Looking for Me

by Beth Hoffman

  She rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Oh, Rodney,” she cooed, “you’re the smartest man in the world.”

  He patted her back. “Go on and let me finish up here. I’ll meet you at that coffee shop around the corner.”

  Rodney watched his wife exit the door, then pulled out his thick wallet. His face reddened, and he avoided my eyes as he counted out the money and dropped it on top of the chest. He still didn’t look at me when he slipped a pen from his pocket protector and wrote down an address on the back of his business card. Tossing the card on top of the money, he clicked his pen closed and grumbled, “Have it delivered to that address. What’s the shipping cost?”

  I smiled and threw him a bone. “Shipping is on the house, Mr. Barnes.”

  After writing out his receipt, I tucked it inside a white linen envelope and handed it to him. Our eyes never met when he all but ripped the envelope from my fingers and walked away. I pushed his money and business card deep into my pocket, and when the door closed behind him, I raised my voice and chortled, “Oh, Rodney, you’re the smartest man in the world!”

  While heading toward my office, I saw Albert and Inez standing in the hallway. Albert laughed and mimicked the voice of a radio sports announcer. “Teddi Overman takes the snap from Big Rodney and fakes a handoff. Then she goes straight up the gut for the touchdown!”

  While I laughed along with him, Inez held out her hand, palm up. “I told you she’d get full price.”

  Albert slapped a five-dollar bill into her waiting hand. “Yeah, when that man said ‘trust fund,’ I knew I was cooked.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You two were betting on me?”

  Inez pushed her hand down the front of her dress and tucked the bill into her bra. “Of course. We do it all the time.”

  Just then the bell over the door chimed. Inez pressed her hand to her bosom and whispered, “Oh, shoot. I hope he hasn’t changed his mind.”

  Ready for battle, I turned and walked to the front of the shop. But it wasn’t the return of blustery Rodney. Standing just inside the door was a short wisp of a man. His shirt hung limp from a hanger of bones, and his pants were so baggy they pooled at his ankles. He removed a straw hat from his head, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost apologetic. “Good morning, ma’am. I was wondering if your buyer might be handy.”

  “I’m Teddi Overman, the owner. How may I help you, sir?”

  “My name’s Willard Otis. Guess you’d say I’m a collector,” he said while eyeing my shop. “I’m in need of . . . Well, it’s time I cleared out some things. So I packed up my truck and drove down from Lee County. Thought I’d see if any of you city dealers might like to have a look.”

  This kind of thing wasn’t uncommon, junk pickers and scavengers hoping to make a few dollars. In the past I’d always declined, but Lee County was poverty-stricken, and this man, who was eighty years old if he was a day, was clearly not doing well.

  “I’d be pleased, Mr. Otis. Why don’t you show me what you have to offer? Is your truck close by?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Got it parked right down the street.”

  After asking Inez to mind the shop for a few minutes, I walked a half block with the old gentleman until we came to a rusty gray pickup with tall, makeshift sides built from weathered lumber.

  His knobby fingers moved slowly as he unlatched the tailgate. Pulling a set of handmade steps from the back of the truck, he set them on the street and said, “Go on up and have a look.”

  The truck was crammed to capacity, and the only place to maneuver was in a narrow aisle hollowed out in the center. I inched my way into the mess and began to hunt.

  Shoved next to a 1920s icebox was a hideous green velvet chair, and sitting on top of a TV was a western saddle, its leather stiff and cracked. Boxes filled with toasters, hand mixers, and all sorts of clocks were jammed beneath a wooden bench. A hairless doll stared up at me from inside a galvanized washtub.

  While I rummaged around, I caught a glimpse of the old man standing by the tailgate, his watery eyes bright with hope, his lips twitching as if in silent prayer. The desperation on his face got to me. I mean, it really got to me.

  Beneath a rather nice old quilt, I found a small teddy bear sitting inside a pressure cooker. The bear was only about ten inches tall, and a good bit of his golden mohair was worn off—or “loved off,” as I preferred to say. He was an old bear with wide-set ears and boot-button eyes. I picked him up and gave his belly the squeeze test. He was stuffed with excelsior.

