by B. Avery
WERE
WE
BEGIN
B. Avery
Copyright © 2021 B. Avery
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
CHAPTER ONE
“Good afternoon, Mr. Smith!”
Really, the girl didn't have to say anything at all. The peal of the bell over the door heralded her arrival every day at exactly three thirty-five when her classes were over for the day. Where the other teenagers would be going to the diner or the corner store, Carmine Mayberry made the five-minute walk to Mr. Smith's shop every day of her life.
He knew a desperate soul when he saw one, and they didn't come much more desperate than Carmine Mayberry. Between the mother who sat drowsily in her chair all day and the father who couldn't hold onto a dollar to save his life, she'd never stood a chance. Yet, she had a good head on her shoulders and a smile for everyone, even- especially- for her cranky old boss.
“In the back, Carmine,” he called, glancing up at her with a smile no one else in town would have believed him capable of. She'd more than earned it. “You're late.”
She rolled her eyes at him, stowing her backpack beneath the chair she'd claimed as hers. “The bell rings at three-thirty. The bell has always rung at three-thirty. It's not my fault you think I can teleport.”
“Learn,” he advised, smirking into the innards of the clock he was trying to repair, “Or walk faster.”
“Be nice or you won't get your treat,” she chided, hopping up on the table carefully so as not to disturb any of the various springs and cogs. Satisfied she had his attention again, she held out a Tupperware container. “Moroccan chicken salad. I made it in FCS.”
“In what?” he asked, taking the container from her with a nod of thanks. Despite the fact that her paycheck barely stretched to cover groceries for her and her father, Carmine occasionally took it into her head to feed him. She wasn't much of a cook, but it was still a damned sight better than he could manage, and Smith couldn't say he wasn't grateful.
“FCS,” Carmine repeated, then elaborated at his blank look, “Family and consumer sciences? You know, home ec?”
“I'm an old man and can't keep up with these newfangled names,” he teased her, mostly to see her glower of displeasure when he described himself as old. “And I thought we agreed you'd take business.”
“It's a requirement for graduation,” she admitted, before registering what he'd said and smacking his arm, “And you're not old. You're thirty-five.”
He mimed shock, “Is that all? You must have forgotten a few years somewhere.”
Her eyes narrowed, “I know how old you are. Who do you think baked your damn cake last birthday?”
“Pastry elves,” he deadpanned.
Carmine raised an eyebrow. “Pastry elves,” she said in the overly-patient tone of someone who’d spent the better part of her life humoring him and who certainly wasn’t going to blink now.
“Well, it can't have been my long-suffering protégé. She’s far too busy for such silliness, especially because she knows I pay her to work, not to bake.”
Deliberately, he turned his attention back to the clock, watching out of the corner of his eye to see her reaction to the word ’protégé.’ Her face brightened, her lips curving into a delighted smile at this rare acknowledgement that he saw her as more than the hired help. Really, she should be well aware of that by now.
Within six months of her employment, she’d had control of the shop’s displays as well as a say in pricing. By the end of her first year, he’d trusted her to keep the books, and since then he’d been teaching her everything, he knew about contract law, which was an impressive amount if he did say so himself.
Carmine was at the top of her class, and he liked to think it was his influence that had helped get her there. Even so, she was a woman, and women liked words.
Smith paused, a miniature gear in his hand, and wondered when he’d started thinking of his eighteen-year-old assistant as a woman.
The moment stretched out, becoming uncomfortable, until Carmine finally said with false cheer, “Pay me? You barely pay me at all. I'll bake if I like.”
It was true enough. He'd been very careful with her salary. She made exactly enough that leaving to take another job would mean taking a pay cut. Her paycheck covered rent on the apartment she shared with her father, food for the month, and maybe a movie if she was careful. It did not stretch to paying down her father's debts, buying pretty clothes for going out, or putting away savings to use for college that year. There was exactly enough room in Carmine's life for her schooling and her job, and there wasn't room for anything else. He'd made sure of that.
As he watched her hop off the table and gather her supplies (It was Tuesday, which meant it was window day, so she needed the blue microfiber cloth. Each cleaning task had a different color rag associated with it, and he knew them all.), he realized just how carefully he had arranged things to make certain the shop was her only outlet. He'd created a very comfortable, very insular world for the two of them, and for the first time he wondered if he'd done it deliberately.
Surely, he hadn't. Surely, he hadn't. Carmine was just eighteen, for God's sake. She was a child (technically an adult, but still a complete child). It had just happened to come about that every moment when she wasn't in school or asleep, she was with him. It was pure coincidence. And yet...
Once the thought entered his mind, he couldn't get it back out again. Morbidly, he watched his every interaction with her over the next days, trying to see himself from an outsider's point of view. Had he always stared like this when she wasn't paying attention to him? Had he always known the exact shade of rose that tinted her cheeks when he said something that made her laugh? It was no crime to look; she was lovely, decorative, and he was a connoisseur of beautiful things. In their little shop of wonders, she was the most wondrous thing of all.
