CHAPTER 14
Charlie Price checked his watch for the time and the stairs for movement. An assortment of family photos – snapshots of Gideon’s firsts, a picture of the three of them in front of the Eiffel Tower on vacation in France, and their wedding photo – hung staggered on the wall in an assortment of gilded frames. Charlie studied the man in the photograph. That man had a vision, a plan for the next twenty years of their life. The blond twenty-something in the tuxedo was proud, slightly arrogant, and ready to conquer the world. Charlie sighed. He didn’t know that man anymore – he didn’t want to know him.
He walked to the kitchen and surveyed the room, trying to recall why he had gone in there in the first place, and then retuned to the bottom of the stairwell. Velveteen said she was well enough to go and insisted that if her episode had been contagious, she was no longer able to infect anyone now a week had passed.
“It’s time to go!” he called up to her. She did not reply. He slumped down on the sofa and ran his fingers through his hair. He stood up again and walked to the stairs. “Vee! We’re not going to have enough time!” Finally, he gave up and sat down on the exposed wood step. He yawned. His eyelids drooped and his mind wandered. Over the past few weeks, good picks had become harder to find. Shug had been right. More pickers were frequenting the market – pickers with bigger budgets willing to take bigger risks. Charlie’s most recent find – the 1960s Rolodex and box of refills – should have been a win but sat unsold in the corner of the kitchen beside his other auction finds. The ping to his phone had become an addiction. He found himself checking his ringer on a daily basis to make sure it was on and scrolled through his listed items regularly to see if he had accidentally marked an item as sold.
Charlie convinced himself they would be fine. If the French horn sold, it would sustain them for at least another month or two – another pick like that and they would make it comfortably through Christmas. Gideon had already been dropping hints about the limited edition Star Pirate to be released on December 1, and Charlie had never gone a Christmas without buying Velveteen a gift. The item, his next big sell – it was out there waiting for him. He knew it.
Finally, Velveteen emerged from the upstairs with thick, round, black-rimmed sunglasses covering her hazel eyes. She wore fashionably fitted blue jeans and a thin ivory sweater that hung delicately off her shoulder. She stepped lightly down the stairs in high-heeled shoes that matched the tattered and piling purple scarf she had labored to drape stylishly around her neck. Charlie had dutifully remembered to tell her to wear it. Velveteen had scowled at him and said she would think about it.
“Don’t say a word, Charlie Price. Let’s get this over with.” In her hand she carried her worn, dog-eared copy of The Heiress of DuMont.
He had so many comments he could make at this moment: It’s kind of warm for a scarf, don’t you think? Or, Is that scarf from the Melba DuMont collection? But he held his tongue. He did not want to jeopardize this moment – the moment when she would step foot inside the Coraloo Flea Market for the first time. He had planned to leave early, so they could have some time alone, just the two off them strolling the market like one of the many couples he watched every weekend shopping the Coraloo.
“Are you sure it’s closed today, Charlie?”
“Absolutely. With the exception of a few Blackwells and your book club –”
“It’s Granny’s book club.”
“Right, Granny’s book club. We’ll be the only ones there – no Mary Beth Rogers, no decorators –”
“No professors?”
“No professors.”
It was a joke between the two, in memory of Velveteen’s least favorite professor at the university, meant to mean someone judgmental and without the capability to see someone’s worth.
“Okay, Charlie. Let’s go.”
The town was quiet today, the tavern closed until noon, and the residents a short drive away – most employed by a producer of high-end handbags, the supermarket, or one of the other areas of commerce that had passed over Coraloo to settle thirty minutes away in the next town over. It had crossed Charlie’s mind to jump in the car and experience what life could be like on the other side of the hill, but he did not see what good it would do, nor did he have the nerve to find out. He half feared one of the businesses would hire him on the spot. The consistency would be welcomed, but what then? He’d work his way to the top; maybe they would make him V.P. Is that what Velveteen wanted – to have her husband enslaved by a system of commerce and marketing ploys? Was that what he wanted? No. That life no longer had anything to offer him as far as he was concerned. They had gotten away and were trying to do their life over – another way.