  Clutching the teddy to my chest, I moved toward the tailgate. I was about to end my search when I noticed a small cedar case with double latches. Taking hold of the handle, I pulled it free, then gingerly climbed down the rickety steps.

  “Will you hold him for a minute?” I asked, handing over the teddy.

  The old gentleman took the bear and set his gaze on the wooden case. “You have any idea what’s in there?”

  “Art supplies?” I guessed, setting it on the tailgate.

  His eyes sparkled as he shook his head. “I s’pect you’ll be surprised.”

  I flipped the latches and opened the lid. Nestled inside was a tarnished brass telescope accompanied by a screw-threaded eyepiece and a short tripod base. It was a tabletop model. Though only about eighteen inches long and three inches in diameter, the telescope lay heavily in my hands. The circular backplate was inscribed with the name J. VAN DER BILDT, FRANEKER.

  I ran my fingertips over a small dent along its side. “Does it work?”

  No doubt fearing he might lose a sale, Mr. Otis began to fidget. “Well, I think it does.”

  Whether the telescope worked or not really didn’t matter. It was a beautiful old instrument, and I loved it. That was the thing about my business: When I least expected it, a certain piece I had no knowledge about would grab me, and against all logic I simply had to have it.

  “Mr. Otis, I’d like to buy the telescope and the teddy bear. So what’s your price for both?”

  “I’d sure like to get a hundred and a half for the spyglass.” He glanced at the teddy in his hand. “How about a dollar for the stuffed toy?”

  On an ordinary day, I would have jumped on it with both feet. I would have paid the asking price and waited until he drove away before I squealed. But this wasn’t an ordinary day, and the man before me was no ordinary man. As I reached into my pants pocket, I wondered when he’d had his last meal. I removed the cash that Mr. Barnes had given me for the Italian chest, and counted out five one-hundred-dollar bills. Then I took the teddy from the old man’s hand, and replaced it with the money.

  I snapped the latches closed on the case and turned to face him. “Mr. Otis, I have no idea what this telescope is worth, but I believe it’s more than you’re asking. So if you’re happy with the sale, I’m happy.”

  He looked up at me, confused. “You sayin’ you’re giving me five hundred dollars?”

  “That’s correct.”

  A wide smile spread across his face, exposing several blank spaces between his stubby yellow teeth. “Well, I . . . Thank you, ma’am. God bless you!”

  After shaking my hand, he lifted the steps into the truck and closed the tailgate. I stood on the sidewalk while he started the engine. The muffler sent a puff of exhaust into the air as the truck lurched from the curb. I watched him drive away and said, “God bless you, too, Mr. Otis.”

  Later that afternoon I wiped down the telescope and screwed the eyepiece into position. Walking out the side door and down the alley, I looked for an open area where there were no trees. Holding the telescope to my eye, I gently maneuvered the setscrew attached to the cylinder. I saw nothing but a blur of dim light. With my thumb and forefinger, I kept moving the screw, my arm beginning to ache from the weight of the telescope. And then, with one last adjustment, a far-off chimney came into clear focus—so clear that I could see broke
n mortar between the bricks. I let out a hoot, took the telescope into my office, and attached it to the tripod base.

  Pulling a stack of antiques-dealer reference books from the shelf behind my desk, I began to hunt. I went through book after book, and though I found several telescopes, none were like the one on my desk. I pulled down more books and continued my research, and an hour later, I found what I was looking for.

  Jan van der Bildt (1709–91). Born in the Netherlands, he began his career making clocks and watches and then turned to making telescopes. He was revered for the masterful craftsmanship of his instruments, and his mirrors were of such a finely balanced alloy that the majority of them have maintained their reflectivity after more than two centuries.

  According to my reference book, the retail value of the telescope was, depending on condition, between six and twelve hundred dollars. I priced it at $995, tied a tag to the tripod, and then spent a good deal of time cleaning and polishing the cedar box. Before leaving the shop for the evening, I placed the telescope next to its box on top of a masculine oak chest.

