Velveteen was accustomed to reading a book a month and meeting to discuss the novel in its entirety. Granny’s method was “meet and eat”. The longer they could make it last, the better.
“Granny Blackwell?” Velveteen gathered her half-eaten pie and fork and followed Granny into the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“I’m not her. I’m not Melba.”
“Oh?”
“I fought back.” Velveteen lifted the box of macarons.
“But you’re losing the fight. You don’t know who you are, do you? Are you Velveteen Price or are you Melba DuMont? You can’t play dress-up forever.”
She parted her lips to speak, to defend her identity, but Granny was right. Velveteen stared at the box. “What do I do?”
Granny Blackwell shook her head and crossed her arms under her voluptuous bosom. “You eat them,” she slurred.
“Right…”
Granny stood up and then suddenly fell heavily against the sink. Velveteen rushed to her, catching her before her head hit the edge of the wooden countertop.
“Help!” Velveteen called. The weight of the woman pulled down on her. “Help!”
Granny Blackwell’s arms hung heavy, limp at her sides, and her left eye drooped.
“Granny!” one of the cousins shouted and assisted Velveteen in lowering Granny to the floor. “Get her some water.”
Velveteen stepped back.
“Granny!” Clover shouted into the wrinkled face of the woman. “Can you hear me?”
Granny opened her eyes. She tried to speak, but the words were incoherent.
“We need to get her to Dr Toft!”
“No,” Granny slurred. “Not a Toft… the other one.”
“We’re not arguing about this now, Granny! Fie, run and get Shug!”
Granny mumbled something. The cousins, aunts, and granddaughters all leaned in close to her.
“Are you sure?” Clover asked.
Granny nodded and pointed at Velveteen.
“Will she be all right?” An odd sensation of worry for the woman came over Velveteen. She needed Charlie. He would know what to do. He always knew what to do.
A siren wailed in the distance. In minutes the back door to the kitchen swung open and two men with a gurney, followed by a frantic Shug, rushed in to attend to Granny. Velveteen watched in horror as they checked Granny’s blood pressure and lifted her onto the rolling bed.
“The spells are coming more frequent. It’s her sugar. We’ve tried everything to have her watch what she eats. It’s no use,” Clover explained. “She’s stubborn. Said she’s done everything she needed to do in life – death can have her now.”
“Wow, that sounds exceptionally morbid.”
“Blackwells look at life a little differently than most people.”
Granny called from behind them, her voice raspy and garbled. “Did you tell her?”
“Not yet, Granny.”
“Tell me what?” Velveteen asked.
“She said the color is bad on you. She wants you to take it off.”
“Take what off?”
“The scarf.” Clover laughed. Velveteen slowly unbound the bundle of purple yarn and cradled it close to her chest. “She gave me a brooch last year that she took from cousin Elspeth and then demanded it back so she could give it to Elspeth as a birthday present.”
“A bit of amnesia?”
“No, a bit of stubborn old woman.”
Velveteen sensed a bond forming between her and Clover – a real, unaffected bond, unlike her forced affiliations of the past. Forced was easy. She was wise in the ways of forced; real was uncharted territory.
“And there was one more thing. There is no telling what she means by it, so make of it what you will. She wants to know when you’re going to tell him.”
Velveteen’s cheeks flushed. Her voice cracked when she spoke. “Tell him what?” In the distance she could see Charlie rushing toward the scene – so handsome, so hers, so… unscathed. His eyes locked with hers.
“It’s okay. We know – it’s a family gift, or curse, depending on how you look at it. We have a way of figuring things out… Granny has a way of figuring things out. But if she’s right, and she usually is, you need to tell him, Velveteen. It’s not fair for him to not know.”
“I can’t. Not yet.”
