The Social Climber of Davenport Heights

by Pamela Morsi

  “But you don’t,” I said.

  Scott shook his head. “I guess I’ve inherited my mother’s disdain for the stuff.”

  “Your mother would have burned the place down,” I pointed out. “You’ve spent twenty-five years running the place.”

  “It’s my legacy,” he said.

  I had the strange feeling that he was hiding something. But I couldn’t imagine what it might be and decided that it was just late and I had a suspicious nature.

  “So how do you keep up your inventory,” I asked him.

  “I do my best,” he assured me. “Lots of people knew my father. I still have people contact me wanting to make a deal to buy everything left in an estate. Almost always there is at least some real quality piece that makes it worth my while. It’s easier for the family. And for me, if it goes up for bid it will cost more. Of course, I go to all the big sales and auctions, like all the other dealers.”

  “If you don’t know antiques, how do you know what to buy or how much to pay for them?”

  “I suppose I don’t, really,” he said. “That’s probably why I don’t do as well there. Basically, I think you could boil down my entire business strategy to—Scott tries to get things that look presentable, as cheap as possible, and sell them for a bit more.”

  “From what I’ve seen,” I told him, “that system isn’t working all that well. I don’t know how you’ve managed to make a profit.”

  “Oh, the business doesn’t make a profit,” he said. “On good years, I come out even.”

  “How do you live?”

  “Cheaply,” he answered with a chuckle. “I own the building outright, and the taxes in this area aren’t very high. I make about enough money in the store to keep the lights on. And I get a small disability pension that I stretch to cover everything else.”

  I shook my head. “That’s ridiculous, you know,” I told him. “This is the best antique store in the city. You should be making money. I’m not saying you’d get rich, but with halfway decent management, you should be able to make a comfortable living.”

  “I know you’re right,” he said. “Dad always did fairly well—and that’s when this merchandise was politely called secondhand. I’ve always been so distracted with my writing, I’ve just never been able to work up enough interest in the store to really do it right.”

  “Then why don’t you sell out?” I asked him. “Let someone who would really love this business have it.”

  “I…I can’t do that,” he said. His words were hesitant but certain. “My dad left me this business. He’d want me to keep it.”

  That sounded foolish to me, but I didn’t say so.

  “What about hiring a manager,” I said. “Someone who would know something about the value of the inventory that you have, and who would be smarter about what new pieces to buy.”

  “I can’t afford to hire anyone,” he said.

  “Get someone to work on commission,” I told him. “You wouldn’t have to pay a salary, just a portion of whatever was sold.”

  “Where could I find someone who has the knowledge that I’d need and would still be willing to work for just commission?”

  It was the question that I’d been waiting for. I smiled at him broadly.

  “I’ll do it,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “Scott,” I said, “this is my favorite store in the whole world. When things are going well for me, when I’m feeling good about myself, I always gravitate to this place. I could run it for you. Just getting it organized and getting everything priced right would be a labor of love.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “I am serious.” I tried another tack. If common sense wouldn’t win him over, I was certain that sympathy would. “Scott, I lost my real estate job. It would really be a great new start for me, if you’d just give me a chance.”

  Finally he had to agree. In the face of such critical logic and abject begging, what else could the man do?

  Taking me on as the manager of the store was a brilliant idea for both of us. It gave me an opportunity to see if I could actually make a go of working with something that I really loved. And it gave Scott a lot more time to devote to his unusual pursuit.

  I was so excited about getting started that it was all I could do to remain on the sofa and not start digging through the shop in the middle of the night.

  I convinced him to show me his account books. As I expected, they were a disaster. He’d continued the record keeping in the same way his father had done it. I told him he was lucky he hadn’t been making money. His books would have instigated a nervous breakdown in every accountant in the city.

  We talked late into the night, drifting from the business to the personal and back to the business once more. We found it so easy to talk to each other. I knew very little about the things that interested him, and he knew nothing about what was important to me. Yet, it was almost as if our differences melded together.

  He listened to my stories of the country club with all the rapt attention of an anthropologist learning about the habits of a curious and distant tribe.

  I found his descriptions of all the angry and disparate political factions in Europe sounded very much like a poorly planned civic-appreciation dinner I had once attended, where nonmembers had been accidently invited to the club.

  It was very late when I finally decided to go home, promising to return for my first day of work in a few short hours.

  “Come in to work when you want to and stay as long as you want to,” he said. “I think that’s what working on commission is supposed to mean. I won’t expect you here eight hours a day.”

  I secretly hoped that he wouldn’t get impatient if I worked ten.

  He insisted on walking me to the car. It felt nice, sort of sweet, to be out in the warm breeze of a spring night with an interesting, attractive man. Scott put his hand on the car’s door handle and then hesitated.

