The Beautiful Things Shoppe

by Philip William Stover

  The shop is closed but I see someone through the gold script knocking on the window. I open the door and a handsome guy in a red parka and rainbow-striped knitted hat says, “Hi, I’m Martin Cho. Did Uncle Arthur tell you I was coming?”

  “Uhm, no,” I say, not ready for whatever surprise is next.

  “I’m from Frozen Dimensions, the company doing the ice sculptures for Winter Festival. The Beautiful Things Shoppe sponsored one for the pedestal next to the shop. Arthur arranged it but he said that the new shopkeepers would choose the subject. I brought a gallery of our designs.” He holds up a tablet.

  “Sure, come on in,” I say and open the door widely. “I’m afraid it’s freezing in here. I haven’t had a chance to get the potbelly stove going.”

  “Oh, that’s alright. I’m used to creating in our refrigerated studios so this is absolutely toasty to me.”

  Instead of getting the wood from out back I pull up a chair on the other side of my desk so Martin can sit down. He starts up his tablet and begins to swipe through images of glossy crystal masterpieces that look like they are constructed from diamonds.

  “Very nice. Do you do all of these yourself?”

  “I’m just an apprentice. I’m still learning but I’m getting pretty good.” He clicks to the next image and a saucy mermaid with a mysterious smile catches my eye. She is surrounded by a raw bar of oysters, shrimp and lobster.

  “She’s a charmer, but I assume the seafood is not part of her usual entourage.”

  “I’m afraid not. That was for a party in Doylestown but we could do the mermaid alone. People always love her.” Martin smiles and I’m just about to pull the trigger when Downton Crabby walks in.

  “Enjoy your breakfast?” Prescott snaps at me as he goes to put his coat in the pantry.

  “Every last crumb,” I say making sure my spite comes through each syllable.

  Martin suddenly looks scared. He might want to form a support group with the guy at the counter who witnessed us battle over the scone. “Hello, I’m Martin Cho,” he says standing up to introduce himself.

  Prescott shakes his hand formally. Everything this guy does is like there is someone watching making sure he’s following proper etiquette. It’s super annoying. “Yes, Martin. We’ve been expecting you. To select the ice sculpture?”

  “Exactly,” he says.

  “Well, I’ve already chosen something so we can check that off the list.” I point to Martin’s tablet. “A delightful sassy mermaid. Isn’t she adorable? I have a Pucci-inspired bikini top in purple, orange and pink that I might put over her seashells. She’ll look fabulous.”

  “A mermaid? Absolutely not,” Prescott says making a face like he licked an ashtray. “That might be fine for a seafood buffet at Disney World but it makes no sense at Winter Festival. I’ve already perused the catalog online. I think it’s sculpture A-21, if I’m correct.”

  Martin flips through the tablet images and lands on one marked A-21.

  “A snowflake?” I ask. “Are you kidding? It’s Winter Festival. There will be snowflakes up the wazoo. Who needs to see another one?” I say spitting my words at Prescott and then turning to Martin. “No offense Martin. It’s a very lovely snowflake.”

  “Thank you?” he says his voice cracking in the same way the young man’s at the coffee spot did.

  “A snowflake fits in. It makes sense precisely because it is Winter Festival and look how elegant the design is. It’s simple and refined not some half-naked lady with her arms holding up her hair.”

  “A snowflake is so boring. Just like you. I already told you I would put a bikini top on her so it will be very tasteful.” I can feel the anger rising in me.

  “Tasteful? You wouldn’t know good taste if it walked through the door with a sign around its neck saying, ‘Good taste’!”

  That’s it. The limit. The absolute limit. “How dare you insult me and...”

  “You just called me boring. You started with the insults...”

  Martin is furiously flipping through images on his tablet when he suddenly stops and holds up the screen.

  “Here. Sirs. This. How about this?” He displays a picture of a snowman with a crooked smile and a body made of three sparkling globes of ice. It’s cute but also refined. “A snowman would fit in with the Winter Festival theme but it’s a bit more exciting than just a snowflake.”

  “It’s a very nice snowman. It’s a classic,” Prescott says with a slight, approving nod.

