The Beautiful Things Shoppe

by Philip William Stover

  Vince and Tack are the last to leave. I decide to take inspiration from Danny and join the small talk as they are saying goodbye. Having Danny at my side makes chatting easier. I know I can count on him to fill any awkward silences.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say, hoping I don’t sound like a complete fool. I figure a simple thank-you is innocent enough.

  “Glad we came,” Vince says. “I knew the area had a great deal of Queen Anne style from the latter part of the century but this is the only building in the area with such exceptional Second Empire details.” Vince clearly knows what he’s talking about and I appreciate his comment.

  “Jules says that the bank looks like a drive-in burger joint in outer space. They love that building. We can’t let those buildings be torn down,” Tack adds.

  I must have a confused look on my face about who Jules is exactly or maybe I missed something. I’m so bad at carrying on a simple friendly conversation. I think maybe I should ask who Jules is. This is exactly why I hate small talk with new people. Is Jules someone I should already know? Will anyone be offended if I ask? Should I ask? As if he is reading my mind, Danny steps in.

  “Jules is Tack’s adorable eight-year-old kid.”

  “Right,” I say. Suddenly I remember hearing about Tack’s kid and a Strawberry Dumpling doll or something. I can’t believe I forgot. Glad I didn’t ask. This is the kind of barbed wire that keeps me away from small talk.

  “Don’t let them hear you say that. They are eight and three quarters, almost nine in a few months,” Tack says.

  “Nine. That’s a big one,” Danny says. “Let me find something special in the store. There’s a unicorn Beanie Baby with a glitter horn that I’m sure they would like.”

  “That’s super sweet of you, Danny. We better let the two of you get back to whatever it is you do when you’re in the store alone after hours,” Tack says, with his signature grin pasted across his face. Vince sighs and puts his arm around Tack. You can almost feel their connection from where I’m standing. It’s a sweet electricity and I wonder if it is contagious. Something stirs in me as I watch Danny smiling at them.

  “I’m glad you came to New Hope, Prescott. I hope we’ll be seeing more of you. Of both of you,” Vince says and he shakes my hand. He and Tack step out of the shop into the cold night air.

  We spend a few minutes restoring the shop to its previous condition in silence. It’s not the icy silence from moving in a few weeks ago. This silence is satisfying and comfortable. I think we both know tonight was a big success and that we have the support of the community behind us now. Now we can really make sure the city council and real estate developer listen to the community. We help each other move tables regardless of which side of the shop they are on, gather trash and put away folding chairs.

  “Look! Look!” Danny says suddenly, pointing out the window. The lights that are still on make it hard to see through the reflection in the large panes of glass. Danny walks to the wall and hits the light switches so only the night lights are on and immediately the window glare disappears to reveal a moon so bright it illuminates the entire town. I can see down to the river and moonbeams almost dance across slippery waves like candlelight on glass.

  “Hold on. I’ve got the perfect idea,” Danny says and he grabs a black-and-red-plaid thermos and matching tote that he has for sale on his side and goes back to the pantry. A minute later he comes back holding the tote in one hand and his camera in the other. “It’s a Snow Moon.”

  “A Snow Moon?”

  “Yeah, the full moon that rises in February is called a Snow Moon. It’s a Wolf Moon in January and you don’t want to know what it is in March.”

  “I don’t?” I ask playing along.

  “In March it’s called a Worm Moon.” He shudders. “Isn’t the very idea of that disgusting? But that’s what they call it.” He shrugs and it makes me laugh. He’s always making me laugh. I used to think Danny’s knowledge only revolved around toys and trinkets, but the truth is he knows a great deal about many things. Whereas my knowledge is so specific and focused, his is broad like an omnibus. “A moon like this when it’s snowing will make the most extraordinary light. I put some of the leftover cocoa in a thermos and I’ve got my camera. Let’s go take some pictures of the bank and Yardley House for social media. The moonlight reflecting off the snow will make that odd couple look stunning. What do you say?”

  At first, I don’t say anything. But then the feeling of exhilaration from being a part of something like this tonight overtakes me. I’ve spent so much time by myself in study carrels researching little-known facts about ephemera and I’m beginning to see what I’ve been missing. I usually would never accept an invitation like this, but tonight I just grab my blazer, square the brim on my Harris Tweed and say, “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Danny

  It’s late enough that everything is closed and the sidewalks haven’t been touched except for a few spots where prepared shop owners have salted the surface. It’s not wide enough to walk next to Prescott so I let him go ahead of me.

  My decision to let him lead is purely selfish. While I try to keep my mind on avoiding the slipperiest surfaces I’m actually staring at the nape of his neck. The space between where the tweed of his hat stops and where the collar of his coat begins is exposed. It’s only a small patch of skin but it’s so sexy. It’s winter and his skin still retains a natural bronze tone. His slightly delicate earlobes stick out from under his hat and I wonder what he would say if I told him how much I want to nibble on them.

  “Whoa,” I say as my foot gives out from under me. Prescott turns around immediately and grabs my elbow to stop me from falling.

