KLDE had the knack. Ain’t Nothin’ Like The Real Thing by Marvin Gaye and Tammy Terrell flowed from my radio. Gabriel’s eyes carefully scanned my face. “I can live without you Cherie, but I don’t want to,” he said quietly. “I can’t erase my mistakes. Especially the one I made regarding the abortion. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize your pain over that loss. I should’ve shown more love and emotional support. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Let’s forgive each other. I hurt you by rushing away years ago. Neither of us behaved responsibly back then, but I think we’ve changed a bit.” I stood from the chair and took a few steps toward the shop window.
“It’s May ninth,” he said, stopping me in my tracks and turning me around to face him.
“Really?” I grinned. “I hadn’t noticed.” With my green eyes softly locked on his baby blues, I leaned against him and reveled in the warmth of our gentle, guilt-free kiss.
“I love you,” we said in unison. Gabriel pulled me against him and placed another delicious kiss on my mouth. Everything stood still as those old familiar feelings and years of history between us, melted together.
“Hey, I heard it through the grapevine that Vegas has round-the-clock wedding chapels.”
“Beau’s favorite city?” I rubbed my lipstick residue from his mouth. “What a perfect place to have my spiritual guide as our witness.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll buy clothes when we get there, so git in the truck, Blondie and let’s head to the airport. I can’t think of a better day for you to go from being Ms. O’Quinn back to being Mrs. O’Quinn.”
“That’s a fact and not a fiction.”
30
It’s been nine and a half years since our May ninth Las Vegas wedding, and we’re still celebrating marital bliss. No, it’s not one hundred percent perfect, but close enough it’s unlikely friends and family are still wagering on our survival rate. We sold both homes and moved to Tiki Island, a sleepy waterfront community closer to my shop. Gabriel watches Letterman with me, and I not only read Ken Hoffman’s column, I occasionally write Ken about finding Houston’s best French martini. I still don’t give an embryotic rat’s ass about fast food. Otherwise, when problems arise, no one clams up and no one runs away. We deal with issues like responsible, mature adults who know we’re lucky to have a second chance.
Our relationship with Gabriel’s daughters has flourished, and despite forgiving Gloria and Hope, we remain respectfully distant. Ellen and Mother often come to Houston where we attend Lynn’s favorite, the Deborah Duncan TV show. If Deborah ever does a show about being thankful for family members who bail you out of jams without casting judgment, we’ll be guests instead of audience members. My nephew Jim and his wife Roxanne are now parents of champagne blonde, future femme fatale, Alexis. Kent faded to black eons earlier, and due to their special bond built over decades, Gabriel walked Nikki down the aisle. They both grinned while making the short walk, like a duo with special secrets under their hats. Nikki and Tad are celebrating year eight and have given us three darling granddaughters and Luke married his longtime girlfriend, Chloé who blessed us with twin grandsons.
Ten years have brought countless familiar faces through my shop, including Patrice and her retired airline pilot husband, Art, Eduardo and his twenty year companion, Brian, Bianca and Brandon with their six (yes, six) children, babysitter extraordinaire Rachel, all the way from Florida, and even a recently divorced and still effervescent Katie, who lives in the area and stopped in solely due to my shop’s name. Browsing with one of her two grown daughters, Kat recognized me immediately even though I was nowhere near the register. We’ve both changed since our youth, but our bond remains special. She drops by from time to time and once a year we trek to Houston for lunch at Brennan’s. A trip filled with reminiscing about our mischievous teen years and sharing favorite memories of our beloved Beau.