CHAPTER 16
Charlie Price rubbed his finger over the raised threads of the circular badge. As a third-generation Boy Scout, he recognized the tiny embroidered eagle at its center from his grandfather’s collection. He peered over his shoulder to the heart of the market where Gideon – who had expressed no interest in sleeping outdoors or learning to carve a bear out of a block of wood – and the Blackwell boys were currently pretending to smear beeswax on the face of Stephen’s niece. Before Coraloo he and Charlie would take regular Saturday morning walks through the city to the Outer Limits of Earth comic book shop. They’d pretend to be space pirates, keeping a careful lookout for alien cab drivers and laser-toting deliverymen. Charlie missed their time together, but it was good to see Gideon so happy. He never would have imagined his shy son would be practicing amateur theatrics with a troupe of rough and tumble Blackwell children, in only a matter of weeks.
Charlie typed Boy Scout felt patch into the app on his phone. He scrolled through the vast array of patches, narrowed his search to the UK, and made an offer on the red and blue 1940s Seaman’s badge.
“Will you take three for it?”
The man with a toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth nodded. Charlie took out three bills and handed it to the man.
“You’re joking, right? Threehundred.”
“Threehundred! For a patch? No thanks.”
“I’ve got more. I’ll take six-fifty for the whole lot.”
Awaiting the sale of the French horn, but having a succession of higher value items to sell, Charlie had brought all the money he had – hoping for the big find, the one that would take him to a new level of picking. He had formed the habit of reinvesting the profit, and setting the rest aside for incidentals. If he bought something for four and sold it for twelve, he kept four and reinvested the remaining eight. Today, he’d brought it all.
In the beginning, the thrill of the sale gave him a rush of adrenaline that carried him to the next pick. It didn’t matter how big or how small the item; sometimes it was the shock that he had actually done it, that something he had bought – a toaster, a vintage board game, an antique dress form or whatever it might be – could double in value. The Waterman was the start of it all, but in the past few weeks he’d wanted to go bigger, sell bigger, get more return on his investment. The French horn had set him back – more than forty views, but no bids. He hadn’t told Velveteen they were getting tight, but had asked her to make her homemade pizzas for Stephen, Clover, and the Blackwell children who were coming over for dinner. It was inexpensive and his favorite of the foods she had learned to make since they had come to Coraloo. But her idea of entertaining guests was not pizza; she said she would cook up a surprise and had for the first time let him know she might need a bit of extra grocery money. They were tight, but he’d figure it out. She was changing; so was he.
Two weeks ago, when she’d said she needed to go back to the city to transfer medical records, he tried to convince her that it could be done by a phone call or over the Internet. When she refused with a dramatic over-explanation of identity theft, he’d offered to go with her, secretly hoping she would decline his offer. He’d go anywhere with her, but he’d rather not go there. She said she would sort it out.
“Can I see what you have?” Charlie was curious. It was a lot to pay, but the 1940s Boy Scout Seaman’s patch was worth at least three hundred on its own. If the vendor had one more in the lot, he could easily quadruple his money. This find would be bigger than the French horn.
Charlie sorted through the man’s collection of vintage British Boy Scout memorabilia. There must have been thirty patches in the pile, along with a Baden Powell ci
garette card that was surely worth something. “Was your father a scout?”
“Grandfather.”
“Mine too. What a coincidence. This was his?”
The man nodded, continuing to chew on the tiny piece of wood. A quick memory of his own grandfather’s collection of family memorabilia and its value made Charlie second-guess his initial intent to purchase the collection. He’d never sell family heirlooms – in fact, the idea disgusted him, but with her blessing he had sold nearly everything Velveteen had in her jewelry box. Had he even thought to check its sentimental value? Surely she would have told him if a necklace had been a family antique.
On the other hand, maybe the guy needed the money. If Charlie made the purchase, he would be helping him out. It was the way of the market – the business of exchange was good for everyone. Charlie didn’t negotiate, feeling altruistic. “All right, six-fifty it is.”
The man handed over the tattered green army box of scouting memorabilia. Charlie handed over the cash. He was about to leave the market when a black case caught his eye. A violin. Walk away, Charlie. The fifty left in his pocket nudged him closer. Just a peek. It couldn’t hurt. Could be a piece of junk, or the case alone – he’d had luck with cases before. With the box secure under his shoulder, Charlie wiped a layer of dust off the hard black instrument case. He flipped the latches and lifted the lid. He recognized it immediately – a student violin and an easy flip, if he could get the right price. He had flipped plenty of violins like this one.