  “You okay?” he asks. His blue eyes sharpening with sincere concern. He grabs my other elbow to steady me and now we are standing face-to-face, him holding my forearms. He looks at me and I look at him but before the moment becomes a moment I lose my footing again and begin to slip. I grab for a parking meter and use that to steady myself.

  “Sorry. I hit a slippery patch. I’m not good at walking on snow. We didn’t get much of it in Texas.” The sidewalk widens and there is enough room to walk side by side.

  “Is that where you grew up?” he asks.

  “Yeah, mostly. I’m part Mexican and some of my extended family is in Mexico so I spent a lot of time there, but I went to school in Texas.” I don’t say I went to one of the most elite boarding schools in the state or that the library and art museum in our town were named after my family. “Texas doesn’t really have seasons. Everything is sort of the same all year where I was. I love being up here, where every few months the world completely changes. It makes me feel like there are always possibilities for change.” I’m dangerously close to having to say more about my background so I toss the focus back to him. “Where did you grow up?”

  Prescott points across the river.

  “You grew up in New Jersey?” I ask, unable to conceal the surprise in my voice.

  Prescott laughs. “You don’t have to worry. I’m used to that reaction.”

  “And I thought I was doing such a good job of covering up my surprise.”

  “Danny, you do not have a poker face in any way. Everything you think or feel is always shown in your eyes.” He looks at me and shakes his head as if he has just said the most obvious thing in the world. “People look at me and think I’m very ‘to the manor born’ but that is far from the case.” There is a hint of disdain in his voice that makes me wonder what he would think about my background. Would it bring this evening to a halt?

  “What part of New Jersey?” I ask to keep the conversation moving.

  “As we say in the Garden State, I grew up ‘down the shore.’” He says the last part of the sentence in a pronounced Jersey accent that is too authentic not to be real. “And not in one of the idyllic retreats like Cape May. More like Atlantic City.”


  “Oooh, Atlantic City. I bet you strolled the boardwalk on summer days and ate saltwater taffy in the waves.”

  Prescott stops and looks at me. “Let me guess. You’ve never been to Atlantic City. It’s nothing like that. At least not the part where I grew up. It’s seedy and depressing and I hated it. The water smells and there’s nothing for a kid to do. My dad was a blackjack dealer. Still is. I grew up in this cramped studio apartment on a street you’d recognize from Monopoly. It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter.”

  “Oh,” I say, genuinely surprised by his revelation. “I had no idea.”

  “People see me surrounded by antiques and they hear my name and they assume a narrative for me. I was named after a character on a soap opera, if you’re wondering, which is why I took such offense when you commented on my name when we met,” he says without a hint of contempt.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Sometimes I just say whatever’s in my head. I don’t always have control over it. It just comes out.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Prescott says and then exhales and looks up at the sky. “Most of the stuff in my head just stays there.” I get the feeling that he wants to let some of it out.

  “I come from a big family. Everyone was always talking all the time so I just tried to keep up. The only time we weren’t talking was when we were eating or sleeping. Oh, and even that’s not true because one of my brothers talks in his sleep.”

  Prescott laughs and it’s the exact reaction I’m looking for in the moment. I’m about to make another joke when I look at Prescott and realize I don’t need to keep him laughing. I can maybe just ask him what I want to know and see where it takes us.

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I ask.

  “No. I’m an only child and my mom passed when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time by myself.”

  My heart twitches a little hearing him say that. “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Thank you.” He takes a deep breath and stares straight ahead. I can tell he is uncomfortable sharing this much about himself, but I also see that he’s trying to crack open just a bit. I feel him struggling and again quiet my own usual urge to make a joke or provoke him. I let him get where he needs to go with my silent support.

  “Mostly growing up was lonely. When I was a kid I’d wait for hours on my own for my dad to finish his shift. Behind the glitzy casinos in A.C. are rows of pawn shops. They had every kind of thing you could imagine. Tubas and skeletons and rare stamps and wedding dressings. There was this one shop where the lady knew me and my dad pretty well since he sold off almost anything we had that was worth anything. I’d go in there all the time. I got to know some of the merchandise well and every day Carol Ann would...” He stops midsentence and shakes his head like he’s trying to change lanes.

  I don’t know what to do. Usually I would jump in and finish the sentence for him. Carol Ann would jump up and down like a deranged turkey? Eat a rack of ribs? What? What? I take a deep breath and quiet myself letting Prescott take the lead.

  “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “I’ve been talking too much.”

  “Not at all,” I say realizing that he simply wants permission. “I want to hear more if you feel like telling me.” I look right into his beautiful eyes so he knows I’m sincere.

  Prescott looks back at me and starts talking again. “This woman, Carol Ann, she would teach me about all of the stuff right in the front of the store. She seemed to know everything about anything they had and her stories were fascinating.”

  “Is that how you first developed a love for antiques?” I ask searching his eyes to make sure I am not digging too deep.

  “Exactly. She was an expert in coins and she taught me to tell the difference between a fake and the real thing. I had an eye for it and I got good at it. I loved hearing about the history of the coins.” I love the thought of a tiny Prescott on his tiptoes looking over some case of ancient medallions. I wonder if he wore a tiny little tweed blazer but it also makes me sad to think of him there waiting for his dad.