  “He’s as cute as a button,” I say making sure all of my enthusiasm goes toward Martin and not Prescott.

  “Great. One snowman for The Beautiful Things Shoppe.” Martin packs up his tablet and runs out of the shop like it’s on fire.

  I stare at Prescott and he stares at me. We don’t need ice sculptures. The looks on both our faces are so cold we could just sit on the pedestals ourselves. I don’t see either one of us melting in the near future.

  Chapter Four

  Prescott

  While Danny and I agree on almost nothing, we are on the same page about being ready when the sleepy riverside village transforms into a winter wonderland with ice sculptures along the river walk, bonfires at the intersections and skating races on the canal. Even the weather forecast has been in on the planning, with enough of a dusting scheduled to make the eaves and windowsills uniformly white but not enough accumulation to inhibit travel.

  Inside the store, the boundary lines are clear. Danny and his jamboree of forgotten TV memorabilia have exactly half the store on the north side and I have the other half on the south side.

  I’ve grouped all of my objects by decade, style and artist. It’s a tasteful display of some very fine pieces including a Chippendale side table, a Japanese Satsuma tea storage jar and my most prized possession: my Cartier LeCoultre desk clock. A simple gold circle a few inches high, displaying a cream watch face with elegant black lettering. The base has an intricate pattern of gold filigree with jade accents. I purchased the clock as a present to myself when I graduated with my MA in Decorative Arts from U Penn. I had been working three part-time jobs to pay for tuition, room and board and during the last week of classes I saw the gorgeous object in a shop window. After some intense bargaining I was able to negotiate a price that made it a steal. I have no intention of selling the clock. It tells customers they have arrived at a place that signifies class and elegance. That is, as long as they keep their backs to the other side of the shop, where Danny is setting up a collection of what looks like plastic blue mice that live in some kind of red plastic mushroom.

  “What in the world are those mice doing?” I can’t help but ask. We have been mostly working steadily in silence today in order to be ready for the festival.

  “They aren’t mice. They’re Smurfs. This one is called Drummy because he’s playing the drums and this one is delivering mail. He’s called Posty,” he says, holding out the blue creatures so that I can inspect them. “You’ve never heard of Smurfs? Where did you grow up? Under a rock?” He looks me up and down and I remain silent.

  I keep my personal life to myself as much as possible. I’m well aware that it makes some people think I’m cold or stuck-up. I’ve never been someone to openly engage with the world. Given the choice between a room full of chatty people and a room full of dusty antiques and I’ll choose dusty over chatty every time. Chatty people judge you for being quiet or saying the wrong thing. I’ve never once gotten a dirty look from a gilt-decorated parlor lamp.

  “Just because I don’t recognize your little blue Smarf mice,” I say.

  “I told you. They’re not mice. They’re Smurfs!” Danny is getting visibly agitated.

  “Whatever they are, make sure they stay on your side of the store and don’t crawl over here.”

  Danny walks over to my side and stands next to the glass display table I have set up. “You’re telling me to worry
about my things crawling away when you have that on display.” He reaches his arm across his body and makes a face that looks like he is about to enter a haunted house. Everything is so dramatic with this guy.

  “That is a Victorian fan made out of a bird wing. Women used these to communicate and they were seen as a sign of wealth and prestige in the late nineteenth century. It’s worth hundreds of dollars.”

  “Hundreds of dollars? A dead bird? I really should call the Board of Health to see if selling roadkill is allowed in a retail establishment.” He’s all sass and charm. And funny, but I’m not about to let him know I think so.

  “Roadkill! Now listen here blue mouse man, this is an absolutely authentic...” A truck in front of the shop honks, cutting me off.

  “That’s the wood delivery for the stove. I’ll go help with it out back and leave you to your carcasses.” He walks out the back door to the alley where Arthur had always kept his wood supply. I want to chase after him and deliver another dig but as soon as he’s gone there is a knock at the front door. I turn to see who it is and as soon as I recognize the face I think about heading out the back door to help with the wood. I’d rather risk a handful of splinters than deal with this person.

