“My mom read that one, too. Olivia’s in a rough situation. The details are confidential, but—just between you and me?” He waited until I nodded. “Her dad’s a real piece of work. Jealous, too, and the littlest things switch him into hothead ass mode. Her mom’s been working with my uncle Mike to get sole custody of Olivia. She’s always looking over her shoulder. I’ve walked them out to her car more than a few times after consultations.”
A tiny corner of my heart cracked, falling soft. “She looked like a girl who needed a story.”
“You made a good story fairy.” He chuckled, then sobered. “We shared three years at Jefferson, but I never knew this about you.”
You never knew me.
“See, now you have me wondering what else I don’t know. What other superpowers you got going on?” Asher asked.
My chest tightened. “Just the one,” I said. Was stealing from a hoard and running a secret eBay operation a superpower? If so, Marisol owed me a custom cape.
“Word gets around Jefferson, like most schools,” he said. “If someone has a cool talent, people tend to find out. The almighty grapevine.”
“I’ve kept the details of my little party trick to myself and a couple of friends. I suppose enough people who’ve been in my classes know, or they think they do. You heard the comments at the bonfire. But I’m usually not the girl at the other end of grapevines.” And never will be. “Knowing a lot of obscure words and stories isn’t like what you can do.”
With the sudden courage of a sword-wielding fantasy heroine, I faced him—this boy in my store—leaning over my counter, not drinking his tea and asking about me. “It’s nowhere as cool as being able to fly. Most of us feel lucky to end up with a driver’s license on our sixteenth birthdays,” I joked.
Asher sprang up, hands caged over his face. “Shit.”
“What—”
“You said birthdays. I totally forgot. Today’s London’s birthday.”
London. Of course. I’d conveniently forgotten about her, too.
He checked his watch. “She’ll be here in a couple hours to pick me up. I already made reservations at this café she likes, but I was going to go out yesterday and get her a gift, and I...”
“Forgot?”
“She’ll be bummed. Plus, my birthday was at the end of May and I was still in the hospital. She got permission to set up a surprise party in my room with our friends.” Regret clouded his expression. “Showing up empty-handed feels even worse now.”
I came around the counter. “It’s okay. There’s still time to find her a present.”
He dug index fingers into his temples, grimacing. “No good stores around here, and I don’t have my truck today.”
“Asher, breathe. Aren’t you supposed to be avoiding stress?” I swore I could hear the thump, thump, boom of his heart. Louder than any construction hammering.
“Yeah, but I can’t avoid this. My fault.”
“Have you forgotten something else? You’re standing in the middle of a store.”
He snorted a laugh. “No offense, but London’s not much of a book fan.”
“None taken.” Truly. “You have been in here enough to know we have a gift section, though.”
“I never... Really?”
I waved him over to a square table in the far corner. “We have all these pretty journals and stationery sets and mugs and decorative pens and...” Asher’s face told me none of this stuff was fit to honor London Banks’s eighteenth birthday.
Right then, I knew what would be fit. “We also have these.” I led him to one of the antique credenzas flanking the women’s fiction section. The newly polished cherrywood top held a T-shaped rack filled with silver bangle bracelets. “About six months ago, I begged Mr. Winston to start carrying some jewelry. Marisol said these are really hot right now, so he let me test-market a small batch. They’ve done well.” Each bracelet expanded and contracted to fit snugly around the wrist and featured a single dangling charm.
Asher brightened. “These are perfect.” He ran his finger along the hanging bracelets; they dinged like wind chimes. “Not sure which one she’d like best, though.”
“What does she like? Start there.”
He muttered something under clouds of breath that sounded like complaining, then laughed it off. “London doesn’t have many hobbies, and she’s not into animals like the little cats or birds you have.” He looked at me like I was full of solutions as much as words. “You’re a girl.”
Wow. Even he had a 50 percent chance of getting that one right. I hiked a brow.
