.
I don’t know how long I’m transfixed by the tiny little stitches, the amazing craftsmanship. I itch to take out my phone and
take pictures, but that would require tearing my gaze from them.
I think I’ve looked at every one in great detail, thought about how I could replicate them, but then I catch the sight of
another one, set apart from the others.
My heart lurches.
It is a depiction of that goddamned clock tower. The white is pristine, the black face dark and a perfect circle—a rare feat
in needlepoint. The gold of the arms fairly gleams, even though it’s made of thread.
Without thinking it through, feeling a bit like Sleeping Beauty drawn to the spinning wheel’s spindle, I reach out as if to
trace the perfect stitches with my finger—
“Oh, you don’t want to touch that.”
I jerk my hand back and then look over at the doorway where the elderly man is standing again, when I didn’t hear him shuffle
close. “Th-the clock tower?”
“Beauty, isn’t she?”
“Oh. Sure. They’re all so amazing.”
“I meant the actual clock tower. Have you heard her history?”
Something about him calling the tower a her gives me the major creeps, but I don’t know what else to do but shake my head. What can I say? No, I don’t know its history, and I sure as hell don’t want to.
“The first one was built in 1870, but unfortunately didn’t have the best foundation. One day it came tumbling down. Killed
a baby.”
He says this matter-of-factly. So much so it takes me an extra beat to react.
“A baby?”
“So unfortunate,” he murmurs, and his eyes look green in the light. “But times were tough back then.”
I’m not sure times were ever clock tower falling on a baby tough, but I’m not going to argue the point.
“Lexi?”
It’s Logan’s voice from down the hall. Hearing it gives me the strangest feeling, like I’m emerging from some kind of spell.
I clear my throat. “That’s my brother. I better find him.”
“Oh, you must be the Darlings.” He says this like that’s great news, which seems surprising to me after the reception I got from Jack and the whole creepy vibe of the town. “My girl—granddaughter,
adopted—worked for Amelia.”
She must be one of the future owners. I wonder if she likes that her grandfather announces her adoption to strangers, but
I smile. “I think I’m going to meet her later this morning. At the store.”
“She’s real eager to meet Amelia’s grandkids. They were the best of friends, Amelia and my Nora. She’s a sweet girl. Quiet,
but sweet. You’ll like her.”
I don’t know where he gets the conviction that I will like this random stranger who’s quiet and sweet, but then, he was right
about what antiques I’d like. And he seems nice. Genuine, maybe. I want to take it as some kind of good omen amongst all these
terrible ones.
Not to mention last night’s trail of horror through my poor, damaged psyche.
“Lexi!” Logan’s voice is louder now. Possibly even concerned, which I am tempted to draw out and savor, but maybe not while
knee-deep in small-town “treasures” that include eyeless dolls and limp plush toys with the stuffing poking out, carefully
arranged on the shelf behind the old man.
“It was nice to meet you, Lexi.” The proprietor smiles at me, then holds out his shaky hand. “Harrison. Harrison Bellamy.
You come back and see me sometime.”
I shake his hand, concerned about the tremor. Maybe he has some sort of condition, but I can’t ask a stranger to list his
maladies. This is apparently frowned upon, according to my brother. “You have a very unique store, Mr. Bellamy.”
“Call me Harrison,” he says, releasing my hand.
“Where the hell are you?” Logan says like he’s talking to himself, coming down a narrow aisle between stuffy dressers and
old-timey wagons. He sees me and rolls his eyes, but I know both that he was worried and that he’ll never admit it. “Way to
answer. We have to get over to the knitting store. I told them we’d be there by ten.” He hands me a paper cup. “I got your
coffee to go. And, don’t kill me, a bagel.”
I take the cup, too weirded out about the clock tower needle point and dead babies to care about a bagel that obviously wasn’t
made in New York City, which is the only place a bagel should be made and eaten—and my brother knows my feelings on this. “Thanks.”
Logan leads me away from the rooms full of antiques, but he’s looking at the store’s offerings as we walk. His gaze is assessing,
and there are no eyeless dolls in petticoats along the route he takes. “There’s actually some nice stuff in here. I might have to come back.”
“To do a bit of antiquing in between legal matters and probate?” I ask in a deliberately bland voice.
My brother grins. “Like you know what probate is.”
I look back at my new friend, Harrison. He’s sitting in a rickety chair, alphabetizing books. He gives me a little wave, and
I think that maybe it really wouldn’t be so bad to come back.
Maybe this town won’t be the death of me after all.