Occasionally he wondered what she thought of him. He stood over six feet tall, visited the gym regularly, and was told he was handsome. Did she think about him the way he imaged her?
He had to accept it then. Yes, he'd squirreled her away for himself very adroitly, but she'd come along willingly. Carmine didn't protest the hours. She didn't ask for more pay. She didn't mention college plans or dreams of moving away, and she'd tell him if her mind was tending in those directions. She'd once spent ten minutes telling him about everything she'd found stashed in her pockets at the end of the day. She'd tell him if she wanted to go away to school.
Carmine, then, was content, and he was doing no harm. It was no crime to look, to admire her blue eyes or the curve of her backside when she leaned over to pick up something she'd dropped. It was no crime to wing a silent prayer of thanksgiving heavenward when she wore the green top with the low neckline on days she was going to help him with repairs requiring plenty of bending over. He was just appreciating the view. It was fine to look as long as he didn't touch.
It was, however, a crime when other men looked. When Dr. Tucker had come in looking for fishing lures and spent most of his visit instead looking at Carmine's chest, Smith's hand had tightened hard enough to bruise, wanting nothing more than to smash a vase into the man's face. Instead, he'd made a point of steering him repeatedly away from the display case that actually had what he wanted, maneuvering the man out the door with a flash of his most unpleasant smile. He shut the door behind the doctor with a bit more force than was absolutely necessary, turning to see Carmine looking at him in bemusement.
“That was somewhat unhelpful. Even for you.”
He raised an eyebrow, “Even for me? I'm hurt, love. Truly.”
She folded her arms in front of her, giving him her best challenging look. After a moment, he relented, “The doctor is not one of my favorite people.”
That earned him a most unladylike snort. “You don't have any favorite people. Besides, you liked him well enough last time he was in here and dropped five hundred bucks.”
“Today he bored me.” That was not a complete untruth. He had found the man's staring quite tiresome.
“Today he leered at me like I was a hunk of meat,” she countered, and his heart sank. He'd been caught out. Shaking her head, she approached him slowly, and he wondered if she'd slap him first or just go ahead and quit.
“Honestly, I don't know why you try to hide it.” Carmine was inches in front of him, looking up in exasperation. “You were looking out for me. Thank you.” Leaning up, she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, shaking her head at him one final time before wandering off to reorganize the display of swords.
He had to clench his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open. She'd appreciated his defense of her? Somehow, the possibility of that had never crossed his mind. He could still feel the phantom warmth of her lips on his face, and the darker parts of him were happily considering where else it would be pleasant to feel those lips. Before he could reconsider, he found himself calling after her, “I do have one favorite person.” The dazzling smile she shot him was more than ample reward for his honesty.
Feeling lighter than he had in years, he found his way to the back room and selected a trinket to tinker with, something it wouldn't matter if he damaged. Carmine was fond of him; she didn't mind his interference in her life, and she wouldn't be eighteen forever. He wasn't a patient man, but for her he could learn to be. He could wait any longer. His sprawling house was far too big for just him, but her presence would fill it up nicely.
Pleased with his decision, he took another look at the trinket in his hands, realizing he'd only managed to snarl the necklace's delicate gold chain more. It was a lovely piece, a filigree bloom with accents, and he could almost see it gracing Carmine's throat. Tucking it away where she wouldn't find it, he made a mental note to fix it for her. It would do nicely for a gift.
***
Although he'd felt confident he would be able to learn patience with Carmine as the reward for his efforts, the habits of a lifetime were hard to break. The seasons bled together, time seeming to stand still as he waited.
Most days, her constant presence was comfort enough. He had her smiles, her laugh, her attention. On good days, he even had her touch when she patted his arm or rested her forehead on his shoulder as she giggled. They were thick as thieves, and if his hands ached to touch her and his house felt even more lonely than ever, that was the price of patience. Still, he willed time to pass faster.
Time stopped abruptly one spring Tuesday when the golden bell over the door didn't chime at three thirty-five. Nor did it ring at three forty or three forty-five. By three forty-eight he was ready to close the shop and go looking for her, visions of kidnapping and car accidents dancing in his head, and he was reaching for the door handle to do just that when she barreled through it, nearly knocking him to the ground.
“Oh! Mr. Smith, I'm so sorry. Are you all right? I know I'm very late, and I'm sorry. I need to work on my teleporting, but I did try to walk fast. I'll stay late tonight to make up for it-” Carmine was a chatterbox under normal circumstances, but she never babbled, and something was clearly very wrong.
Catching her by her upper arm, he walked her over to the hideous purple velvet fainting couch that they were never going to sell and gently pushed her down before taking a seat beside her. “What's happened, love?”
Carmine covered her face with her hands and laughed breathlessly, somehow managing not to sound happy at all. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
He kept his mouth shut, not bothering to call her attention to the obvious lie. Instead, he let the silence stretch and waited for her to fill it. After a minute or so, she obliged him, “It's just... Corbin Farley? He plays lacrosse? He asked me to go to the prom.”