Even with my business thriving, next year I’m selling to savor life on the bay. A former workaholic, Gabriel now rarely oversees his crews, much less works with them. Our pace has slowed as we focus on enjoying life to its fullest, which includes boating with Gabriel at the helm while I’m teaching little ones to water ski. We also spend time with recently adopted dogs: Beau—a debonair and gentle Airedale, and Jewel—a fearless and sassy Jack Russell Terrier. Thank goodness for an Internet website that helps find homes for unwanted newborn and adult pets. And thanks to another Internet website, I found a different kind of peace by learning Beau had passed away in ’94, two years after our lunch in Galveston, and the exact day of our shop’s grand opening. The sensation of light snow that evening had been Beau, swinging by with a sprinkling of unconditional love for me. His last residence reflected the same county as Celeste’s home, giving me relief to know his final days were spent surrounded by loved ones.
Which brings me to the somewhat emotional, last antique shopping spree Nikki and I shared. I debated going due to the shop soon-to-be closing, but Nikki seemed excited to be spending time with me. Or maybe getting time away from her brood.
The weather was unusually hot for late October and the crowd was larger than we’d imagined, with an assortment of people who looked like extras for a Quentin Tarantino film. When we passed an overweight woman in combat boots and bib overalls with a Lone Star beer hanging from her mouth and a kid who was way past weaning age fastened to her breast, Nikki piped up, “Someone should enforce a law against drinking while nursing.”
“It’s impossible to legislate morality, lovey.” I pushed through the crowd.
“Well, witnessing brainless behavior like that makes me want to puke.”
“You’re such a poetic child.” I put my arm around her shoulder. Her closeness to Gabriel still surfaces via quips and other idiosyncrasies imprinted by him.
“Look, Mom.” She squinted into the sun and nodded her head forward. “There’s a tent filled with furniture.”
“Hmmm.” I looked around. “I’m beginning to think our chances of finding anything decent, run along the same lines as finding Grandma at Chippendales tucking dollars into Fireman Fred’s g-string. Let’s call it a day if there’s nothing worthwhile in this place.”
“Oh Mom, the day is young.” Nikki locked her arm in mine and pulled me along.
As we entered the area filled with tables, chairs, and dressers—some of which had seen better days, we saw what looked like quality pieces inside a metal warehouse. Walking through the building, I touched a marble statue that seemed totally out of place, and leaned forward to take a better look at a bar in the far corner. I rushed ahead of Nikki, inching through the narrow path of tables and barstools stacked into a small mountain. A shriek of excitement escaped my mouth.
“Someone pour ice water down your back, Mom?” Nikki hurried to catch up.
“I’m not sure, but I think that’s Beau’s old bar.” I kept walking. “From the Jewel Box.”
Finally close enough to get a good look and put my hands on the elaborately crafted mahogany bar, I looked up and smiled, just about the time Nikki lifted its three thousand dollar price tag and gasped. A burly old man, sitting near a desk and sucking on the stub of a cigar, slowly got out of his overstuffed chair, and waddled over, digging his trousers out of his bum as he walked.
“That’s a mighty fine piece you’re lookin’ at ma’am.”
“It’s awfully big.” I tried to keep my composure as I walked around to the other side of the bar. If this was Beau’s old bar, I wasn’t about to leave without it. “Any idea where this came from or its chain of ownership?”
“Well, it’s pretty old and a beautifully crafted piece.”
I hate haggling. “If you can give me some background,” I interrupted, “this might turn into a great day for both of us.”
Chewing his cigar and scratching the nape of his neck under a fluff of thick gray hair, he grumbled about having to look in his files as he languidly drifted to his desk and pulled out a dilapidated manila folder. I followed and looked across the desk trying to
read upside down writing on the worst record keeping register I’d ever seen. Flipping back and forth through the pages, the old man eyeballed papers with a slight grimace, obviously having a tough time deciphering his records. “Hmmm.” He shifted his cigar to one side of his mouth. “I bought it from John Mueller of Austin in ‘98 when he sold his restaurant.”
“Previous owners?” Nikki asked for me.
“Looks like a total of three. Mueller bought it from some Houston restaurateur—a Rob Rehill, who had bought it from another restaurateur, Beauregard Duval in ‘72.”