“I mean, girls know stuff about other girls, I suppose. Which one would you want to get as a gift?”
The question wound around my chest like rope. No guy had ever bought me a gift. I reached out and grabbed two bangles. “I’ve always loved this one, with the arrow.” I held it up. The silver arrow wobbled back and forth. “The one I would pick,” I added softly.
Asher tilted his head on a contemplative nod.
Then I showed him one with a tiny rosebud. “We sell this model most often. It’s pretty, and most girls like roses. A safe choice.”
He took both, eyes volleying back and forth between the two charms. The arrow or the rose. “Could you demo them?”
When I held out my arm, he inched up the sleeve of my black top and slipped the bracelets over my hand. His fingers were warm and gentle as they slid along my skin. I forced myself to swallow. He took a step closer and lifted my arm, turning and pondering. “They both look good.”
Asher glanced at me briefly before looping the arrow bracelet back onto the rack. He removed the rose and handed it over. “This one, I think. The rose is smaller and won’t catch on her sweaters and stuff.”
I released a breath. “True. We have boxes and gift wrap. I can make it look really pretty for her.” The words left a bitter glaze on my tongue.
He looked at his sneakers, then up at me, smiling bright and wide. “Thank you. You’re saving my ass here.”
“I know. And did your ass also forget a birthday card?”
His mouth puckered like he was sucking on sour candy.
I pointed to another rack near the door. “Cards for all occasions. Go pick one while I wrap.”
At the counter, I took my time dressing the square box in the turquoise-and-black-striped wrapping paper Marisol had also chosen during one of Mr. Winston’s rare, generous moods. Asher scrawled out a message in a card covered with pink roses—the only prose in this room I had no desire to read.
He sealed the envelope and handed me his credit card.
“One birthday gift, ready for a fun night out,” I said, nearly tripping on the words as I placed the box in his hands.
“I owe you big-time, Darcy,” he said fervently. “I don’t know what I would’ve done—”
I waved his thanks away, and he gave me one last smile before hurrying back across the street.
Mr. Winston returned a short time later, and I watched the world spinning by outside the window as I helped customers. Asher escorted Olivia and a petite black woman down the sidewalk. Later, he emerged again from Mid-City in charcoal pants and a button-down shirt. He traded the sidewalk for the passenger seat of London’s convertible, the striped gift box I’d wrapped in his hands. Earlier, those hands had smelled of freshly cut wood when he held my arm. Sharp and clean. Mine still smelled of wood polish.
Twelve
Mash-Up
“The difference between him her and the other boys girls at such a time was that they knew it was make-believe, while to him her make-believe and true were exactly the same thing.” Sometimes you can’t see where make-believe ends and true starts. And sometimes you can, and you cry.
—J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, and Peter Pan Mystery Scribbler
Two knocks on my bedroom door. “Darcy?”
“Just a sec,” I called, opening my desk drawer. I swiped the next batch of Elisa B. eBay products into the deep space before moving to the door.
My mother stood in the hall, still in her bathrobe.
I unwound my towel turban, raking back damp hair. “Don’t you have to be there early for split shift today?”
“I...yes. But something’s wrong. I was making breakfast and going through cabinets.”
My insides flared. Today it was kitchen cabinets. The last thing I needed was Mom rummaging through her makeup tubs next. Tubs I’d tampered with. Stolen from.
I peered around her into the dining nook. The round table held a plate with a single piece of toast, a white coffee mug, and enough vases, figurines, and porcelain bowls to fill every remaining centimeter. “What’s wrong?”
“The Elisa B. district manager is coming by our store today.”
“Wait, back up. Your boss is the problem?”
Mom nodded distractedly. “I’ve been so nervous, I took out some of my favorite heirlooms and beautiful things from that curio shop in La Jolla. Just to look. But I can’t find one of them.”
