The Beautiful Things Shoppe

by Philip William Stover

  “You know, your dusty bin and my rapid bidding aren’t as far apart as you might think.”

  The auctioneer slams his gavel and announces the sold price. “Are you kidding? Did you just hear that? The price for that dish is twenty times more than the entire contents of the St. Stanislaw rummage sale.”

  “That’s true but that’s not what I mean,” I say pleasantly. “Both are really about the thrill of the hunt, aren’t they? We have that in common and maybe more,” I say making sure my tone is as flirty as possible.

  Danny looks at me with a quizzical expression on his face and then takes out his cell phone.

  “Hang on a second. I want to call St. Stanislaw and see if they accidentally did some Polish exorcism on you. You were super nice on the drive here and now you’re being even nicer. Not to mention I think you should see an optometrist because you treated my clown painting like it was a Degas.”

  I chuckle on the inside knowing that not reacting to his painting would throw him for a loop. I want him to see that I can be magnanimous under the right conditions. For a second I think about telling him about what Kasia said right then and there, but I think I may just wait on that.

  “Put your phone down,” I say laughing. “There’s nothing wrong with me. Let me register and then we can go to the smalls in the West Room. I want to show you why we’re here.” I give him a big smile then gently touch him on the arm. I make sure my hand lingers on him just long enough before heading over to registration.

  I’ve never acted so outré in my entire life, but Kasia has given me a boost of confidence and helped me realize I’m willing to come out of my shell if it means Danny might be there waiting for me.

  Danny

  “I don’t know why you made me get a paddle,” I tell Prescott. “I have no intention of bidding on anything here. I should go back to the van.”

  What has gotten into this guy and how can I make it stop? It’s one thing to argue and bicker with him and pretend that I’m not attracted to him, but it’s another entirely to have to stop myself from jumping on his lips when he’s being so sweet—dangerously flirtatious, even. I’m trying to stay focused on keeping it professional and resist him but he’s making it impossible which is making me mad which is making me horny which puts me right back to wanting to jump on his lips. This is not going well.

  “Something might catch your eye and you can’t bid without a paddle.” He holds his up to me and for a split second I think about taking him back to the van with our paddles. Instead, after we register we go to find the piece he has come in search for. I walk through the doorway and survey the old, dusty antiques. It’s like a snooze fest on display tables. “This is like some museum for the boring.”

  “Well, yes the quality of objets here is museum standard but they’re anything but boring. Oh, look, there it is.” He points to a table a few yards away. “Let me show you.” He pulls out a retractable pointer that I have seen him use in the store to point out detail in some of his more delicate objects. Watching him grab the pointer and fully extending it should not be part of my erotic fantasy but I can’t help myself. I shake my head and cover my eyes with my hand.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks not knowing the gymnastics happening in my brain.

  “Yes, fine,” I say fanning myself with my paddle.

  “Don’t do that in the auction. You’ll bid on something without knowing and be stuck buying it,” he says. A look of horror washes over me at the thought of having any of this stuff in my possession.

  “There it is. Isn’t it magnificent?” He uses his pointer to identify the ugliest metal mug I’ve ever seen. It’s actually not ugly. Ugly would be an improvement. It is a few inches high and made of gray, dank metal. There is a dark patina covering the entire thing.

  “Prescott, if I saw this mug on the street I would put it in the garbage. No, wait. I’d see if it was recyclable metal and then I’d drop it in the recycle bin.”

  “I’ll have you know this mug is one of the rarest examples of nineteenth-century pewter ever made. At the time this design was unique, innovative even. Most of the mugs were straight cylinders but this mug was made in the Cunningham Studio just outside of Philadelphia. It was one of the first mugs to use a more bulbous form. They call this the pear shape or belly.”

  Despite my outward protest I love hearing him talk about the things in his collection. The way he makes things that are part of the past part of the present is both intriguing and attractive.