In three months they had nearly done it – downsized their lifestyle, dramatically decreased their spending, but – there was the but, the but that turned him on edge and needled at his boredom. They weren’t done yet – they weren’t there yet. Something was missing.
Velveteen Price stopped in front of the stone archway and read, NO DOGS OR TOFTS – GRANNY BITES!
After the book club, Velveteen had joked that she was contemplating telling Granny she was actually a Toft. Now, standing by the sign, she chuckled. “If Shug skins you alive, and Granny eats me for dinner, what will we tell Gideon?”
Charlie laughed and hugged Velveteen to his side. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, taking a step forward.
“Wait!” He halted her and placed his hand in front of her face. “Close your eyes.”
“You want me to close my eyes?”
“Yes, just do it.”
She pulled her sunglasses down on her nose.
“For me.”
“Fine.” She huffed.
He didn’t know if she really closed her eyes, but he wanted her first look at the Coraloo to be as magical as the first time he had set foot into the building – the day he decided to pack his family up and move them away from invitation-only events and the monotony of nine-to-five accountability.
“Can I open them now?”
“Yes, open them.”
Rows of strung fairy lights twinkled brilliantly against the raftered ceiling, the three gigantic crystal chandeliers were ablaze, and something – something sweet and rich – was producing an aroma that infused the air with such sweetness Charlie couldn’t help but be drawn in. The cool fall air snuck through the cracks in the walls and chilled his cheeks. He watched her, hoping to witness her awe of the hidden wonder, the hidden surprise of the majestic Coraloo.
Velveteen removed the sunglasses she had used to hide her tired eyes and slid them into her purse. He had hoped for a reaction: a squeal, a wow – anything. He had her in his place, his sanctuary, his hope. He needed to know for sure she was okay. They hadn’t spoken much over the past week – only trivial conversations about Charlie’s latest pick or Granny’s upcoming book club. She didn’t look well, or maybe it was that she didn’t look happy. He used to be able to decipher one from the other.
She stepped toward one of the shops. Closed.
“This is Stephen’s.”
Velveteen placed her hand upon the cold glass window and peered inside. “The bookstore… his father’s.”
“Yes! And over there… ” he pointed to the flower shop, “fresh flowers brought in from all over the world.”
She nodded.
“And over there, beside the antiques… not the one with the dishes… the other one… that’s Shug’s.”
“Shug, the skinner?”
“Yes!” He laughed.
“Where did you say the vendors are, Charlie?”
He had told her before, but she hadn’t taken it in then. But now she was showing interest, right? He would happily tell her again. “The market is only open on the weekend. That’s when the vendors arrive.” He stepped away from her until he was standing in an open space under the center chandelier. “And this… this is where the children put on their plays about the family.”
“It’s a conundrum, the whole thing, isn’t it?” Her voice was soft, calm, captivated, as Charlie had hoped she would be. “So strange, breathtaking. But the pirates and the pygmies… the Blackwells… It’s like a whole other world and we’re simply passing through.”
“A bit… but Gideon is having fun with it.”
“And that shop, the one with the colors?”
“It’s where I bought the hand-dyed ribbon – Stephen’s aunt, I believe.”
Velveteen ran her hand along the fabricated fronts, stopping occasionally to silently study the contents of each shop. She stopped and inhaled. “It’s bergamot and lavender.”
“Aunt Moira’s. She has everything in there from cooking herbs to candles. She makes it all herself.”
“Aunt Moira. You talk about them like they’re your own family, Charlie. She was at the book club –” The words trailed off. “I didn’t know she made candles. I didn’t realize they did any of this.”
“Talented. Every one of them.”
Velveteen didn’t answer.