  Though the bedraggled teddy was most likely worthless, I had fallen in love with his sweet old face. Placing him on the corner of my desk, I gave him a pat and turned out the lights.

  TWENTY-THREE

  It wasn’t long after that day when I sensed the first winds of a retail slowdown. Prior to Christmas I’d sold several pieces of sterling and landed a home for a Norwegian polychromed console table I’d had for nearly two years, but sales of the big-ticket furniture items had plummeted, and I didn’t know why. Whenever my shop had hit a slow period in the past, I’d wheel and deal and do whatever it took to push through the lean times, and I always managed to survive while many other shops closed their doors.

  But something about this felt different.

  By the end of January, I was deeply concerned; even the repair and restoration business had dropped by over 25 percent. When February came to a close, I was scared, so scared that I woke each morning with a tightening in my throat. Every Monday when Inez gave me a copy of the financial sheet, my stomach sank. She never said a word, but it was impossible to ignore the worry in her eyes.

  Though I had no control over who walked through my door or what they might be looking for, I had no one to blame but myself. During the summer of the previous year, my contact in London had sent me photographs of two exceptionally rare antiques he’d found in North Yorkshire. I became greedy and purchased them both—a colossal Louis XV armoire with beautifully carved leaves and scrolls along its curved canopy and the pièce de résistance—an exquisite sterling-silver George III monteith bowl with an impressive domed lid. Crafted during the Regency period with elaborate Rococo-inspired repoussé designs, the bowl was hallmarked 1818—THOMAS GAIRDNER—a silversmith of renowned talent.

  Both the armoire and the bowl were once-in-a-lifetime pieces with prices to match, but I felt it was time to raise the bar and align myself with the dealers in Atlanta and New York. It was a daring move, but one I felt ready to take.

  While I suspected that the monteith bowl might take a while to sell, I was certain the armoire would all but fly out the door, and though it drew a great deal of attention, no one had made an offer. Every morning I’d unlock the front door for business, turn to face the four-hundred-pound beauty that had become an albatross, and wonder why it hadn’t sold. As for the bowl, it sat behind the locked glass doors in the illuminated display case, a glaring reminder of my lust. I could hardly look at it without feeling sick to my stomach. It had taken over a third of my yearly purchasing budget to acquire the two pieces, and each week that they didn’t sell, my funds were further depleted. In retrospect, my daring move had proved to be foolish.

  My first priority was to pay Albert and Inez, and I managed to scratch up enough to make the shop’s monthly rent, but there was no money left for me to take a salary. I struggled to meet my personal financial obligations—especially Grammy’s nursing-home care. No matter how many sales I advertised or how many discounts I was willing to give, the bell above my door remained virtually silent. Each month I dipped deeper into my savings, and by mid-March my dream of buying a home slid further from reach.

  I was particularly depressed about my current state of affairs when, on the first Monday in April, the bell above the door rang. A distinguished-looking gentleman stepped into my shop, and he appeared to do so from an entirely different era. Dressed in a cream linen suit with a pocketwatch chain draped across his silk plaid vest, the man walked with the aid of a stylish pewter-tipped cane.

  “Good morning, sir. Welcome. I’m Teddi Overman.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miz Overman. I’m John Jacob Lee from Shelbyville, Tennessee,” he said, seeming pleased that his name and home state rhymed.

  “How may I help you today, Mr. Lee?”

  “My granddaughter’s getting married. If my wife were still alive, she’d know exactly what kind of gift to choose, but I’ve been on my own for quite some time. The groom comes from a fine Charleston family, and they just presented my granddaughter with a sterling tableware set that’s been in their family since the Civil War. Now, here’s the thing—I don’t want to be outdone, so I’m lookin’ for something mighty special.”

  “What would you say her style is?”

  He leaned against his cane and raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m sad to say she doesn’t have any. My granddaughter is a wonderful girl, but unfortunately she has the taste of an onion. I’d like to give her something she can be proud of, something she’ll pass down to her children. So what would you suggest?”