“Oh.” While that was certainly problematic for him, he wasn't sure why it seemed to be upsetting her so much. Swallowing down his first response (“I'll kill him.”) and his second (“I'll take you anywhere you want to go.”), he settled for prompting, “And you said...?”
“I said no, of course!” she exclaimed, “I can't afford a dress. And besides, you need me to work Friday. Don't you?” Her face was alight with hope as she asked that.
He glanced down at his hands where they were clasped in front of her and smiled bitterly to himself. So that was it. Carmine wanted to dance, and her boss wouldn't give her the night off. His possessive instincts urged him to agree. Of course he'd need her that night. He needed her every night.
But Carmine was eighteen, she was graduating high school, and wanted to dance. And he was an old fool who should know better.
“Fridays are quiet. I could do without you one night. If you don't make it a habit.” He forced the words out through a throat that felt like it was coated in broken glass, telling himself that at least he'd get to see her smile as he gave her what she wanted.
Instead she looked at him like he'd struck her. “You don't... want me?”
“I did run the shop without you at some point. I can manage for a night. Go dance, love.”
Carmine just looked at him for a moment, before forcing a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “It doesn't matter. I can't afford a dress anyway.”
God, she was simply determined to flay him alive, wasn't she? With a sigh, he pulled his keys from his pocket and selected one, handing it to her. “Go down to the basement and bring up the wooden trunk.” Although Carmine had nicknamed the basement the Junk Yard, he knew exactly where everything was. He just had no use for anything that was down there. Except one thing. Except now.
Carmine looked at him strangely but didn't argue, leaving and coming back a few minutes later with the afore-mentioned chest. He nodded for her to place it on the counter. “Open it.”
She worked the latches, wincing at the squeal of metal that hadn't been operated in far too long. He'd have to oil that, he thought, trying to distract himself from what he was about to do. She lifted the lid, brushing aside a layer of tissue paper and cedar chips to reveal bright fabric. “They're old, but you're clever, love. I'm sure you can make something out of them.”
With careful hands she pulled out the first bundle of fabric, shaking it out to reveal a 1930's cocktail dress. The demure skirt and high neckline were sweetened by the plunging back, and his breath caught as he envisioned her in it.
“Where did you get these?” Carmine asked reverently, staring at the dress in wonder. After a moment she seemed to realize she had more options and draped it over the counter before pulling out a frothy purple frock comprised mostly of lace that would cling tightly through her hips before billowing out in tiered layers of skirt.
He shrugged. “I've had them as long as I can remember. They're hopelessly out of style of course, no market for them in this town, but they're yours if you want them.”
“They're not out of style; they're vintage. Retro,” she explained, “You know, everything old is new again? They're wonderful!”
Briefly he wondered if she was including him in her enthusiasm for old things then told his subconscious to shut up. “Wear them in health then.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she whispered, her eyes curiously bright. She looked at him fondly for a moment then pressed a kiss to his cheek, and if this was the reaction he was going to get, he'd have to give her presents more often.
Carmine floated through the rest of the evening in good humor, but her melancholy mood was back the next day, albeit in a less manic way. “Didn’t the frocks suit you, love?” he hazarded as he watched her rearrange their kitchenware display for the third time
since her arrival. She’d barely spoken to him that afternoon, and by the time dusk fell he’d had enough of watching her fidget like a frightened rabbit.
“Hmm? Oh, no. No, they’re lovely. I’m going to wear the purple one, I just have to take it in a little.” Unbidden, his mind conjured a picture of her in the filmy dress, the lacy bodice hugging her body in a lover’s embrace. His breath caught at the image before a wave of sick jealousy washed over him. She’d be wearing his dress, but she wouldn't be wearing it for him.
“Then what seems to be the problem?” he asked, forcing himself back to reality with an almost physical effort.
Carmine stared at her feet for a moment before she told him, “The prom... It’s a dance.”
“Yes.” He tried to keep the hint of impatience out of his voice. He was well aware of where she was going, had in fact spent half the night seething at the thought of some callow boy holding her in his arms as he twirled her around the dance floor.
“So... I don’t dance,” she confessed, a flush tinting her cheeks.
He couldn’t help his smile at her words. Carmine sounded like she was revealing a major character flaw. “It’s just dancing, love. I think you’ll find it comes naturally. Just follow your partner’s lead.”
“See? That’s it,” she exclaimed with some of her customary spark as she pointed at him, “I don’t even know what that means. And you know me; I’m not exactly graceful.
That was certainly true. She’d broken more than one of their objects d’art over the years, and yet he’d always found her clumsiness more endearing than annoying. That really should have been his first hint that he was in over his head with Carmine: if anyone else had come into the shop and broken something, they’d still be paying for it. “Your partner will show you what to do by the way he touches you. All you have to do is follow along.”
“Do you know how to dance?” There was hope in her eyes as she looked at him, and he knew where this was going as certainly as if he’d suddenly become clairvoyant. The temptation was almost more than he could bear. He could have her in his arms, hold her, breathe her in all under the guise of helping her. She’d even thank him for it.