The Beautiful Things Shoppe

by Philip William Stover

  Then I remember I have to pick up the order of cinnamon snaps that I placed when I still had my favorite cookie jar. It was too late to cancel and I didn’t want Mona to have to suffer the financial loss anyway. I’ll find something else to serve them in, but that’s not the point. How could Prescott be so careless? The way he acted afterward just shows how insensitive he is. He thinks things are only valuable only if they appraise at some astronomical figure or have some artistic pedigree. I loved that cookie jar and that’s what made it special. It makes my blood boil to think about the way he just dismisses the value of emotional attachment.

  “Hey, Mona,” I say as I walk in and try to shake off the cold and my anger at Prescott. “Are you ready for Winter Festival?”

  She looks down at her flour-covered apron and then back at me. “My apron looks like it, don’t you think? I’ve been up baking all the night. I’ve got your order in the back. Let me just finish with these cupcakes.” She grabs a tray of white beauties with spun sugar on the top and starts placing them on a pedestal.

  “Thanks,” I say and start drooling over all of the baked goods on display.

  “You’re lucky I’m not making you work behind the counter today,” she says as she keeps moving pastries from the tray to the display.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask grabbing a paper cup for the self-serve coffee.

  “Timmy, the new counter help I hired, said that two men were arguing yesterday over a scone and he didn’t know what to do and that maybe he should work in the kitchen. He said one of the men was a handsome blond and the other was wearing cheeseburger Crocs and a Star Wars T-shirt.”

  “Damn, my incredible flair for fashion. I could never get away with robbing a bank. I’m too stylish,” I say surveying myself ostentatiously to amplify my joke.

  “What happened? Who was the guy you had the argument with?”

  “It’s not an argument. It’s arguments. Plural. He’s the guy I’m sharing Arthur’s shop with. I had no idea I was only getting half the shop. That part’s fine. I guess. But this guy is unbelievable. He’s formal and fussy all the time and the things he sells are even more formal and fussier. Not to mention that he shattered my most favorite cookie jar.” I shudder at the thought of it in pieces on the ground. “It’s like, ugh, I hate to use the cliché but oil and water.”

  She places the last cupcake on the pedestal and then looks directly at me. “Hey, Danny, I got news for you. You know what’s in these cupcakes? Oil and water. And I think they come out pretty great if I do say so myself. The key is adding the right amount of sugar. It helps things emulsify.” I stare at the small white clusters of frosting and cake and wonder how long she has to beat the ingredients together until they behave.

  “Anyway, I talked Timmy down but it took a chunk of time. You want to make it up to me?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I got my brother to agree to run the bakery this spring while I go walk the Camino de Santiago. Help me out by introducing him to some nice guys. He needs to settle down.”

  “I follow his Insta. He’s a hottie. Sure, no problem. I’d put myself on the list but I’m taking a break from dating.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to focus on making the shop work and guys complicate things.”

  A bell from the kitchen goes off. “I’ll be right back. I got a batch of Kitchen Sink Muffins ready to come out. Let me deal with them and I’ll get your cookies.”

  Mona leaves and I walk down to the end of the counter. I gaze at the cupcakes and think about her oil and water remark. Prescott and I are worse than oil and water. We are fresh-squeezed orange juice and minty toothpaste. Try making that into a delectable dessert? I see the scones under the dome. This morning there are plenty of them. When I saw Prescott order the last scone through the window I don’t know what came over me. I swooped in and bought it out from under him just like he suspected but I would never let him know that. I can’t help pushing his buttons. It’s like a turn-on but not really because I can’t stand the guy. It’s more like a spark, but the kind that happens just before the oil refinery explodes.

  Mona comes back out with my order and for a second I think about making a truce and celebrating our first day with a pair of scones but what would be the point? Prescott would never appreciate the gesture. Our battle lines have been drawn and maybe it’s better if I just stick to them. I walk away from the scones and any thought of a cease-fire.

  As I approach the shop I grab my keys out of my pocket to unlock the door but stop dead in my tracks at what I see through the window. If I were a religious person I would get on my knees and cross myself twice in front of the vision before me.

  I walk inside and shout, “What is that?” so loud I wonder if a few icicles shake on the awning outside. Prescott is warming his hands in front of the potbelly stove that he has already got roaring.

  “What is what?” he responds with a pretend nonchalance.

  I walk over to the pedestal that was empty when I left the store last night and gently pet the beautiful red-and-white Snoopy cookie jar with Woodstock joyfully teetering on the top of the dog’s nose. “Where did this come from?” I ask, wondering if it’s some type of mirage. I should see if my hand can pass right through it.

  “That came from a Ms. Polly Snavely,” Prescott says.

  I put my hands on the jar and I’m about ready to turn it over when Prescott says, “Best not to disturb it. The next closest one is in Tennessee and I’m not up for another long drive.” He goes to his fancy desk and sits as if the subject is closed.

  I walk over to his desk and stand in front of him. He smells like Ivory soap and is all freshly scrubbed for the day wearing a perfectly fitted tweed blazer with elbow patches. “You are going to have to explain this. How did you? What did you? When?”

