Chapter 24
Hermann stops the car at the end of a narrow cobbled street.
“Down there, third store on the right,” he says in his faint German accent. “When you go inside?—”
“Ask for Sven?” I finish.
“Exactly.”
I stare along the narrow lane with a terrace of redbrick buildings along either side. The first store has a canopy bearing the words Purple Pickle Deli ~ Fun Foods from around the World. Next is Mr. Smith’s Antiques Collectibles, with a wicker chair, a bright blue desk, and a four-foot-tall statue of a cat on the sidewalk outside. Across the street from it is a bright yellow storefront with Over Your Head and a picture of an umbrella on a sign above the door. A whole store for umbrellas?
Then there’s a bend in the street. Sven’s mystery emporium must be around the corner. The other shops are such a mixed bunch they’re no clue as to what it might be.
“Is this real? It looks like something out of a picture book. Am I about to tumble down a hole into Wonderland?”
Hermann chuckles. He’s been excellent company for the last hour or so while giving me a guided driving tour of London’s main sights.
First, he took me over Tower Bridge, past the Tower of London, and along the north bank of the Thames to Trafalgar Square. Then we went by Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, and now we’re at this narrow brick lane that looks like all it’s missing is a bunch of Dickensian characters and horse-drawn carriages.
He was very patient with all my questions, and I learned a lot about London, as well as about how he came here from Germany with his parents when he was eleven—the same age Tom was when his parents died and he moved in with Jim and Maggie.
Since I’m constantly worried about how Dylan will deal with moving to the West Coast, never mind to another country, I asked Hermann how he’d coped with such a big change.
Apparently he hated the idea of it, sulked for months before they moved, and couldn’t bear it here until his first day of school where he had the best time and buddied up with a guy who’s been his best friend for forty years.
That’s something, I guess.
“Don’t worry, my dear. You’re perfectly safe,” Hermann says. “And I’ll be waiting right here when you’re ready to go. I just can’t drive down there because it’s a dead end and too narrow to turn this thing around.”
“Okay.” I open the door and step out. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes, come get me.”
“If you’re anything like Tom, you’ll be gone a lot longer than twenty minutes,” he says with an insightful smile.
Am I like Tom?
Hmm. I haven’t thought about us being alike before.
I shove my hands into my coat pockets against the bright but chilly day and make my way along the narrow sidewalk.
For a second, I consider popping into the Purple Pickle to pick up some treats as a gift for Maggie and Jim. It has a beautiful display of French jams in the window, along with all types of Italian oils and vinegars. There’s also a pyramid of gorgeous shiny tins of Belgian spiced hot chocolate—wouldn’t mind that for myself.
But I’m drawn onward by the mystery of Sven and continue past the antiques store, unable to resist patting the enormous cat on the head.
Then I round the corner and gasp.
There it is, the third shop on the right. Converted from an old traditional-style house with large windows on either side of a bright red door. Above the door is a hand-painted red-and-white sign reading, Going Around Again. One window has the words, Second Hand Vintage etched on it. The other says, Special Editions Collectors’ Items.
Beyond the windows are rows and rows and racks and racks of records.
My heart soars at Tom’s incredible thoughtfulness, and I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face. I’m the most fortunate person on the planet to have him for even this short time.
I pull open the door and step into the warm, musty scent. Is there anything more exciting than that aroma?
Over on one side, a young guy with spiked blue hair and an incredible number of piercings rifles through the punk section. On the other, a middle-aged woman wanders under a hand-written Country sign. And at the rear, an older man wearing a cap is hunched over the jazz selections.
Right in the center of the room is a counter staffed by a tall, skinny blond guy. Judging by his orange and yellow T-shirt with swirly seventies lettering, he’s a fan of Granicus. I’ll have to look them up later.
He’s holding a clipboard that must contain a list of some sort because he’s scrutinizing it and occasionally checking things off. As the door dings closed behind me, he looks up. “Hi.”
“Hi.” My overexcited eyes dart around the room, trying to take it all in as I approach him. “I’m looking for Sven.”
“You’ve found him,” he says with a smile. “Let me guess. You’re Hannah. Tom’s friend.”
“Um, yes.” That someone I didn’t even know existed was expecting me is a slightly awkward feeling.
“Okay, well, you’ve hit the jackpot today.” He rests his forearms on the counter and leans toward me as I approach, lowering his voice. “Whatever you want is yours. On Tom’s account.”
“What?”
“Whatever you want,” Sven says. “I mean, I’d rather you didn’t take everything, because it would take me forever to find things good enough to restock the whole place. But if that’s what you want…”
“Oh, God, no. I certainly don’t want everything. Or anything, actually.” Someone, even Tom, telling me to have whatever I want and to hell with the cost makes me cringe. It’s wasteful and, frankly, icky. Like I’m for sale.
“You don’t want anything?” Sven asks, straightening and looking down at me. “Do you not like”—he looks from side to side at the record-packed shop—“music?”
“Oh, yes. I do.” Now he thinks I don’t appreciate what he has. Which is the opposite of the truth. And I’m sure if I looked through it, I’d appreciate it even more. “Love it. And this place looks amazing. But I can’t just take whatever I want on someone else’s bill. That would be terrible.”
He picks up his clipboard again. “Everyone who walks through this door would give their right arm. And probably the left. And likely at least one leg as well, for the offer you’re turning down.”
Now he thinks I’m rude, when what I actually am is uncomfortable. And possibly a bit offended. I mean, Tom and his aunt have already employed me for things they don’t really need me to do. But at least I can work hard for that money. This is a straight-up lavish gift.
“I can’t be the woman who shops on the rich guy’s credit card. That would be awful. I mean, I don’t even have a record player.”
“What?” Sven’s eyes grow to the size of a twelve-inch. “Seriously? Oh my God. The irony.” His head drops back on a disappointed laugh. “The one person allowed to have whatever they want from my shop doesn’t even own a record deck.”
And now my music cred is in the toilet.“I mean, I’m getting one.” I can’t let this man, for whom vinyl is the world, think that someone who’s been given a blank check neither knows nor cares about what his, clearly, beloved store has to offer. “Soon. I’m just…between homes…and moving…and so haven’t settled down yet.”
“Okay, No Deck Lady.” He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to his empire. “Shop if you like. Don’t if you don’t. Up to you.”
He turns his attention back to his list.
I gaze around the room and take a big lungful of the deliciously dusty, vinyl-infused air. Just being surrounded by all these records and getting to browse at leisure through this unique selection is enough of a treat for me.
Will Tom’s feelings be hurt if I don’t get something? Would that be churlish? Probably. If our roles were reversed, I’d definitely want Tom to get whatever he wanted and I’d get a kick out of seeing him happy.
I’ll just enjoy browsing. And if something catches my eye, then I’ll take it. I can always get an actual record player, like the imaginary one I just told Sven I was getting, once I’m in LA and have a job.
One of my heartstrings twangs a dull note akin to Dylan’s first strum of the guitar, and my eyes are drawn to the star tattoo on my hand. If I pick up something here, it would be a little piece of Tom I’d always have with me. In one way it’d be a unique memento from this brief time we have together and my first trip to London. But in another, it would rip me to shreds every time I looked at it, reminding me of the thing I can’t have.
Not that we’d ever work out. His life is here, and I’m moving mine even farther away than it already is.
Anyway, Tom has been kind, thoughtful, and generous enough to give me this amazing gift. And, yes, it would be wrong of me to completely waste it.
Now, where to start?