by Tim Myers
“I found a wonderful new allergist. I believe he’s cured me.”
“That’s excellent news,” I said. After Tick went inside, I took a deep breath of the cool autumn air. It was my favorite time of year, bar none, and I wished, for just a moment, to have the leisure to enjoy it more instead of spending the day inside At Wick’s End. I’d always thought being my own boss would give me freedom from punching clocks and nosy supervisors. Instead, I found that I worked harder for myself than I ever had for any employer. I was, without a doubt, the toughest boss I’d ever dealt with. Well, there had to be perks to running my own show. Eve was slated to work the evening shift, and I’d always worked alongside her. Not tonight. Come 4:00 p.m., I was going to take the rest of the day off.
I peered in Heather’s new age shop as I walked past it, wondering if she’d come to grips yet with losing an old love. Since my parents had died in a car wreck on my twenty-first birthday, I hadn’t lost a soul I was close to until my Great-Aunt Belle was murdered.
To appease my conscience for cutting out early, I decided to open At Wick’s End half an hour early. Eve came in three minutes after I flipped the sign to open.
“You must have hit it by accident,” she said as she flipped it back.
“No, I thought I’d get a jump on things,” I said as I set it back.
“We never opened early,” Eve said with a snort. “Belle always said if we did, soon enough folks would expect it every day.”
“Well, I don’t think one day is going to start any bad trends, one way or another. Chances are nobody’s going to show up early anyway. I just felt like opening. Eve, did you ever used to work the store by yourself, or was Belle here every second the store was open?”
“Goodness no, she took a day off now and then. She said she had to or she’d go stir crazy.”
“I’m getting a little antsy myself,” I admitted. “I haven’t missed a minute of work since I took over, and it’s starting to get to me. I’m thinking about cutting out at four, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Mind? Why should I mind, Harrison? It’s your shop, after all. I’ll be fine on my own.”
She sounded almost eager to get me out of there, but I wasn’t going to push it. Eve could probably use the space as much as I could. Though she’d been a godsend teaching me about candles, I was certain she longed for a little quiet time at work just waiting on customers and not educating her new boss.
I was just getting ready to grab some lunch when Mrs. Jorgenson walked into At Wick’s End.
“Good morning,” she said brusquely. “I assume you’re ready for me.”
I nodded, too surprised to say a word. So she’d come back after all. Eve started to greet her, caught one look at the expression on her face and stepped back into the storeroom where she’d been preparing an order.
I’d never gotten around to cleaning up from the day before, so the table looked as if I’d set it out fresh just for her. Before I could say a word, Mrs. Jorgenson said, “I must apologize for my behavior yesterday. I didn’t realize until I arrived at the store that our lesson wasn’t until today. I must have written it down wrong in my book. I’ve been doing that more and more lately. Too much on my mind, I suppose.”
“No harm done,” I said, ready to accept her fabrication if it meant keeping her coming back. “So, are you ready to get started learning a new technique today?”
“I’m quite excited, actually,” she said. “How do we begin?”
I got out an old shoebox and handed her a hammer and screwdriver, along with a hefty block of translucent wax. She asked, “What happened to the plastic bags?”
“This system works a lot better,” I said. I’d stumbled across it in one of my books and had found it to be much more effective than using a plastic bag to break up the wax in. “Chisel off small chunks,” I ordered as I went over my supplies again. Mrs. J took the safety glasses and slid them into place, then attacked the wax with glee. She was enjoying it a little too much, and I realized she was getting out a lot of aggression. Good for her; it was the cheapest therapy I’d ever heard of.
When she had enough wax chipped off the main body, I stopped her, but not until she’d given it a few extra whacks. I pulled out what remained of the block and broke up a few of the larger chunks, then slid the fragments into the double boiler.
As the wax started to melt, I asked, “Would you like to add color and fragrance, or will we be making the economy model today?”
“Harrison, you know I always start with the basics. What do we do next?”
I measured out some wick and said, “The first few times it might be better to do single tapers, just until you get the hang of it.” I’d laid out some of my earlier efforts and showed her what I’d done. She picked up a few of the singles, then examined a double I’d done in beeswax. I could tell she wanted to jump a few steps, something I would have been delighted to do, but her analytical approach held fast as she put the candles back on the tabletop.
“Where do we begin?”
I peered inside the double boiler, then said, “It looks good. Let’s get started.”
“Shouldn’t we check the temperature first?”
I looked at the pool of melted wax. It looked exactly like water, and the first time I’d done it I thought my double boiler must have been leaking. “It looks just right to me.”
I took a pot of boiling water off another burner and poured it into a stainless steel cylinder I used as a dipping can.
“You put water in there first?” she asked, incredulous.
“Absolutely. Now we add the wax.” I gently eased the melted wax into the container, with Mrs. Jorgenson close enough to breathe my air. After close examination, she said, “I can’t see a difference. Did it all mix together?”
“Look at the sides of the container. You can see the line where the wax ends and the water begins. When you use dye in the wax, it’s really easy to see.”
I handed her a piece of number-one wick and said, “Dip away. Just remember, use quick even dips, then give the wax a chance to cool between immersions, and you’ll have a candle in no time.”