  “After I left the shop last evening I mailed back the gloves and then went online and found an original first edition cookie jar exactly like the one that I accidentally damaged. The woman was willing to part with it after some intense negotiating. I gassed up the delivery van, drove out to Harrisburg last night, came back and put it on your pedestal this morning. There really isn’t that much of a mystery surrounding it. Although there might be some intrigue with the van. It was making a strange rattling during the last twenty miles. Arthur has already agreed to get it checked out for us.” Prescott goes back to his laptop like he just explained how to boil water.

  “Harrisburg? That’s like two and a half hours away. Five hours round trip. You drove all the way to Harrisburg? Last night? Are you out of your mind?”

  He looks up from his computer and rolls his eyes. “You know a simple thank-you would suffice.”

  “Thank you,” I say immediately. He’s right. “Thank you, thank you. I’m just so shocked that you did that. That you went through all the trouble to find it and then went to all the trouble to get it here in time for the opening.”

  “It was my accident and my responsibility. It was the least I could do,” he says, still not looking at me.

  “Actually, it was the most you could do,” I say swallowing hard and feeling guilty about not picking up a scone for him when I had the chance this morning. I’m touched by his gesture and regret my attitude yesterday. I look him squarely in the eye and say as sincerely as I can, “Thank you.”

  * * *

  “Thank you, for shopping with us, ma’am. You have a beautiful things evening,” I say, opening the door to the shop to let the last customer out and turning the sign from Open to Closed. Our first day is officially over.

  “Have a beautiful things evening?” Prescott asks raising his eyebrows.

  “It never hurts to lean into the brand,” I say and walk over to my desk. I take out the old hot chocolate tin I use for my receipts and add the final few sales to it before plopping down on the overstuffed chair in the corner. “I think we had an
excellent opening. I wrapped so many Scooby-Doo glasses in newspaper I think my fingers have a permanent black tint to them.”

  “Business was brisk,” Prescott says as he starts to go through his own receipts for the day. He stops before he gets to the end of the pile and sits down at the chair at his desk. “I’m exhausted too. Exhausted and starving. I didn’t even have time for lunch.”

  Prescott is resting his eyes, leaning back in his chair in recovery mode and it gives me a chance to really look at him. He is impossibly handsome. Even after a long hard day he has these classic features that remain so exquisitely arranged on his face that nothing can really distract from their appeal. Then I get a terrible idea that I know is a terrible idea in every part of my body but for some reason my mouth is not on speaking terms with my brain so I hear myself saying, “Hey, The Hideaway Inn is having their Winter Festival Burger Special. Let’s grab something.” Prescott looks at me with a bit of suspicion. “Dinner is my treat. The Snoopy cookie jar was a great conversation piece and the cinnamon snaps tasted even better out of that jar. I want to thank you. What do you say?”

  I hate eating alone and both of us are hungry. We were so busy today that we forgot about hating each other. Why not keep things trending in the right direction?

  “I am starving but I’m sure that place is packed with tourists,” Prescott says.

  “You’re in luck. I happen to know the chef, Tack, and the house manager, Anita. Tack makes this incredible veggie burger if you’re into that sort of thing, but they also get all of their meats locally. Have you been in there yet?”

  “No, but I’ve been wanting to try it since I moved here.” I can see him weighing the decision in his head.

  “We could talk about the store, maybe plan a promotion or something. That would make it a business meeting. Tax deductible even.”

  “I mean a business meeting after the first day makes sense. Why not?”

  “Great,” I say and get up so I can start turning off the lamps and straightening up the area where I check people out. Prescott does the same thing on his side of the shop and then we both head to the back of the store at the same time. “I just want to make sure the pantry area is tidy.”

  “That’s what I was going to do,” he says. “I’m a bit of a neat freak in case you haven’t noticed.” His tone is warm and sincere, like he is making a confession.

  “Actually, I hadn’t noticed,” I say. “Because I’ve probably been too busy tidying up myself. I’m a neat freak too,” I say.

  “I think we finally found something we have in common. Let’s go argue over who gets to wipe down the counter,” he says and we tidy up quickly and begin to shut down the store. Once we’re ready to lock up and head out I switch the lights from the bright day mode to overnight where only spotlights illuminate a few corners of the shop.

  One of the lights shines directly on the Snoopy cookie jar. I still can’t believe he drove all the way across the state to replace the original. I look at Woodstock sitting on top of Snoopy and I wonder how an aloof and unflappable black-and-white beagle became so close with a sputtering and fluttering yellow bird. Prescott opens the door for me and I take one last look at the ceramic duo and then head out of the shop beside him.

  Chapter Six

  Prescott

  The winter sun has already set so any fleeting warmth has been replaced by brisk cool air. The streets are still crowded with people enjoying the ice sculptures illuminated by the period street lamps. Soft pools of flickering light dot the street. Danny is bundled up in a sherpa-lined corduroy jacket. A wind snaps around the corner and I’m surprised by my desire to snuggle between Danny’s fur and that sherpa lining. I tell myself it’s the cold that’s making me have crazy thoughts. It’s not like this is a date. It’s a business meeting. I make a mental note to remind myself to get a receipt.