Charlie placed his hand on the small of Velveteen’s back and pulled her toward him. “What’s wrong?”
“I thought I could do it, but I can’t. I don’t know how, Charlie. I can’t make ribbons or jams. I can’t even can tomatoes. I could never homeschool Gideon, and I can’t pretend to like this scarf. I tried. I really tried, Charlie. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be or what I’m doing. I can’t even host my own book club!” She flung her arms out in despair, sending her book flying across the stained concrete floor. “And I can’t do simplicity.” At that moment there was a light crack; Velveteen fell to her right, frowning down at the broken heel of her purple pump. There was a pause, a silence between them. “I think I need to go back, Charlie.”
Charlie did not know what to say to his crumbling wife. He had to hand it to her; she had given it a good go – completely transformed their home, learned to bake a lemon cake, and even tried to host the book club – but she was right, she didn’t belong in Coraloo. Maybe he didn’t belong here either.
“What are you doing here, Price?”
Charlie slowly turned around.
Shug towered above Charlie with his arms folded across his broad chest and a scowl protruding from his beard. “Shouldn’t you be in jail?”
Charlie was in no mood to deal with Shug today. “Seems like there was a bit of a mix-up.”
“Seems like it.”
“I’m flattered you think I’m an emissary for the Chinese government. Was that what it was? Oh, wait. I believe I was a spy. You –”
“You need to go, Price.”
“We were on our way out.”
“No, I mean you need to go and never come back.”
“I have as much right to be here as anybody. I’m a part of the market, Shug – what I do keeps the rhythm. The vendors rent space from you, I buy from the vendors, somebody out there buys the item from me, and I come back. I’m happy, the vendors are happy, and the market continues.”
“You’re not one of us, Price.”
“What’s the difference between you and me? Huh? You go to auctions and estate sales – swipe what the family of the dead don’t want, and then you sell it and call it an antique. We aren’t different, Shug.”
“Nothing is ever good enough for you. You always want less, you take what’s not yours, and then you sell it for more. You’re taking advantage of people, Price. You’re cheapening the market. What we do is art; what you do is pretend to be something you’re not.”
Charlie gritted his teeth and glared up at Shug. “You don’t know me.”
“I know all about you, Charlie Price. I’ve known about you since the day you moved in. What was it the paper said – ‘Can one man really kill a bank?’”
Charlie felt the color draining from his face. Shug had done his homework. There was nowhere to hide, not even in Coraloo.
“We don’t need your kind here, Price. Leave.” Shug turned his back and walked away.
Charlie clinched his fists. Your kind? Who did Shug think he was? King of the market? He turned to face Velveteen, to explain, to let her know for the one hundredth time that everything was going to be okay, but she was gone.
Velveteen squinted in the light of the market. She felt dizzy, out of sorts, and a tad nauseous. She feared if she didn’t get a sip of water or lie down, she might recreate the sickness incident at the book club in the middle of the market. “Charlie?” He didn’t respond, caught up in heated conversation with a man nearly twice his size. “Excuse me, Charlie?” Again no reply.
She could not stand there any longer and listen to the mouths of two egos fighting over the shopping rights of a flea market. It would be horrible to abandon him to the fate of Shug, not that she thought she would be of any physical assistance should the beast-man decide to whip out his blade and do his deadly deed. But what good could she be dehydrated and doubled over? Charlie would have to fend for himself. She’d cry for help if she heard him scream. She grabbed her purple footwear and walked barefoot through the market.
Charlie was right; she did love the market. Despite her reservations, she knew she would. It looked exactly as he had described it. It was the real reason she had at least six months of excuses lined up to keep her away – those she told Charlie and those she told herself. She didn’t want to get too attached. She didn’t want to get too comfortable, because what if it happened again and they were forced to leave such a wonderful place behind. But it didn’t matter; she didn’t belong here, surrounded by the Blackwells’ handiwork, nor did she belong with the acquaintances, with all their small talk and fancy crudités. She didn’t belong anywhere.