  “Janey,” he said, “I’ve got to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “The other day when you were here you had on those red shoes, remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “You explained that you wore those red shoes to make yourself feel powerful, confident.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I explained that to you.”

  “Okay,” Scott said. “What I want to know is—what is this pajama top with the little cows and moons supposed to do?”

  Chapter 18

  I HARDLY SLEPT all night, I was so excited and happy and hopeful. I couldn’t believe that I was going to have a new job. I hurried from my bed earlier than usual, pumped up, eager, almost giddy in anticipation.

  I took a long hot shower. Letting the water wash over me felt like such decadent luxury. I was thrilled by my new friendship with Scott. Maybe I was a little embarrassed about being with him at the store all that time without remembering how I looked, but I was honestly sort of proud. There had been a time in my life when, if my clothes weren’t perfect, I would have gone home. He’d compared the red shoes to the cow-jumped-over-the-moon pj’s. That fellow needed to get out more. I started laughing, really laughing, leaning against the wall of the shower, laughing. It was a good thing I lived alone. If David were still here, he would think I’d lost my mind. Inexplicably, that sent me off on another giggling fit.

  Clean and revived, I chose clothing that I thought would be appropriate. I decided that, ultimately, I wanted to dress well for retail, to give the store a sense of style and elegance that could command higher prices. But until I had the place in order, jeans and a T-shirt were much more appropriate attire. Of course, I rolled the sleeves up and tied a coordinating scarf around my neck, in case I actually did encounter some customers.

  I was trying to drag my hair into a reasonable facsimile of a do when the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  It was Loretta. Shanekwa was just getting her son onto the day-care bus, and then she and Loretta would be going over to Le Para
pluie a little later.

  “I had hoped to be here after her meeting with Frederic,” I said. “To show her the guest quarters, help her get settled. I thought we could go shopping for furniture and curtains and…well…everything. But I just got a new job and I’m anxious to get started this morning. Can I leave the key somewhere and you two can let yourselves in?”

  Loretta eagerly agreed to that.

  “This actually works out better,” she told me. “In fact, I was calling you to suggest that you make yourself scarce for the next couple of days.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It’s very easy to be dependent on other people,” Loretta said. “Much easier than fending for yourself. If Shanekwa is going to make it out in the world without Ellis, she’ll have to do it on her own. You’ve done a lot for her. Now it’s important to step back and let her do things for herself.”

  That was valuable advice, I thought.

  I agreed to leave the key for the guest quarters under the doormat by the garage-stairs entrance. And I promised Loretta that I would not be too available for the next week or so, and that I would give Shanekwa at least two days before I offered to do anything else for her. That seemed like a worthwhile pledge to make.

  Before leaving the house I went into the kitchen, poured myself a last cup of coffee and made a phone call.

  “Buddy Feinstein’s office,” a cheery little voice answered.

  “Good morning, Sissy,” I said, greeting Buddy’s young wife. “This is Jane Lofton. How is the baby?”

  We chatted pleasantly for a few moments before she put me through to her husband. As always, his obvious delight in hearing from me was tempered by knowing that I must have a reason to call.

  “It’s Brynn,” I told him. “She’s going to spend the summer in Europe. She won’t say who she’s going with. I suspect it might be her therapist.”

  Buddy listened quietly as I brought him up to speed on all that had happened: Brynn’s insistence that her life was none of my business, David’s unwillingness to get involved, and my own ambivalence about how to stop her from making what I feared was a big mistake.

  “What do you think?” I asked him finally.

  “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “The whole thing just doesn’t seem credible to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Taking a patient, any patient, for a personal vacation with you is way off the scale of reasonable action,” he said. “If the patient is nineteen and there are hints of an intimate relationship, that is unethical, and completely inappropriate on his part. He has the responsibility to keep the relationship therapeutic. If she accompanies him to Italy for any other reason than to check her into a clinic, and that is questionable, it could cost him his license.”

  “Brynn’s not going to be his patient anymore,” I told him. “I think she’s planning to stop therapy at the end of this semester.”

  “That doesn’t make any difference,” Buddy said. “Most states have a waiting period of at least six months before doctor and patient are ethically allowed to have any type of personal relationship. Did you say this guy came highly recommended?”

  “Yes, he’s apparently very well-known and has a fabulous reputation.”

  “Then he is sure to know the consequences of something like this,” Buddy said. “It’s hard to imagine that the man would risk his career.”

  “You mean, he’d be either completely crazy or madly in love,” I said.

  “It could be one of those,” Buddy agreed. “Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Or maybe it isn’t happening,” he said.

  “You think she’s making it up?”

  “She never actually admitted that she was going with him, did she?” he pointed out. “You accused her and she simply refused to deny it.”

  “You think I jumped to the wrong conclusion?”

  “I think so,” Buddy told me. “Terrible, unethical things do sometimes happen in therapy. However, this just doesn’t quite have a ring of truth.”