He had mispronounced Duvalé, which wasn’t unusual, but to my knowledge the Jewel Box never served food. Apparently trouser digger didn’t want to admit this bar was actually used inside a watering hole. I asked if he had a flashlight. He offered his lighter. Nikki watched as I went to the right end of the bar, leaned down and sparked a flame underneath the middle shelf. Passage of time made it slightly difficult to read. I flicked off the lighter when it overheated my fingers, and then gently rubbed my hand over the engraved C/G, trying to conceal my smile.
“I’ll give you your asking price plus whatever you charge for delivery, but I want it delivered as soon as possible.”
“It’s a deal, lady,” he spouted, almost choking on his cigar. “Name the date.”
“Next Sunday, October 26th, 2003, six p.m. sharp.” I wrote him a check.
“We’ll have it there. Thank you very much, Ms. O’Quinn.”
“That’s Mrs. O’Quinn. And you’re very welcome.”
He smiled and waddled away, tugging at his trousers.
“I still can’t believe you found that bar.” Nikki smiled broadly as we left the area.
“Kismet my love, kismet. Now I have something that belonged to Beau other than the treasure chest, metal detector, books, and his tape about risk.”
“You know the old man is going to claim this for sipping his evening beverage.”
“Only when weather doesn’t allow him to sit outdoors. But let’s keep it a secret until it gets delivered. I want to surprise him and can’t wait to see his face. ‘Course Gabriel will have to figure out where the heck it’s going to fit in our house eventually.”
“Just promise you won’t move again, Mom.”
“I swear.” I put my hand up, pledge fashion. “Unless, it’s back to Houston near you. Now let’s get on the road and take you home to your family.”
“Yes, lets. I had a wonderful day Mom, but I do miss my girls and that man of mine.”
“Likewise. And now I have a secret to keep from my man. But I think I can.”
“Uh huh,” Nikki mumbled as we headed for home.
Delilah had been gone from the shop almost an hour and I was beginning to worry why perpetually punctual Gabriel hadn’t arrived. Maybe I’d told him to arrive after eight, wanting to make sure the bar was actually delivered before he drove down. Delilah left her pack of cinnamon gum, so I popped a stick into my mouth and leisurely rested my head on Beau’s bar. Soon I was running my fingertips lovingly along the mahogany surface and calling up some marvelous old memories. I never recall isolated bad moments at the Jewel Box—only wonderful times. Beau was a remarkable man, and it was a special force that led to his starting a bawdy business just when I needed him to enter my life. He believed in Lady Luck, but I was the lucky one to have known him.
I trashed my gum just as Gabriel drove up. Unable to contain my excitement, I rushed to greet him and kissed him more times than usual.
“Whoa, Cinnamon Girl. If you’re going to get this excited every time I visit, I’ll swing by this place every damn day from now on.”
“Won’t be here much longer, remember?”
“Oh I remember, Blondie. You’ll be at home cooking, cleaning, and caring for me.”
“You’re taking hallucinogens again, aren’t ya?”
“How else can I live with you?” He kissed my cheek. “Now what the hell was so important that you had me come down here with a cold front about to blow through the Gulf Coast?”
“Yeah, it may drop down to fifty tonight, my warm weather lover.”
“I can handle that, but if it drops to forty, I’ll be sportin’ my ratty long johns you hate.”
“I don’t hate anything you wear. I just prefer you wearing nothing but your moustache.” I grabbed his hand. “Close your eyes and let me lead the way.”
“Blondie, if you say ‘Turn left through the swinging doors to the kitchen corridor, Senator Kennedy,’ I’m out of here.”
“Not funny.” I chastised. “That was a travesty and Bobby Kennedy was one of Sean’s heroes.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized with sincerity.
I guided him a few more steps, watching to make sure his eyes stayed shut.
“What’s that God-awful perfume smell?” He stopped in his tracks and wrinkled his nose.
“Delilah came by and marked her territory while complaining about her life. But she’s gone, so keep walking.” I steered him to the bar. “Okay, you can look.”