Velveteen closed her eyes and listened to the stillness around her. She wriggled her painted toes on the cool concrete and slowly breathed in the aroma of warm, sweet dough drifting from the kitchen. The scents reminded her of home – not the Toft house or their former townhouse in the city, but recollections of memories collected in both. She tried to remember the days before The Rooning, to revive her happiest memory… Charlie… Gideon. She imagined herself sitting on their sofa wrapped in a blanket, watching Charlie carefully turn the pages of one of his recently acquired novels, and Gideon, eyes wide, earnestly studying the images and short bits of dialogue, flipping the page to read the next adventure of his space pirates. She fought back tears; all she wanted was a place to call home.
Velveteen wandered aimlessly to the back of the market where she stopped in front of a lengthy antique case full of pastries. Above it a sign, intricately painted in gold with dainty purple flowers weaving in and out of each letter, read Granny’s. When Charlie told her Granny sold food at the market, she had expected an indoor equivalent of a ramshackle food truck, not a pastry shop as quaint and orderly as Francine’s on 5th. She had read the articles Charlie placed in front of her and heard the stories filtering back from the decorators her acquaintances in the city procured, but all her mind could envision was a mobile diner, rusted around the edges, and a foul stench of reused grease pouring out the pay window. The Blackwells were full of surprises.
“Hello!” Surely there was someone around who could find her a glass of water. She was exhausted and oddly thirsty. Charlie said she should take it easy – she had not stopped working on the house since they moved in. Every day it seemed she found something new to sand, tighten, or repaint. She laughed at herself and her own persistence. Their first weeks in the Toft house were a blurred memory – had she really pulled all the wallpaper off the walls, ripped up the carpet, painted the kitchen, and cleared out the garden shed?
Velveteen stood on tiptoe, leaned over the counter, and called again, “Hello!”
No answer.
She set her pumps on one of the long hardwood tables and laid her head down on her crossed arms. If she could rest her eyes for a brief minute, she might feel better – not well enough to handle an hour of Granny attempting to explicate in her own words the world of Melba but wel
l enough to walk home.
“Those aren’t the right shoes for you.”
Velveteen groaned at the familiar voice. A hand plonked a glass of water down by her arm. She considered pretending to sleep in hopes Granny Blackwell would go away.
“Come on Miss Melba. I need your help in the kitchen.”
CHAPTER 15
Velveteen lifted an eye toward the family matriarch. Had the woman said she didn’t like her shoes? And did she call her Melba? The last time Velveteen had seen Granny, the woman’s Sunday best was covered in partially digested cookie dough. Velveteen glanced out into the empty market, hoping Clover would show up early, hoping Charlie would rescue her – he always rescued her – but not today. She would have to save herself, just as she’d done before he stumbled into her life. Back when it was her and her mother. Back when her expectation was that she would be independent and have a career – before her mother’s boss, Mrs Vanderschmidt, swooped in and taught her the art of pretending among the elite. Before she’d realized what she really wanted, what Charlie gave her – to be a wife and a mother.
She’d gone through too much to let this person she barely knew get the best of her. She thought about leaving it all – Granny and the book club. But that’s not who she was. Velveteen Price did not give up. And maybe, if she helped Granny with whatever she needed help with, she would finally leave her alone about her shoes and whatever else the bat chose to nag about.
Velveteen gathered her shoes and, questioning whether or not it was sanitary, walked barefoot behind the counter and into the kitchen. It was pristine with its gas stove – far nicer than the one she had in the city – a great industrial stainless steel refrigerator, so shiny she could see her warped reflection, and the floors, spotless.
Granny tossed a crisp white apron at her face. “That’s for thinking about throwing a cookie at me! Don’t deny it, Miss Melba. I know what you were thinking! And this –”
Before Velveteen could blink, her face was covered in white flour.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 12