I gripped the door frame. This was a bigger problem than one missing item. My mother only felt secure when her hoard was secure. Untouched. More nervousness meant more checking and maybe a keener eye for missing lipsticks and makeup brushes. I had to be even more careful. If I slipped up, and she discovered my scheme, what would I do?
I turned my head, dragged in a long gulp of air. Think. I had to do something. What usually happened in a novel when the main character was backed against a wall—sometimes, literally?
A twist. I needed a plot twist. A diversion. I had to shine the spotlight off the hoard and back onto her. “Why are you so nervous about the district manager?”
The question flared in the whites of her eyes, quick as static shock. “I haven’t met her yet. She’s coming down from LA, and a good first impression is everything.”
“Didn’t you tell me your Macy’s has one of the highest Elisa B. sales volumes in the city?”
“Yes. By a big margin, too.” A glint of pride sparked on her face and her posture lifted slightly.
“That’s partly because of your leadership,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t she get sales reports?”
“Every month.” She glanced toward the dining nook again, then back at me.
“Then you’ve already made a good impression. But you’d better get dressed and do your makeup really amazing today to seal the deal,” I suggested. “Instead of spending so much time with kitchen stuff, maybe do something different and special with your hair? Like flat-ironing it and adding some of those jeweled bobby pins?”
She cracked a smile. “Yes. Thank you, honey. That’s a wonderful idea. I don’t know why I was so worried. I’m just...”
“I know.” With her, there were always so many justs.
Mom tapped her lips three times. “That reminds me. I forgot to tell you that I saw the new apartment manager the other day, in my store. What’s his name again? Oh yes, Thomas.”
I fought to keep my expression even. It had to be a coincidence, right? I mean, people shopped. They needed clothes and shoes. But I still asked, “Did he come over? Say hi?”
“Yes, he passed by my counter. He was quite friendly, but it seemed strange that he was wandering the cosmetics section. I thought perhaps he was after a gift. I asked as much. He seemed a little jumpy and mentioned he got turned around and was looking for men’s cologne. I pointed the way.” She shrugged before turning toward her bedroom.
It’s probably nothing, I told myself, before worry could completely overwhelm me.
“Oh, Darcy, about what I was saying before. I can’t find my green crystal vase.” Mom paused at her bedroom door, staring at violet-painted toenails. “You haven’t seen it, have you?”
Why was I surprised? The hoard was always first in her mind, no matter what else happened to drop into her day. I knew she’d roll that little scrap of colored glass inside her head until she found it. I possessed a new tool that could help; a website link and contact information about a hoarding support group waited inside my room. But I had to wait for a time when she’d be most receptive.
Now I faced her and nodded once. “Actually, that vase is on my desk.” But a mother who never entered my room would never have known. “Tess gave me some garden roses.” I darted inside and retrieved the small crystal container with two fat pink blooms poking out. “Keep them.”
Mom took the vase, inhaling. “They’re beautiful.”
I smiled wistfully. “They just needed a home.”
* * *
“Hey, Darcy, what do we like better? Frederess or Tesserick?” Asher asked.
I poked out from the Yellow Feather fantasy section with a feather duster. “Huh?”
Asher was sitting in one of the club chairs wearing paint-splattered jeans, an open novel across his lap. His usual cup of herbal tea cooled on the trunk table. He pointed out the window at my boss, his ex-wife, and today’s sidewalk meeting. “Divorced or not, those two are worthy of a mash-up name. Tess plus Frederick. So, Frederess or Tesserick? Oh!” he added. “Tess did it now. Mr. Winston’s pissed. I know the pattern. First the scowl, then the one-finger shake. Then, and only then, does he do that big shoulder shrug huff and puff maneuver.”
I stepped closer, giggling. “And...he’s stomping away for coffee, and she’s just casually strolling back to Tops. Anyway, I think Tesserick has a nice ring to it.”
“Then Tesserick it is. Every couple needs a mash-up name. Unwritten rule.”
I wouldn’t know.