  “Are you close with your dad?” I ask.

  “I guess. I mean he’s very quiet and keeps to himself.”

  “Like you?” I say very gently as the moonlight illuminates our path. I’m not making a judgment. I’m trying to make an observation. Prescott is reserved and keeps everyone at a distance. I know it shouldn’t, but seeing a crack in his exterior makes me want to rush in and open that crack more. But I’m careful. We walk a few yards in silence.

  “I suppose I’m like him in that way.” He wrinkles his nose just a bit as he says the words and it makes me think maybe he doesn’t want to keep the world so far from him all the time.

  “Sounds like Carol Ann is sweet. Are you still in touch with her?”

  “No,” he says sharply, and I wonder if I hit a sore point.

  We get to a bench that overlooks the bank and the Yardley House. I use my hand to brush off some snow. Prescott sits next to me. Did I ask the wrong question?

  “I’m not in touch with Carol Ann.” He says the words slowly and deliberately. “One day,” he starts very hesitantly and his willingness to share floods my heart. I make sure to listen carefully. “I walked over to the pawn shop excited about some new coin I had read about and there was Carol Ann, in handcuffs.”

  “What? That must have been devastating,” I say and put my hand on his arm to comfort him. He looks down at it as if it is the license he needs to continue.

  “It was. While I was in the front of the shop getting lessons from Carol Ann, the back of the shop had some nefarious criminal activity going on. The little boy at the counter was just a cover I guess. Or a distraction. I never found out.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” I’m devastated to hear that anyone could manipulate a child like that either intentionally or unintentionally.

  “Don’t be,” he says and shakes his head. “I learned a lot about history there and that’s what I majored in at U Penn before getting my Master’s in Decorative Arts there. I made sure I would never be able to get fooled by a fake again. I love spotting a forgery and exposing the guilty party.” He folds his arms over his chest signaling a decision to change the subject. He’s been incredibly open with me in ways that are clearly beyond his boundaries. “What about you and your dad or mom?” he asks clearly changing the focus of our chat. “Are you close?”

  “Well everyone says I look exactly like my dad and he looked like his dad so we are definitely close in appearance. My dad was working all the time.”

  “Yours too? My dad would take any shift he could at the tables. Anything to pay the bills and make ends meet, right?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” I say hoping that isn’t too much of a fib. I don’t want the mood to change with some big reveal about how we never had to worry about money. He’s just told me this devastating memory so I might not share too many details about the trust fund that has been a part of my life as long as my cowlick. Maybe for once I can keep my mouth shut.

  I take out the mugs I snagged from the pantry and open the thermos. The steam from the hot cocoa rises up and I tilt the container toward him as he sits down next to me. “I put some marshmallows in so I’m sure they’re nice and mushy now.” I pour the milky brown liquid into a mug and hand him his before pouring one for myself. The snow has slowed down but there are still enough flakes that a few land on the surface of my cocoa and melt instantly. I hold my mug up in front on my face, letting the steam warm my skin.

  “A toast,” I say. “To saving the First Bank of Bucks and the Yardley House.”

  He smiles, holds up his mug and says, “To opposites.” His grin warms me more than the mug in my hand. Honestly I don’t know if he’s toasting the buildings or us.

  We clink and both take a sip of the hot beverage. The two buildings are such an odd couple. The bank on the left is all lines and w
indows while the one on the right is formal elegance. Something about the dusting of snow makes their differences merge in the moonlight. I should be taking some pictures for social media but the mood is too sweet and too gentle to start thinking about anything other than just being here in this moment.

  “That’s curious,” Prescott says, taking a sip of his drink.

  “It’s cinnamon. I always put some in my hot chocolate. There is even a hint of nutmeg in there. It’s a family thing.” I don’t tell him it’s the recipe my grandfather built his whole food empire on. Amore Chocolate is the cornerstone of the empire but right now it’s just cocoa in a thermos.

  He chuckles softly and his breath makes brief clouds of moisture appear before his face. “Delicious but I mean I was just thinking... I’ve never told anyone about Carol Ann at the pawn shop before.” He takes another sip and smiles.

  “Why not? I mean I’m sorry it turned out so badly but it’s also nice to know that there was someone who helped you and encouraged you.”

  “I’m not good at talking about myself. I mean give me a piece of garniture and I can go on and on. But when people ask me about myself I always start with my time at U Penn. It’s not like I’m embarrassed of how I was raised or where I grew up. But the deeper background is actually kind of messy.”

  “Well, I know how you feel about mess,” I say raising my eyebrows.

  “You’re right. I don’t like it. I like things organized and tidy. I like to study history because it is a series of events where one leads to another. Even though it’s unpredictable it’s something that can be contained because those are all events that have already happened.”

  “I get it,” I say softly. I think I’m beginning to understand Prescott. He like things the way he does because he really struggles being in the moment. I noticed how much he hides from people when he isn’t talking about antiques and I remember how quick he was to turn down that dinner invitation to Vince and Tack’s. I don’t think he was being a snob. I think he was scared. “Well maybe next time you tell the story of your life you should find a new beginning. I like to think of you as a young numismatic.”