By the tenth dip, she barely had any wax on her wick at all. “How long does this process take?”
It had never taken me more than three or four dips to get some kind of buildup on the wick. Something had gone wrong. I thought about all I’d read, then realized the wax was probably too hot.
“Tell you what,” I said matter-of-factly, “Let’s allow it to cool a little first.”
“The wax on my wick, or what’s in there?”
“Both,” I said.
We waited a few minutes and I decided to test it with a piece of wick of my own. After three dips, along with a little waiting time between immersions for cooling, I had the beginnings of a taper.
“Now why can’t I do that?” Mrs. Jorgenson asked impatiently.
“It’s all yours,” I said.
After a few minutes, she had a thin taper herself, one of frosty white wax. “Why, it looks just like a miniature icicle.” The delight in her voice was impossible to miss.
“You’re a natural,” I said as she continued to dip. Before too long, she had a fine, stout taper and announced that it was complete. Before I could say a word, she said, “I’d like to do another.”
I looked into the container and saw that we had plenty of wax left. She took the offered wick and began dipping it immediately. After Mrs. Jorgenson was into making her fourth candle, she said, “What’s wrong with the wax now?”
I looked and saw that there was a skim coat of wax forming on top. “It’s supposed to do that. It’s starting to cool.”
She nodded, but continued to dip.
I said, “You really should stop now. It’s not fit for dipping.”
“Nonsense. I want to experiment.” As the wax began to congeal, she picked up lumps of it onto her candle. The shape was exotic and not altogether unattractive. “There, it’s perfect,” she announced, and I had to admi
t she’d been right.
“Do I have to let these cool overnight?” she said, eyeing her creations with joy.
“No, ma’am, as soon as they cool to the touch, they’re ready to go. Give them another ten or fifteen minutes and they’ll be set.”
“Excellent,” she said. “That will give me time to gather my supplies. Aren’t you coming?”
“I’m right behind you,” I said, happy that she’d come back for reasons more than her money. In Mrs. Jorgenson I had a true kindred spirit in wax. On the surface, we had nothing in common. She was a rich, older widow with time on her hands, and I was a fairly young man doing everything I could to keep my head above water. But when we were working on candles, we were two of a kind.
After picking out our nicest double broiler and dipping can, Mrs. J added more wax to her substantial collection, along with a thick roll of wick and a wide variety of colors and scents. “I can’t wait for our next lesson. Do you have anything special in mind?”
“There are a lot of things we can do with dipping candles,” I said. “Next week we’ll experiment.”
She signed the substantial receipt and was humming gladly as she walked out of the store.
“Miracles really do happen,” Eve said after Mrs. Jorgenson was gone. “I never believed she would come back.”
“I’d like to say it was my charm, but she said she thought she’d written down the wrong day for our lesson.”
Eve snorted. “Don’t you believe that for one second. She’s too sharp to do that. No, I’m guessing that little story was her way to save face. She’s got the candle bug, and she’s got it bad, Harrison.”
“I can’t blame her, I’ve got it myself.” Suddenly I didn’t feel guilty about taking the evening off anymore at all. “Tell you what, as soon as you get back from lunch, I’m going to call it a day.”
Eve nodded. “I think that’s a splendid idea. I shan’t be long.”
She was as good as her word, back in nineteen minutes from the beginning of her hour break. When I tried to protest that she had more time, Eve shooed me out of my own store. “Go now, there’s a whole world out there, in case you’ve forgotten it.”
With a sheepish grin, I headed out of At Wick’s End with a free afternoon and a little money in my pocket.
It should have been perfect, and it would have been, if I hadn’t run into my worst nightmare in the parking lot behind River’s Edge before I had a chance to get away.
Chapter 4
I tried to duck when I saw Manfred Stratton standing by my truck, but it was too late. He spotted me before I could get back out of sight, and hailed me in his booming voice.
“Harrison. I was just ready to come looking for you. We have a great many things to talk about.”
Manfred Stratton had stumbled into At Wick’s End two weeks before, and I hadn’t been able to shake him since. If the man had shown the slightest interest in candlemaking I might have warmed to him, but instead, he was a former salesman who now had nothing to do but harass shop owners with his windy conversations and pointless stories of his past successes, no doubt many of them accomplished only in his mind.
“Sorry, Manfred, I don’t have time to talk.” Anyone else would have gotten the hint from the tone in my voice, but Manfred ignored it, as he no doubt had his customers’ protestations in the past.
“Fine, fine. I’ll buy you a cup of Millie’s excellent coffee and we can visit for a while. Have I ever told you about the time I was nominated for salesman of the year for my company?”
“I’m sure you have,” I said as I brushed past him and opened the truck door. “‘Bye,” I said as I sped away. I’d half-expected Manfred to throw himself in my path to keep me from driving off, but as I turned the comer, I saw that the man was still talking! Remarkable. I wondered how long it would take him to notice that his audience had vanished.