Asher sipped tea, then said, “Even though they only lasted a few weeks, I dubbed Jase and Bryn as Brase last summer.”
“Nice. Can you make a fake one for Marisol and someone?”
“Well, Marisol and Jase would be, um, Jarisol. Whereas, myself and Marisol would be Mashersol.”
“Mashersol.” I laughed. “She’d kill me if she knew I was doing this.”
“Probably,” Asher said. Crooked smile. “We can’t leave you out. Now, you and Jase would be Jarcy.”
“Which would last even less time than, er, Brase.”
“Legendary, though. But that just leaves you and me,” he said softly. “Has to be Dasher.”
“Dasher,” I whispered, toying with the feather duster.
“In which our mash-up name is also one of Santa’s reindeer.” His cheeks pinked. “I think it’s a keeper. Clever. Has a nice ring to it.”
My pulse pattered like raindrops on a tin roof. “Funny how that worked out, just like that.”
“Pure chance, I swear.” One hand over his heart. “Completely unplanned.”
Before I all-the-way choked, the bell above the shop door chimed. The ensuing commotion of Marisol strolling into Yellow Feather wearing her new red leather jacket was exactly the distraction I needed to restore my normal breathing.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice somewhat steadied.
Marisol exchanged waves with Asher. “I give you Darcy Jane Wells, pillar of extraordinary customer service.”
I snorted and followed Marisol to the counter. “No twins, so you’re not here for story time. What’s up?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” Marisol whispered. She discreetly jerked her head backward, in the direction of Asher’s burgundy chair. Like a boy in a bookstore was a monumental deal. She already knew Asher had been coming in for his breaks.
I told her with my face it clearly wasn’t a big deal, and to lay off, already. She innocently drew one palm to her chest, then smiled. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“We’re celebrating.” Marisol drew an iced caramel latte from her tote. Despite transportation from Starbucks to the Feather in the base of a turquoise leather bag, the drink was perfectly intact.
I may have let out a tiny squeal. “Thanks, Mari.” I took a long sip of my favorite coffee treat. “Celebrating what?”
She beamed and reached into her tote again, waving out a personal check. “Your first cut from PayPal. We did it, Darcy.”
I t
ook the check from her and studied it, a bittersweet flavor coating my tongue, and not from my latte.
Asher strolled up. “I need to get back in a minute, but just wanted to say thanks again for the gift idea, Darcy. It was a real hit.”
Marisol swung her head right to left, Asher to me, a questioning look on her face—then did it again.
I told her, “If we hadn’t convinced Mr. Winston to stock those silver charm bracelets, Asher would’ve been giftless in San Diego for London’s birthday.”
Marisol gave Asher a well-honed side-eye.
“Hey!” he protested. “It’s complicated, okay? I mean, London’s...yeah. She wore the bracelet today.” Asher fiddled with the penny tray, coins clanging like the silver bangle charms. The arrow and the rose. “About London,” he added, “she modeled the costume you made for Much Ado earlier. You’re really talented, Marisol.”
My friend brightened. “Thanks. She looked pretty in the gown during the fitting. Just one more week of dress rehearsals.”
London. I couldn’t help thinking of one more mash-up name: Lashdon?
“Are you two going for opening night?” Asher asked.
“It’s our birthday weekend, so we might squeeze that into the festivities,” Marisol said.
“You were born on the same day?”
“One day apart,” I said.
“Technically, twelve hours apart. Darcy first, then me.” Marisol lifted a shoulder. “It’s how we became friends.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the history of...” He drew an invisible line connecting Marisol and me. “This?”
I looked at my best friend, memory in my eyes, gaping minutes of that day swallowing all of the now.
Marisol nudged her chin at me. “Tell it.”
Tell him. Isn’t that what she meant? Tell Asher Fleet, a boy with adorable mash-up naming abilities and one hand in my penny tray. Tell him?
The Library of Lost Things Page 11