  “If I can add this mug to the collection of Cunningham that I already have it will increase the value tenfold. I might even get the collection featured in Art & Antiques.”

  “I bet if you really polish it up you might even get the centerfold,” I tell him. He laughs but then his mood shifts abruptly.

  “Oh, no,” he says and a dark cloud has descended.

  “What?” I ask. Without thinking I put my hand on his arm to comfort him. My hand should bounce off him but in this moment it stays there and it doesn’t seem like I want to move it.

  “This isn’t good. They raised the estimated value. This might be out of my price range.”

  “Let me see,” I say moving toward the identification tag. “What?” I shout so loud a few people stop and stare. “For that mug?” I’m about to go into how overinflated all of this stuff is but instead I change my tune. He’s been so nice today and I might as well reward his effort with being nice back. “Well if that is what you think it’s worth...” I start to say when I am cut off.

  “Daniel Roman? Is that you?” A distinguished gentleman in a three-piece suit walks over to me.

  My heart drops into my stomach when I see who is approaching me. “Mr. Cassiday. Hello, how nice to see you,” I say smiling. How am I going to explain knowing one of the richest collectors in the world? I’ve been leading Prescott to believe I come from good working-class stock so this might blow my cover. I think I can use some smoke and mirrors as long as he doesn’t mention my father.

  “I was just speaking with your father on the phone last week.” Crap. Well, how am I going to explain that? “He told me you had a little shop in New Hope.”

  “I do,” I say. “Well, we do. We share the floor. Prescott Henderson, I’d like to introduce you to...”

  “Christopher Cassiday,” Prescott says extending his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you in person. I’ve been a long admirer of your collection. In fact, I studied it extensively in graduate school. Your salt glaze collection was transformational for me.”

  “Well, thank you, young man,” Mr. Cassiday says. “Daniel, please give your best to your father if I don’t speak to him first. A piece I’m interested in is just about up. Prescott, so nice to meet you,” Christopher says as he leaves.

  Once he is out of earshot Prescott turns to me with his mouth wide open. “You know Christopher Cassiday?”

  “No, not really,” I say. “I mean my father does.”

  “You father actually knows Christopher Cassiday?” he asks with the same level of shock and excitement.

  “Just a little tiny bit I guess,” I say as nonchalantly as possible, pretending I have no idea who the man is even though I’ve known him since I was a kid. He bought my sister a pony for her birthday last year. Well actually it was a racehorse but same idea.

  “He’s one of the most important collectors in the country. No, wait. Scratch that. He’s one of the most important collectors in the world. How does your father know him?”

  “I can’t remember. I think my dad worked on one of his cars or something...” I say the first thing that comes to mind that’s as close to the truth as I want to get in the moment. My dad and Cassiday share a love for vintage automobiles and they each have a private garage full of them. I do remember my dad helped him with something on his Duesenberg.

  “Is your dad a mechanic? I thought you said he was a chef,” Prescott
says, more confused than suspicious.

  “He knows his way around an engine so he does a lot of odd jobs,” I say trying to be as vague as possible but remain technically accurate. The truth is my father sold Cassiday an entire chain of automotive parts stores that he acquired as part of some larger deal. The transaction was in the multimillions. Of course, now that I’ve led Prescott to believe that my dad was a part-time mechanic, I can’t go telling him the truth. What would be the point? “Hey, shouldn’t we get a seat so you can go bid on your whatever that boring thing is?”

  “Moving on to lot 871. Armoires and desks,” I hear coming from the main auction room.

  “Didn’t you also have your eye on a few of the small furniture pieces?”

  “Yes, but don’t change the subject...”

  “We drove the van all the way here. If we just go back with your little mug you could have ridden here on a bicycle. Now grab your paddle and let’s see how much fun we can have,” I say and then I pause. “Oh, that’s weird,” I say putting my hand to my mouth.

  “What?”

  “I never thought one gay man would say that to another outside of a leather bar on Folsom Street but there you go.”