I was learning about all kinds of odd birds that shop owners had to deal with on a daily basis. Manfred, for all his long-winded stories and lack of purchases, wasn’t as bad as the shoplifters. It’s not like I sold necessities in At Wick’s End. What drove some people to steal the wicks and wax I’d caught them with? Eve, having logged much more practice, was a whiz at spotting our light-fingered visitors. The week before she’d collared a sweet, little old man who admitted to pockets stuffed with merchandise.
I drove the thoughts of thieves and windbags from my mind and promised myself I’d have some fun.
Only I wasn’t exactly sure what that entailed anymore.
Almost by accident, I found myself at the Micah’s Ridge pavilion down by the riverfront. There were jewelers and T-shirt shops, small little restaurants tucked into nooks and crannies, and there was a place for open-air concerts that occurred Friday nights throughout the summer. We had two fairs a year, one in summer and the other in autumn, and Eve and I had been discussing a booth rental to test the waters. I parked the truck and walked around the mostly empty grounds until I came to the water’s edge. There was a shop there that rented canoes and kayaks that I hadn’t seen before. I found a woman in her late twenties out front working on an old wooden canoe.
“Getting your rentals in shape?” I asked as I watched her sand through layers of paint.
She looked up and laughed as she brushed an errant strand of black hair out of her face. “I wouldn’t dream of putting this out for rental. This one’s going to be all mine.”
“So you work at this shop and restore boats, too?”
She smiled. “What can I say? I’m a woman of limited interests.” She stuck out a hand and said, “I’m Erin Talbot.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Erin. My name’s Harrison Black.”
She nodded, then ran her fingertips across the patch she’d been sanding. As she worked, Erin asked, “Have you ever been out on the water?”
“I canoed at summer camp, but that was a long time ago. Do you get many folks who want to paddle the Gunpowder?” The river was a little too wide and fast for my tastes.
“It’s protected here, though how they ever had the nerve to call this Gunpowder Lake I’ll never know. I do most of my own serious paddling in the mountains.”
“What rivers have you been on?”
“Let’s see, I like the Nolichucky, the French Broad, and the Nantahala the best. They’re all drivable from here, so I can shut the place down and do it as a day trip.” She gestured to her rentals and asked, “Why don’t you take one out?”
“A canoe? I don’t think so. Unless you’d care to join me. You can even steer.”
She laughed. “As tempting an offer as that is, I’ve got to stay with the shop. If you don’t want to canoe by yourself, why don’t you try a kayak? I’ve got some that are lots of fun.”
I raised an eyebrow as I said, “Fun is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Come on, Harrison, give it a try.”
“Why not?” I found myself taking a quick lesson on dry land, and before I knew what was happening, I was in an open kayak on the water.
“Use the paddle like a windmill,” Erin called out to me, and I was amazed to find myself slicing through the water with a great deal more ease than with the remembered canoe. “Hey, this is fun.”
“I told you so,” she laughed as I sped away.
I was tempted to go all the way up to River’s Edge, but I was afraid my muscles would be too sore if I pushed it that hard on my first time out, so I drove myself upstream, then drifted lazily back to Erin’s shop. What a sense of freedom being out on the water gave me. I could look down and see fish darting below me one second, then see a wedge of sandbar the next. Where I’d fought with a canoe paddle as a kid, drowning my companion as I switched sides, I took to the kayak instantly. What great fun to glide across the water.
Erin was waiting for me when I slid silently up to her dock. The effect was spoiled somewhat when I failed to stop in time and scraped the side of the kayak on the pier.
“Sorry about that,” I said sheepishly as I climbed o
ut.
“These things are designed to take a beating,” she said. “Have fun?”
“That was excellent,” I said. “I will absolutely be back!”
Erin nodded as she settled up my account. “I’ll be here. Unless it’s a day I head to the mountains.”
I walked out of the rental shop, surprised by the stiffness in my shoulders and the tightness on my face. Next time I’d have to use sunscreen before I went out on the water. The only thing I knew for sure was that there would definitely be a next time. Erin intrigued me, and I had to admit that it would be more than the kayak rental that would bring me back to her shop. She was a woman I wanted to get to know better.
It was still too early to head back to River’s Edge, so I decided to stop in at A Slice of Heaven, a pizza place Heather had introduced me to, and grab a bite to eat.
I started for a spot near the jukebox, then saw Heather sitting in the corner by herself. I approached and asked softy, “Care for some company?”
She looked up, startled by the sound of my voice. “Oh. Hi, Harrison.”
“Listen, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I’ll be over there if you want somebody to talk to.”
I started for the place I’d intended to sit all along when she called out, “That’s okay, you can stay.”
It wasn’t the warmest invitation I’d ever gotten in my life, but I sat with her anyway.
I glanced at the menu and said, “What did you order? I’m not sure what I feel like today.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite,” she admitted as she twisted her glass on the table.
“Well, I feel like pizza, and I can’t eat one by myself. You don’t have to have any, you can take a piece and sneer at it if you want.” She wasn’t interested in my banter or my smile, but I wasn’t going to give up that easily. I saw the owner, April May, wearing an apron that said, “Pizza, the world’s most perfect food.” Her flaming red hair was pulled back into a braid, and though business was starting to pick up, she trotted right over to our table.
“Hey, Harrison,” she offered as she watched Heather carefully. It was clear she was worried about her friend.