  The Hideaway Inn is just a short walk from the shop. I’ve passed by the converted stone farmhouse plenty of times, but I’ve never been inside. As we approach I notice a line of tourists waiting to be seated.

  “We can go someplace else,” I say to Danny.

  “Nah, it’ll be fine. There’s always room for locals,” he says and walks over to a woman in a wheelchair with some menus in her lap. “Anita, sweetie, how have you been?” He bends down to kiss her on both cheeks and she returns the gesture.

  “Danny, how did it go? I saw people going in and out all day from here. Were sales good? Did that stuffed shirt give you any problems?” she asks, not realizing I am the stuffed shirt and I’m standing next to Danny.

  “The stuffed shirt,” I say, “did not give him any problems.”

  Anita laughs and looks me up and down. “And you said he had no sense of humor.”

  “Prescott, I would like you to meet Anita Patel, the manager of The Hideaway,” Danny says. I smile at her and nod, showing them both I’m able to take a joke sometimes.

  “Come on, Stuffed Shirt,” Anita says. “I’ve got a great table for you overlooking the river in the side dining room.” Danny and I follow her and as soon as we enter the smaller dining room I’m taken by the view of the river. It looks almost purple-violet in the moonlight and the snow on the banks looks like dollops of frozen whipped cream. We take a seat and Anita says, “Clayton is a bit overwhelmed tonight so if he doesn’t come by to take your order someone else will.”

  “Got it. Poor Clayton. He stresses on busy nights,” Danny says, opening the menu. “He’s been the server here since as long as I can remember,” he continues, “but he’s not really good with crowds and this place has been packed since Vince bought it. Vince is the owner and Tack, his boyfriend—or I guess I should now say fiancé—is the chef. They had a big party celebrating their engagement just before the holidays.”

  “Is there anyone here you don’t know?” I ask Danny. He looks up from the menu and scans the room.

  “Don’t think so,” he says and then he looks more closely at the table right next to us. “Oh, wait.” He puts down his menu and turns to the man and woman sitting at the table next to us.

  “Hey, there. Sorry to bother you. I’m Danny Roman and this is Prescott Henderson. We are the proprietors of The Beautiful Things Shoppe down the street. I don’t think we’ve met.” He says all of this without a hint of embarrassment or hesitation. I am, of course, mortified. There are burlesque performers more reserved than Danny. He jumps into everything. He jumps into life without so much as a second glance. I think through everything, analyze every detail. There is a part of him that scares the crap out of me but if I’m being honest there is another part that charms me. I wonder what it would be like to live in the world so carefree.

  “Well, isn’t that mighty friendly of you,” the man says with an accent I quickly identify as being from the Carolinas. “We were told Northerners were unfriendly but everyone we’ve met here has been so nice.”

  “Just a charming place,” the woman says. “I’m glad we decided to take a little vacation here for Winter Festival. I’m Taylor,” she says.

  “And I’m Taylor,” the man says.

  I look at Danny who looks as confused as I am. “You’re both Taylor?”

  They laugh. “We know. We get that reaction all the time. Yep, we are both Taylor. It causes a great deal of confusion,” he says.

  “But it’s also a lot of fun. Might be what has kept us together over thirty years.”

  “Thirty years? That’s impressive. Enjoy your evening and the rest of your time in New Hope. Check out our store while you’re here. We’d love to have you visit.”

  “Mighty kind of you,” Taylor says and Taylor nods.

  Danny turns back to me. “Well now I can say a confident yes. The man and woman seated at that table are Taylor. Do you want me to introduce you to everyone else?” he asks. The very thought of talking to a roomful of people makes me shut down a bit. I could never talk to people th
e way Danny does.

  “There are at least twenty people seated in this room. Do you mean to tell me you know each one of them?”

  “Yes. I mean I just met Taylor and Taylor, but everyone else I’ve already met. It’s a small town. People know each other.” He waves to a table of people who raise their drinks and wave back. He does know everyone and everyone seems to like him. I’ve never been great at that kind of thing. I can talk for hours about porcelain manufacturing or trade patterns but small talk with a stranger about things like the weather or current events? Forget it. I always say the wrong thing and regret it for hours after. I try to just keep to myself to prevent embarrassment. I guess people think that’s being standoffish.

  Danny pops up from behind his menu. “The veggie burger. It’s out of this world. Tack mixes beans with fresh herbs and then grills the whole thing before putting it on a brioche bun. Heaven.”

  I’m starving and it sounds like a veggie burger will hit the spot. “Sounds good. I’ll have one too.”

  Danny drops his menu and holds his face with both hands, imitating the Munch painting. “I’m shocked,” he says with over-the-top fake surprise.

  “Why? It sounds delicious,” I say, not sure what has prompted his reaction.

  “Of course, but maybe we should order a bottle of champagne. That’s only the second time we’ve agreed since we’ve met. Neat freaks who like veggie burgers.” He raises one eyebrow and throws me a grin-laced smile that lands right in my gut. A warm feeling of comfort rises in my body, but I quickly convince myself that it’s hot air from the stone fireplace.