“Halle-fuckin-lujah.” A smile streamed across his face. After all, he worked in wood, had a photographic memory, and apparently this bar had been almost as special to him as it was to me.
“Sooooooo. . . .” I cooed coyly.
“I can’t believe it. Where the hell did you find Beau’s old bar?”
“In Warrenton at the antique festival. And now it’s all ours.” I couldn’t stop smiling.
“This’ll make a great place for sipping my evening cocktail.” He kissed my cheek.
“Nikki knows you too well.” I grinned.
“Boy does this ever take me back.” He walked around behind the bar and stuck his hand underneath to feel for our initials.
“Here’s a flashlight.”
“Kiss my ass and call me Elvis,” Gabriel said in soft tone, his eyes getting misty as he shook his head. “Talk about life coming full circle.”
I looked toward the shop window at Beau’s “original” Jewel Box treasure chest, now holding various antiques including the copy of Emerson’s Twelve Essential Essays he had given me so many years ago, and then glanced at the metal detector above the bar, beautifully encased in the box Gabriel constructed. Clinging to my latest Jack of Clubs card, I walked around to embrace the love of my life and felt tipsy as he pulled me to his chest.
Looking past his shoulder, I glanced toward the window and through glowing amber lighting, smiled as I read the subtle red inscription of my shop’s white octagonal sign, The Jewel Box.
Michelle McCarty grew up as the youngest of five sisters in a small Texas town. Finding it difficult to be heard over older siblings, she began expressing herself through writing at an early age. Daydreaming and writing proved cathartic for teenage angst, but didn’t do much in the way of enhancing her social skills. Not comfortable speaking in public, Michelle says writing stories opens a window in her heart where words swing dance into each other and fill her with joy, and sometimes great pride. Writing takes her to imaginary places filled with ordinary and extraordinary characters who offer intimate details of their humorous, eccentric, romantic, dramatic, and sometimes mundane lives. She writes to learn moral lessons by placing characters in a variety of situations, which in turn offers soul searching and sometimes personal resolutions. Michelle believes flawed characters reveal that everyone, no matter how imperfect or seemingly insignificant, offers something special in pretend worlds as well as in real life. When not writing, Michelle’s time is filled with twin granddaughters, Annabella and Alexandria who zap her energy yet light up her life. She also works part-time as editor for an online newspaper.
The Jewel Box is Michelle’s first published novel. To learn about her upcoming novel, Beyond the Pale, and more, please visit her website: http://cmichellemccarty-author.com or www.facebook.com/AuthorCMichelleMcCarty
My heartfelt thanks to family and friends whose encouragement kept me pounding on the keyboard. For those who read my first raw version; Kimberly Ryan McCar
ty Easdon, Joanne Leonard, Jim Leonard, Martha Lindsey, Patrice Biskynis, and Kathleen Nagy. Next up is editor Barbara Bamberger Scott of A Woman’s Write, and kindhearted friends who read my “almost” final version: Yvonne Storrs, Scott Jones, Terri Porter Garcia, Lori Langland, Wanda Williams, Karen Lindsey, Shirley Hall, and Ray Cloninger. Many thanks to the owners of Leon’s Lounge who allowed me to shoot my cover jacket photo using the perfect model, Leaann Haley Hoffman. Not nearly enough can be said about the gracious kindness of author Terri Giuliano Long, whose invaluable insight and praise gave me hope as a writer, and author Carolyn Mathews who helped me with my final round of edits. Mammoth appreciation for Kathy Luersen’s expertise on Houston’s adult entertainment venues during the late Sixties, and extra hugs and kisses to my twin granddaughters, Annabella and Alexandria, who got slighted while I wrote, edited, edited, and edited. Last but by no means least, my deepest gratitude goes to beautiful soul, Michelle Mynier.
And thank you, readers! I feel humbled and honored that you took time to read this story.
The Jewel Box Page 31