  “Knock. Knock. I hope you don’t mind a visitor,” Worth says as he opens the door.

  “Why Worth, hello,” I say trying to register a pleasant welcome rather than the disappointed surprise I actually feel. I have no idea why he drove his vintage Jaguar all the way from Chestnut Hill in Philadelphia and I’m not interested in finding out. I guess my hope that he would fade away was ill-conceived. I slap a smile on my face and welcome him in.

  Danny

  After helping stack the firewood in the alley I’m covered in sap, stray wood chips and sweat. I carry a few pieces inside to help keep the stove going but before I enter the floor of the shop I hear Prescott talking with someone.

  I walk in with my arms full of firewood and the guy he’s talking to comes over to me to shake my hand. I’m not sure what he thinks I’m supposed to do with all this wood in my arms, but I put it down next to the stove so I can at least be polite.

  “Hello,” he says. His voice purrs condescension. “I’m Jefferson P. Worthington but everyone just calls me Worth. Please feel free to do the same.”

  I shake his hand and say, “I’m Danny.”

  As soon as our palms connect his face looks like he just swallowed a spider. “Oh, dear,” he says, pulling his hand away with disgust.

  “Sorry about that. I was just stacking wood for the stove.” I grab a rag I was planning to use for dusting and hand it to him. He wipes his hands like Lady Macbeth after a night on the town. It’s just some sap and dirt. What’s the big deal?

  Just when I thought there couldn’t be anyone more uptight and snobby than Prescott Henderson, this guy walks in. He speaks like he’s narrating an episode of Masterpiece Theatre and is conventionally handsome in a way that bores me. Prescott is also handsome but in a totally different way. Prescott is distinctive. There’s a small bump on the ridge of his nose and his eyes are definitely in a category of their own in terms of intensity and color. Not that I’ve noticed. Not that I’ve noticed at all.

  “Well, anyway,” Worth says, dropping the rag on the counter like it is radioactive. “It’s nice to meet you and so sweet of you to help Prescott with his store. I know setting all this up is hard work. I’m glad he’s got someone to haul wood. Every job is important.” His smile is all polished pearls and his voice is as sincere as a telemarketer. I can’t really even respond so I look past him and speak to Prescott.

  “Is this guy for real? He’s trolling me, right? I’m being trolled by this guy.” I look around the shop as if there are hidden cameras spying on us.

  Even Prescott realizes the situation is uncomfortable enough to interrupt. “Worth, Danny doesn’t work for me.”

  “No, I do not,” I say.

  “We’re sharing the store. Arthur thought this was a good idea. A variety of merchandise might appeal to more people and we could capitalize on the crossover aspect.”

  “Oh, dear,” Worth says as his gaze moves around the room from Prescott’s side to mine. I imagine it’s like that scene in The Wizard of Oz. Prescott’s stuff in drab black-and-white and my area like Munchkin Land, full of vibrant color.

  I’ve found vintage gingham in a variety of colors to line the shelves and display tables. Colorful floral bunting hangs over the area with some of my earlier pieces like Pyrex bowls from the 1950s and a beautifully preserved Big Bird doll. Further toward the back I have all of my midcentury items and I found a gorgeous Formica boomerang table to display some teak bowls and a tension pole lamp with three orange lanterns made of lava-looking plastic. Near my desk in the back I have smaller items from the seventies and eighties including a Bionic Woman doll with the original jumpsuit and a Good Times lunch box that has so many dents it’s clear that it has seen some bad times. My Smurfs and Beanie Babies are arranged on two displays on either side of my desk where Shirley illuminates my hot chocolate tin.

  “Can’t decide what you want to buy, Worth? Or are the prices a bit too high-end?” I can’t figure out what this guy’s relationship is to Prescott. It’s not intimate but I get the feeling they might have been once. I wouldn’t be surprised. Prescott is probably the type of gay man who only dates men who look a certain way.

  He simply sneers at me and turns toward Prescott.

  “I didn’t know your orbit made it this far out of Philadelphia,” I hear Prescott say. I go back to work cleaning my favorite cookie jar so it will be ready for the opening but the shop is so small it’s impossible not to hear them.