  “Why would she let me believe something like this?” I asked him.

  “Well,” he said, “there are a number of reasons, bad and not so bad.”

  I swallowed bravely. “Give me the bad first,” I said.

  “The worst case is that she doesn’t know that it’s made up. In a transference way, Brynn might sexualize the relationship with her therapist, especially given the recent entry into her life of her father’s new family.”

  “But wouldn’t Dr. Reiser see what is happening?” I asked.

  “He would as soon as she lets him,” Buddy said. “But she may be attempting to sabotage her therapy and force the doctor to reject her the way she thinks everyone else has.”

  “That sounds very serious,” I said.

  “Yes, if that’s the case, she is really troubled, and is dealing with the attachment, anguish-ridden, borderline personality disorder that attempts to cling and drive people away at the same time, I hate you, don’t leave me! This type of person exists in chaos and lies, a very painful style of life.”

  “Oh my God,” I moaned into the telephone.

  “But that’s the worst case, Jane,” Buddy hurried to insist. “There are other things much more likely.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, she made up the story to get her parents’ attention at a time when they seem to finally be a little more focused on their own lives,” he said. “In that case, she knows exactly what she is doing. She’s a smart young woman pulling your chain and enjoying having you react as you always do.”

  “How do I always react?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I get in there and change things to what they ought to be.”

  “But this time you won’t be able to,” Buddy said. “She’s nineteen now. This time you are going to have to let her make her own decision.”

  “What if she screws up?”

  “Then she screws up,” Buddy said. “We all do now and again.”

  I took a deep breath. I felt as if an elephant was lying on my chest.

  “Give it up, Jane,” Buddy said. “The days of controlling Brynn’s life are over. Now you have to love her and support her in whatever decision she makes.”

  When I arrived on the first day of my new job, Scott, who already had the place open, greeted me at the door, looking neater and better dressed than I’d ever remembered. Perhaps I had simply never seen him early in the morning.

  “I was afraid that in the clear light of dawn you might have reconsidered taking on the job,” he said.

  “Oh no,” I assured him. “This is something I’m really excited about.”

  “Then let me give you a tour of the place.”

  As he showed me around, it was clear that I knew the store nearly as well as he did. I certainly knew the inventory better—at least the top layer of it. There was so much. And it was piled so deep, neither of us had any clear inkling of what might be there.

  I was determined to see that change.

  It was past lunchtime before we decided on a break. He walked to the deli three blocks down and brought back hot pastrami sandwiches with chips and giant dill pickles.

  I rolled my eyes at the fabulously tasty but high-fat lunch.

  “I admire a man who watches his cholesterol,” I teased.

  He nodded. “You forgot to put that in the employment contract,” he said. “Rabbit food only. That’s a tough go for us meat-and-potato guys, but I’m a man who is ready to make concessions.”

  “Concessions? Really?”

  “Yep, popcorn, hot dogs, Junior Mints. Whatever kind of concessions you want.”

  It was like that with him, stupid jokes and wordplay. We brought out the silliness in each other. Of course, neither of us was truly all puns and games, but I did really enjoy myself with him, even when we were serious. For all the disinterest he claimed in antiques, he listened intently when I talked about them. And my total lack of knowledge about wh
at was going on in the world didn’t preclude my being fascinated by the subjects he chose to write about.

  As the days passed, I became a fixture at the Yesteryear Emporium. I worked long hours and often sat on that awful orange flowered sofa talking with Scott late into the night.

  I got acquainted with all the regular customers. Most seemed very much accustomed to fending for themselves, but delighted that somebody was at the store now who could talk about the merchandise.

  I learned as much from them as they ever did from me. I knew an impressive amount about period furniture, glass and art. But tools, farm machinery and baseball cards were a whole new world for me. I made trips to the library, read everything I could get my hands on and made copious notes for myself on what to look for at sales and auctions.

  I made my first big sale the second week that I’d worked there. I’d made several prior to that, but they were with regulars—they were sales that Scott probably would have made without me. This one was a tourist who caught sight of a 1920s doll carriage that I’d put in the window and had come in just to see it. Once I chatted with her, showed her around and promised to ship whatever she bought to her home in Florida, she went on an antique-shopping spree. That merchandise would have never left the door without me.

  I celebrated my success by purchasing a gift for my boss.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You can’t tell until you open it,” I said. “That’s actually the purpose of the wrapping.”

  He made a face and began tearing at the paper.

  A few moments later he unearthed his new laptop from its protective Styrofoam.

  “You bought me a computer?” He seemed stunned. “It’s for keeping the store accounts?”

  “No, it’s not for the store accounts,” I told him impatiently. “It’s for you. I’m selling that Underwood to the next person who walks through that door.”

  He glanced at his old typewriter and then back at me.

  “I’ve got one word for you, Robbins,” I said. “E-mail.”