“How much?” He shouldn’t have asked. The French horn remained in the corner of the kitchen – an eyesore for Velveteen and a reminder of impending failure for Charlie.
“Fifteen.” The woman rose from her folding chair to face Charlie. He had bought from her before. “And don’t you go asking for less.”
Charlie laughed. She recognized him. “I don’t know. I think I’ve done well today.”
“You could double your money.” Her statement caught him off guard. It hadn’t occurred to him the vendors – a coalition of junk collectors, families, and retirees – were aware of his intentions. “I know what you do. We all do.”
“Then why not do it yourself? You could double your money overnight!”
“Nah. Don’t want to. Don’t have the time. I’m not ready to quit my day job.”
Charlie Price mentally organized the market sellers in categories: the most obvious were the Blackwells – the artisans with their homemade wares and carefully selected antiques, sought after by the decorators and the tourists. Then there were the vendors – the mélange of hopeful entrepreneurs trying to make a sale off auction leftovers, obsolete collections, or personal downsizing. And the pickers – the resellers who’d buy from either of the other two if they thought they could resell for profit. It was the way he had come to know the world of Coraloo. It was his profession, his place in the market – his place in the world. It never occurred to him the vendors produced income outside the market.
“Your day job?”
“Freelance consulting mostly. Small business, turnarounds.”
Charlie stared at the woman, his sense of judgment terribly askew. He had envisioned this woman as someone who drove around picking up rummage sale leftovers and cleaning out the attics of deceased family members.
“And you?”
“Me?”
“What do you do?”
“I do this,” Charlie replied, tightening his grip on the box.
“You mean you buy our stuff and sell it – that’s what you do? And you can live on it?”
Charlie’s defense mechanism kicked in. “I haven’t always done this. I was in banking. Loans and small business acquisition. My wife and I wanted a simpler life. We wanted to raise our son away from the city.”
“Really? You just up and left it all behind. I envy you Mr – ”
“Price. Charlie Price.”
“Mr Price. Good for you. I think we could all use a large dose of the simple life. I can’t say I’m that brave. All right then, ten. I’ll give it to you for ten.”
“Excuse me?”
“The violin. I’m taking off five for the inspiration.”
“I’m not following you.”
“You inspire me, Charlie Price. Now, do you have lessons on how to convince the spouse? I can just see myself walking up to my husband and saying, ‘Eddie, we’re quitting our jobs and moving to Coraloo!’ He’s going to ask, ‘How will we survive?’ And I’m going to say, ‘Don’t you worry about that; we’ll live like Mr Price.’”
Charlie suddenly felt uneasy. He hadn’t told her about the food truck, The Rooning, the Toft house, or his monthly fear of unpaid bills. She didn’t know that their quest for simplicity had been forced upon them. They didn’t choose it – that was the truth. He hadn’t voluntarily left his high-dollar career like Stephen had. Charlie Price had been fired.
Charlie laughed as if the sound of his voice would drown out the word echoing in his brain. Fired. “Let me know if you talk him into it.”
“Will do, Mr Price.” Charlie handed over a ten and took the violin. He had hoped to hold on to a bit of extra, but music is money. The dimming of the lights and the click, click of the locks let him know the Blackwells were closing up shop. Vendors tossed mismatched sheets over their unpurchased items, and last-minute shoppers hurried toward the stone archway.
“Charlie!”
Charlie turned at the voice of Stephen Blackwell.
“We’re looking forward to dinner tonight. Are you sure you can handle the lot of us? It’s all right if you want an adults only night.”
“I’m sure. Velveteen said the whole family.”
“We can’t wait! Do you have a minute? I’ve got something to show you.”
Charlie checked his watch. He had time.