  Prescott laughs and I definitely notice it’s his real laugh, not his fake one. Which I probably don’t deserve, seeing as how I’ve just almost-but-maybe-not-quite lied to him. Suddenly the name of the racehorse Mr. Cassiday bought my sister comes to mind—“Moment of Truth”—and the knot in my stomach tightens.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Prescott

  How in the world does Danny know Christopher Cassiday and why was he cagey about all of it? I mean, Danny knows every single person within a ten-mile radius of New Hope so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, but Cassiday lives in New York City and Paris and Rome. The story he gave me about his father doing work on one of his cars doesn’t completely add up, but I can’t figure out which number is in the wrong column.

  “Moving on to the nine-hundreds lot. Silver, pewter and metalwork,” the auctioneer says. As much as I want to find out the answer to what’s going on with Danny, I need to focus on the auction. I go over what I’ve spent so far on furniture. I’m at the absolute limit of my budget, but I should have enough for the tankard if the bidding doesn’t go wild. It’s hard to know what the crowd’s appetite for metal will be. We get a few pieces in and it seems like things are hot. A set of Victorian serving utensils goes for way more than it’s worth, but still utensils and tankards often circulate in different markets.

  Danny gently taps me on my knee with his paddle. “Good luck,” he says and it gives me confidence. I want to linger on the feeling but I need to concentrate on the bidding.

  The auctioneer moves to the next item up for bid. “Here we have an exceptional and rare pear-shaped pewter mug forged at the Cunningham Studio outside of Philadelphia.”

  “The pear shape is quite rare, I’m told,” Danny says with encouragement.

  “So it is,” I say, staying focused on the auctioneer.

  “I will open the bidding at...”

  As soon as the amount comes out of his mouth I move my paddle up. This is finally my chance to complete my Cunningham set and make my pewter collection one of the most outstanding in the region. Danny smiles at me with pride and although I haven’t really done anything impressive it makes me feel good. At first there are no other bids. For a second I think I might get this for the opener but auctions are always unpredictable. They can trick you into a false sense of comfort. One second you think you’re in control and the next you’re in over your head.

  “Do I have any more bids—going once...” My heart races quickly thinking I might be getting the deal of the century. Then suddenly a murmur spreads around the room like the simmer in a pot of boiling water.

  “Mr. Cassiday meets the bid with paddle 456.” The auctioneer himself looks impressed.

  “Why is everyone freaking out?” Danny asks.

  “If Mr. Cassiday bids it creates a sort of uncontrollable wildfire. He has one of the most important eyes in the industry. Some people will bid just because they see he’s bidding since it means it must be undervalued. This is not good.”

  The bidding heats up and I do my best to stay in the game. Cassiday bids again and then some others and then back to me. I am over my budget for sure but I can’t help bidding. I want that piece. The bidding gets even hotter and even though I am in over my head I can’t help but stay in. Cassiday drops out but another bidder makes a huge increase and I put my paddle on my lap.

  “What are you doing?” Danny asks.

  “I can’t stay in. It’s way over my budget. I can’t afford it.”

  The bidding keeps escalating even with Cassiday out of the competition.

  “Do I hear any more bids?” the auctioneer asks.

  “Let’s just get out of here,” I say.

  “Going once, going twice, all in or all out...”

  The auctioneer raises his gavel and is about to close the deal when suddenly I hear Danny say, “Me! Yes. I want. Please accept my bid.” He uses his paddle like a fan waving at the auctioneer despite the fact that one only need raise it without emotion. That’s Danny. He leads with his enthusiasm. But what in the world is he doing?

  “I’ve got a new bid from the very excited young man in the Star Wars T-shirt,” the auctioneer says with a snarl.

  “It’s Star Trek, you heathen,” Danny shouts back and there is a roar of laughter. Only Danny could take a room of overstuffed collectors and make them snort sounds of laughter.