  “Right this way,” I said, stepping to the glass case where I displayed my finest pieces of sterling.

  Before I even got the key into the lock, Mr. Lee pointed toward the monteith bowl. “Well, that makes a statement, doesn’t it? I’d like to have a look.”

  Reverently, I lifted the bowl from the case and set it on the table in front of him, the sterling glowing softly beneath the overhead lights. “This piece is exceptionally rare.”

  “It sure is pretty, but what’s it used for? Fancy casseroles?” he asked, rubbing his fingertips over the laurel-leaf handles.

  “It was designed to cool wine goblets. After the bowl was filled with ice water, goblets were placed facedown with their stems resting in the decorative depressions along the rim. I’ve also seen these bowls used as centerpieces on dining-room tables, and they make gorgeous containers for floral arrangements . . .”

  As I told the old gentleman the history of monteith bowls, he picked up the lid and seemed to enjoy feeling its substantial weight in his hand. He smiled with approval. “It’s got some heft to it.”

  “Yes. Due to its rarity and exceptional condition, the price of forty thou—”

  “My dear girl, please don’t spoil my enjoyment,” he said with a wry smile. “If I had to ask the price, then I most likely couldn’t afford it. What matters is the pleasure I’ll get from presenting this gift to my granddaughter.”

  The lid made a gorgeous ting when he set it back on the bowl. “Over the years money and I have come to be quite good friends. When it lands in my hands, I never squeeze my fingers. I just enjoy it and let it go. Seems the more I let it go, the more it keeps coming back,” he said with a wise chuckle. He reached into his breast pocket and removed his wallet. “I assume you take American Express?”

  I thought my head might explode. Oh, sweet merciful God in heaven, he’s buying it? Somehow I managed to keep a placid look on my face and simply say, “Certainly.”

  “Will you gift-wrap it for me?”

  “I’d be happy to, Mr. Lee. Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable,” I said, gesturing to a Victorian chair. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thank you,” he said while easing himself into the chair. “I’ll just sit here and watch people go by. As you can see,” he said, tapping his cane agains
t his shoe, “I’ve got a bum leg. I wonder if you might be kind enough to carry the bowl out to my car.”

  “Of course.”

  Little did he know that I’d have walked barefoot all the way to Tennessee to sell that bowl.

  I picked it up and carried it into the back. As I ran his credit card through, I begged, Please, please, oh please . . . I nearly yelped when the approval number appeared on the screen. After gathering a large box and copious amounts of tissue, I wrapped the gift with white-on-white-striped paper and a wide silk ribbon that I tied in an extravagant bow.

  I was careful not to make finger marks on the wrapping paper as I carried the box out to the showroom. Mr. Lee rose to his feet when he saw me coming and opened the front door. “My car’s right there,” he said, pointing three spaces down from my shop.

  He walked by my side, his limp pronounced as he maneuvered along the uneven sidewalk. When we arrived at his car, an older-model Chrysler in pristine condition, Mr. Lee unlocked the trunk. Leaning his cane against the bumper, he helped me place the box inside. He did so with great effort.

  “It’s a terrible thing, this aging business. I’ve never gotten used to it. Every day I’m shocked by how much my bones betray me.” He closed the trunk and looked at me thoughtfully. “You’re a pretty woman, Miz Overman. But pretty only goes so far. What really matters is how nice people are. I’d like to thank you for your lovely smile and kindness.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lee. I believe you’ve made my day.”

  “There’s a young man imprisoned in this body,” he said, pointing toward his chest. “And that young man is quite taken with you, my dear.”

  I didn’t know what to say. What could I say?

  “But . . .” He raised his woolly eyebrows in resignation as his voice trailed off.

  Caught in a wave of grateful relief from the combination of selling the monteith bowl and Mr. Lee’s gentlemanly ways, I stepped forward, took hold of his hand, and gave him a light yet lingering kiss on the cheek. He didn’t look so much surprised as pleased.