  “I had some business in the area and my mother has an estate in the country not very far from here.” From the corner of my eye I see him vaguely gesture as if he is working undercover. Prescott doesn’t push it and they start talking about his favorite pieces and I tune out for a bit until I hear Worth say, “Press, everything here is absolutely exquisite.” I notice Worth’s gaze lingers on Prescott in a lascivious way that makes me uncomfortable. Prescott seems to escape by walking over to some boring chair that looks like it could be in the lobby of any midscale hotel in any midsize city. It’s cherry stained, highly polished with a back as stiff as the two men admiring it.

  “This is really special. It’s French walnut Louis XVI. The person I bought it from thought it was of English origin. Can you imagine?” Prescott says in almost a whisper.

  They both laugh and I do my best not to throw up on anything, and ignore the rest of their conversation.

  My ears perk up as Worth begins to leave. “I really can’t tarry,” he says. I think about texting Lizard to tell her that this guy just used the word tarry without irony, but she would never believe me.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Prescott says but something in his voice makes me wonder if he’s all that grateful.

  I quickly return to my cookie jar. Who doesn’t love Snoopy? The adorable black-and-white pooch is sleeping on the top of his bright red doghouse. It looks like a simple piece, but this is a first edition from the Peanuts collection and very rare. I had Lizard help me make a special pedestal so I could display it all on its own right when customers walk in. It’s the absolute perfect piece to feature.

  I carefully place the cookie jar on the pedestal. Then I hear Prescott say, “Worth, you forgot your gloves.” Worth is already out the door but Prescott grabs what he left behind and tries to catch him. In his rush, his foot catches the leg of the pedestal and with a sudden loud boom my prized cookie jar comes crashing to the floor like a ceramic piñata with nothing inside.

  I stare at the floor feeling one of those very rare moments when I am at a loss for words. My most favorite piece is now in pieces. It was one of the first collectibles I ever purchased and now it’s destroyed. I look up from the floor at the man who shattered it.

  “
I’m so sorry,” Prescott says. His voice is sincere and a bit shaky. The crash was a shock to us both and now we are standing in the center of a ceramic junkyard. “Let me clean this up.” He runs to the pantry and returns with a broom and dustpan. He kneels on the floor. “Maybe I can fix it,” he says.

  “Fix it? It’s in three hundred pieces. I can’t believe you’re so clumsy. You must know what it’s like to have a favorite piece.”

  “Yes, of course,” he says sweeping up Snoopy’s remains.

  “I was planning on putting actual cookies in it tomorrow. I have an order placed at the Honeysuckle and everything.”

  “You could use one of my urns,” he says with a crooked smile.

  “Who eats a cookie out of an urn?” I yell. I look down and see poor Woodstock broken in half. My very favorite piece shattered by this thoughtless jerk. “Do you have any idea how special this piece was to me? I loved it. I can’t believe you could be so thoughtless.”

  Prescott finishes sweeping the dust remains into the dustpan and gets up. “Well if you loved it so much maybe you shouldn’t have put it in the middle of the store. I could have broken my neck.”

  “So it’s my fault you broke my favorite piece?”

  “I said I was sorry. What else do you want me to do?” he asks and dumps the remains of the cookie jar into the trash bin. I glare at Prescott. I pick up the pedestal that he knocked over and stare at the empty spot where my cookie jar should be. Any cease-fire that might have happened is officially over. The shop is officially a battle zone.

  Chapter Five

  Danny

  While brightly painted colonials dominate in New Hope, there are also quirky additions that give the town the feeling that everyone is welcome. There’s a tiny log cabin up Ferry Street that has sold maple syrup products for years, a cafe in a former church that hosts a Mardi Gras drag brunch every weekend complete with shiny beads and frozen drinks, and a building made out of recycled trash that sells art that’s also made out of recycled trash. The Beautiful Things Shoppe is a gorgeous orchid in the center of a slightly overrun garden. The morning of Winter Festival, I’m thrilled to start my first day as chief gardener—or at least co-chief gardener.