  “Danny have you lost your mind?” I ask him. Does he have any idea what he’s doing?

  “Yes,” he says surveying the room almost daring anyone to bid against him. “I’m absolutely crazy for that cup.”

  “It’s a tankard,” I say. “That’s an absurd amount of money.”

  “Do I hear any more bids?” the auctioneer announces.

  “Then I’m absolutely crazy for that tankard. I want it in our shop,” he says raising his paddle again.

  “Sir, you have the high bid at the moment. Unless you wish to pay more I suggest you put your paddle down,” the auctioneer says from the stage, smiling at Danny and obviously taken in by his charm.

  “Thank you,” Danny says.

  “Sold!” the auctioneer shouts and there is a polite smattering of applause.

  “I’m going to put that tankard right next to my new clown painting,” Danny says turning to me and looking in my eyes. I can’t believe what he has done. The price for the pewter piece went through the roof. There is no way I could afford it and I don’t see how Danny could. Even Cassiday knew when to bow out. You need deep pockets to be so aggressive at an auction like that.

  “Now we go check out. Is that how it works?” he asks standing up from his seat. He suddenly seems a bit nervous and I wonder if the gravity of what he has done is sinking in.

  “Yes, I guess so,” I say. But I have so many questions. I’m not sure what’s going on. He knows how badly I wanted that piece and it was an incredibly kind thing to do. But that was an obscene amount of money for something that wasn’t even for himself. How in the world could he afford to make a bid like that?

  Danny

  “I’ll meet you at the cashier. I have to run to the restroom,” I say and scurry away as fast as I can, avoiding Prescott and the catalog of questions he must have.

  “Danny, wait what...” I hear him say as I break out in a near jog.

  Once I’m safe inside a private bathroom the reality of what I just did hits me. I just bought a two-thousand-dollar mug. Two thousand dollars. On a mug. Correction, a tankard.

  I look at myself in the mirror and grab the edges of the sink. I turn on the taps so I can splash some water on my face, hoping that it will bring me to my senses. Where is Cher when I need her to give me a good slap and tell me to snap
out of it?

  I’ve completely destroyed any pretense that I’m not interested in Prescott. It was impulsive and reckless but what could I do? I looked over at him during the auction. Seeing him place that first bid was thrilling, a major turn-on. His eyes were dancing like children bouncing off the walls the night before Christmas. I’ve seen him intense and even passionate about things but that childlike joy was a first. I couldn’t stop watching him.

  But then it looked like he wasn’t going to get the high bid and everything just sort of collapsed inside him. I know how much he wanted to complete that set. I could see the happiness evaporate from his eyes and it did something inside me. I felt his disappointment. I felt it with him. Then I just wanted to stop him from feeling anything bad. I wanted to protect him, but I also wanted to see that joy return to his eyes.

  My arm was like, “Hey, buddy, I have an idea,” and without any approval from my brain, just rose up and stuck my paddle in the air.

  I bought a two-thousand-dollar mug. I promised myself I would support myself only from the shop’s income, but this means I’ll need to transfer money from my trust fund to stay in business. It won’t make a dent in the account but it does damage my credibility in being able to support myself on my own financially. Then there’s the big stink bomb that I have led, or rather misled Prescott to believe that I am, shall I say, not the child of a gabillionaire. How does someone who is working tirelessly to make the store a success just drop 2K on a hunk of metal? How am I going to explain this to him?

  Maybe I should take this opportunity to come clean. But then I think about how nice he’s been today and I don’t want to ruin that. He thinks I’m just a regular hardworking guy and I am except for the fact that I’m also not.

  I splash my face with water one more time, hoping it will give me an epiphany about how to either explain what I’ve done or just avoid talking about it altogether. The latter seems like the only realistic option though it will take some maneuvering. We’ll get in the van, drive straight back to New Hope and this confusing, exciting, excruciating, partly wonderful day will come to an end.