The inside of the bookshop was dimly lit and the shuffle and chatter of Coraloo had diminished to the voices of straggling tourists taking last-minute photographs and Innis Wilkinson sweeping up the concrete floors for tomorrow’s patrons. Years ago the Blackwells had hired her to clean the place, but found one woman couldn’t do it on her own, so they hired her husband, whom Charlie only knew as Mr Wilkinson, to help. Innis didn’t speak, which Charlie could only assume was by choice, and she wore a pair of scissors around her neck. They were not the tiny decorative ones on an oxidized chain like those Sorcha Blackwell sold in her ribbon shop. These scissors appeared to be heavy metal fabric sheers. Charlie had asked Stephen about her once, but Stephen had not a clue.
Mr Wilkinson was nearly as puzzling. He walked with a limp and wore his long hair in two braids down the back. What Stephen did know for a fact was that Mr Wilkinson had no reason to have a limp. When he wasn’t working in the market, he had no trouble walking in and out of the tavern at unreasonable hours of the evening. So the purpose of the limp was as mysterious as the sheers.
“It’s in the back! I’ll bring it out!” Stephen called from the depths of the shop.
In the stillness of the late afternoon, Charlie waited. Under the Blackwell-crafted Edison bulb light fixture, the Kipling glowed – a reminder of life before The Rooning. Charlie leaned in, examining what he could through the glass. The book had haunted him; it was all he could think about in his spare time. He had hired Marvin three years ago to hunt down the elusive edition. Had Marvin located it any sooner, the Kipling would have been Charlie’s instead of stuck behind a glass case in an old shoe factory. Maybe life would have been different if he had acquired the Kipling. Maybe he would have been more focused, maybe he would have noticed the missing hygiene management plan, maybe he would have paid closer attention and seen the reality staring him in the face – the food truck owner didn’t know what he was getting into and clearly was not equipped to run a business, let alone distribute food.
Charlie slammed his fist down on the table. He wanted the book more than he wanted anything. One day, he told himself. “One day.” Charlie examined the case. A tiny gold lever held the glass closed. He wanted
to touch it, to hold what could have been his. Charlie lifted the lever, the familiar scent of old leather drawing him in with an almost irresistible pull. He reached for the book.
“I thought you might want to see this!” Stephen called.
The case snapped shut. Charlie stepped away from it, feeling guilty and exposed.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –”
Stephen unwrapped a cloth-bound book. “I came across it at an auction. Look at the title page.”
Stephen clearly hadn’t heard him. The Kipling case had shut but the latch still hung open. He should tell Stephen.
“Incredible, isn’t it?”
“Incredible,” Charlie mumbled. He couldn’t focus on the book Stephen was holding before him. What had he planned to do with the Kipling? Hold it? Open it? Take it? “The Kipling, I…”
Stephen slapped him on the back. “I knew a fellow Kipling connoisseur would appreciate the inscription.”
“Inscription?” Charlie focused in on the scratchy lines and gasped. “Is that Kipling’s handwriting?”
“Well, if it’s not authentic, then it’s a heck of a forgery. Notice here,” he said, “he refers to her as a Janeite. But he didn’t write ‘The Janeites’ until 1926. This is dated 1924. Look how he marked through the typesetting of his name to sign it. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”
Normally this find would have sent Charlie reeling, but as much as he tried to focus on the book, his mind was elsewhere.
“You all right?”
“Sorry, just a lot on my mind.”
“Like…?”
Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just life.” He breathed in the scent of aged paper and old wood. “When you were a boy, did you ever imagine life would be so hard? I mean, no one ever really tells you that it’s going to be this way. Responsibility was taking the trash out, and disappointment was losing the game. I kind of feel like we’ve been cheated.”
“You’re telling me,” Stephen said. “There should be some kind of handbook, A Man’s Guide to Adulting.”
Charlie forced a laugh. He could sure use a book like that now. He scuffed his foot on the concrete. “But it’s turning out well for you. You gave it all up – career, lifestyle, and who knows what else – to run a bookshop in a flea market while your family lives out back in a camper van. Why take the risk?”
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 14