Chapter Five
FIVE
Annie
There are only so many angles from which one can take a photo of a vase before you start getting into experimental territory, which I’m willing to bet is not what Cal wants for Virtu’s website.
My fourth day here, and he still hasn’t let me do anything beyond clean and take pictures.
This is not exactly what I had in mind when Uncle Harold asked me to come help out.
I thought I might learn something about running a brick-and-mortar business. But with Cal hiding in the office whenever we don’t have customers—
Speaking of. The bells on the door jingle as two elderly women enter, bundled up as if it’s much colder outside than the fifty-two degrees it actually is this afternoon.
“Hello there,” I say. But before I’m able to ask if there’s anything I can assist them with, Cal emerges from the back at a brisk clip and comes to a stop behind the counter as if he’s been there all along.
As annoying as I find his stupid little to-do lists that he hands me each morning, along with his general arrogance and pissy demeanor, this is the thing that’s been getting under my skin the most: the unfailing barreling in to take over as soon as he hears the door open.
Because god forbid I talk to anyone. No, I apparently cannot be trusted not to destroy Virtu’s vaunted reputation by helping a customer.
“Ah, Mrs. White, Ms. Barlow, good afternoon,” he says to the bundled-up women. “Are we looking for anything specific today?”
“We’re just browsing,” one of them responds, already half distracted by a baroque-style ormolu china cabinet filled with porcelain figurines.
“Of course. Let me know if I can answer any questions for you ladies,” Cal replies, both looking and sounding infinitely friendlier than he ever does when talking to me.
He pulls a pencil from behind his ear (I hate how damn sexy I find that) and presses it to the legal pad that sits beside the register. Based on the movements of his hand it’s more likely he’s doodling than writing. Our eyes meet from across the room, his narrowed as if asking, What?
Oh, he wants to know, does he? Then I’ll happily tell him.
I wend my way through tables and credenzas and grandfather clocks until I reach the counter, planting my palms on the smooth, slightly waxy edge of the wood.
“Why do you insist on doing that?” I ask in a sort of whisper-hiss, trying to keep our customers from overhearing what is surely going to be an argument.
“Hard to say when I’m not sure to what it is you’re referring.” He’s focused on his paper again, and, as I thought, isn’t writing but sketching out a houndstooth pattern.
“Why do you keep rushing out here to take over whenever customers come in? Do you think I can’t handle it?”
“If I’m able to make myself available,” he says, “then I make myself available.” That he hasn’t actually answered my question feels like a confirmation that no, he definitely doesn’t think I can handle it.
It’s abundantly obvious that Callahan Leitner doesn’t consider me someone who can hold her own.
I mentally pull up the bio beneath his headshot on Virtu’s website: apprenticeship under renowned expert in American furniture and decorative arts Graham Gillespie beginning at age fourteen; undergraduate degree in the History of Art and Architecture from Brown (with honors); master’s in American Material Culture from University of Delaware’s prestigious Winterthur Program; various professional memberships and certifications.
Before, when all I really knew about Cal was that he was a handsome face appraising something on my television, those accolades fed into my attraction.
Now they just seem like a collection of excuses to look down on me as someone lacking similar intellectual pedigree and who is therefore unworthy of his time, attention, and trust.
“I’m done with today’s list,” I say, not bothering to keep the annoyance from my voice. “Now what do you want me to do? Lick your boots?”
He glances down at his feet, then back to his houndstooth doodle. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Look, I know you don’t like me, but—”
He sighs, as if he’s already bored by this conversation. “Please. I like you fine.”
“Well, you know what? Maybe the sentiment isn’t returned. Maybe I don’t like you.” I fold my arms and turn away.
“That’s okay,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re far from the first.”
I frown, but before I can say anything else, one of the women approaches the counter and Cal stands up straighter and smiles.
It immediately transforms him from the man I was talking to into the one I was expecting based on his Roadshow appearance, and it gives me the odd sense that I’ve witnessed a superhero do a phone booth quick-change.
“Mrs. White. What can I do for you?”
“I would like to get a better look at the goose,” she says.
The pencil falls from his fingers, softly thudding against the paper, as his chin jerks up and he takes what looks like an unconscious step backward. His already pale skin has gone a sort of ashy white, like a concrete garden statue. “P-pardon?”
What a bizarre reaction. Perhaps he misheard her? Thought she asked to take a look at his goose? Which I guess would be a bit alarming, no matter what you assume that’s slang for.
“The porcelain goose,” Mrs. White says impatiently. “In the case over there. I believe it’s a Herend piece?”
“Oh! Yes. Indeed.” Cal reaches down beneath the counter and removes a small key ring from a hook.
Our hands inadvertently brush as he maneuvers around me, and it sends an unwanted warmth up through my arm.
It doesn’t appear to affect him at all. “Such a charming little figurine, and it is indeed Herend—you always do have a good eye for quality, ma’am,” he compliments the woman as he heads for the case. “I’m happy to take it out for you.”
But as he walks away, he glances back at me, the strangest look on his face, as if he’s checking to see if I noticed any of that. Or maybe willing me to forget.