gotta get back to work. Just remember,
Annabelle, no one knows your stuff better than you. Make sure you come and tell me
how it goes.”
Kate closed the door behind her, leaving Annabelle alone again to run a critical eye
around the shop.
Situated on a side road off the main antiques drag, the building’s former life as
a small hotel built in the 1890s had been eradicated except for the main desk her
granddad had turned into the checkout counter. He’d gutted the first floor for the
shop and renovated the second and third floors into a living space.
The first floor, with the exception of the rear gallery, was an open space filled
with furniture. Annabelle closed her eyes for afew seconds then opened them, trying to see the room as a casual observer would.
It was crowded, but what antiques shop wasn’t. Granddad had alternately cursed and
blessed their many treasures, but Annabelle had never seen the jumble as anything
less than heaven.
Lancaster County chests mingled with Philadelphia sideboards and an authentic Gruber
Wagon built in Berks County took up a large area near the front of the store. Grandfather
clocks made in Reading near the turn of the nineteenth century towered over the folk
art made by an itinerant farm worker in the 1940s.
She had a couple of Benjamin Austrian paintings on the wall and several local landscapes
that, remarkably, still looked the same as they had a hundred years ago.
Since it was Monday, and the shop was closed, she didn’t have to worry about visitors
interrupting. But that left her with an hour to fill before Carmen Moran was set to
arrive.
Carmen had agreed to come to the shop instead of interviewing Annabelle at her New
York gallery because Carmen was traveling back from Ohio to visit family by car and
it’d worked for her schedule.
That had suited Annabelle just fine. She loved the city but it’d been years since
she’d been back.
Heading back to the front room and the CD player beneath the counter, Annabelle dug
beneath the tasteful classical music she typically played when the store was open
until she found what she wanted.
She smiled at the posturing cast of
The Matrix
. The obliviously cool Keanu Reeves. Sexy Carrie-Anne Moss. All that black leather.
Slipping the CD out of the case and into the player, she queued up her favorite song
and cranked it.
Marilyn Manson blared from the speakers hidden throughout the shop. Closing her eyes,
she let the hard-driving drums and guitar pound at her brain. She couldn’t help herself,
her feet wouldn’t stay still, and she started to sway to the music.
Hairstyle be darned. They didn’t call it head-banging for nothing. Music had been
one of the few normal teenage things she’d been into. And she couldn’t seem to cure
the addiction to industrial metal she’d picked up when they’d lived in Germany for
several months in her teens.
The music throbbed in her blood, lending itself to a total release of inhibitions.
Thank God no one could see her—a grown woman dancing like she was a fourteen-year-old
in the concert pit. Pins flew from her hair and she raked her hands through the mass
to take out the rest. She’d fix it later. After she got this restlessness out of her
system.
It felt good to let go. She’d been living in a fishbowl since breaking up with Gary.
A young woman with no family, no boyfriend, and very few friends living in a tight
community was cause for speculation.
If she hadn’t—
Someone started clapping.
Eight
With a gasp, Annabelle stumbled over her now schizophrenic feet, grabbing onto the
nearest piece of furniture to help her regain her balance. She froze, lungs gasping
for air, and scoured the room until she found the intruder.
Silhouetted against the front window, Jared Golden glimmered like a mirage in the
morning sun.
He wore a denim shirt under a black leather jacket and a pair of jeans that clung
lovingly to his
Annabelle, no one knows your stuff better than you. Make sure you come and tell me
how it goes.”
Kate closed the door behind her, leaving Annabelle alone again to run a critical eye
around the shop.
Situated on a side road off the main antiques drag, the building’s former life as
a small hotel built in the 1890s had been eradicated except for the main desk her
granddad had turned into the checkout counter. He’d gutted the first floor for the
shop and renovated the second and third floors into a living space.
The first floor, with the exception of the rear gallery, was an open space filled
with furniture. Annabelle closed her eyes for afew seconds then opened them, trying to see the room as a casual observer would.
It was crowded, but what antiques shop wasn’t. Granddad had alternately cursed and
blessed their many treasures, but Annabelle had never seen the jumble as anything
less than heaven.
Lancaster County chests mingled with Philadelphia sideboards and an authentic Gruber
Wagon built in Berks County took up a large area near the front of the store. Grandfather
clocks made in Reading near the turn of the nineteenth century towered over the folk
art made by an itinerant farm worker in the 1940s.
She had a couple of Benjamin Austrian paintings on the wall and several local landscapes
that, remarkably, still looked the same as they had a hundred years ago.
Since it was Monday, and the shop was closed, she didn’t have to worry about visitors
interrupting. But that left her with an hour to fill before Carmen Moran was set to
arrive.
Carmen had agreed to come to the shop instead of interviewing Annabelle at her New
York gallery because Carmen was traveling back from Ohio to visit family by car and
it’d worked for her schedule.
That had suited Annabelle just fine. She loved the city but it’d been years since
she’d been back.
Heading back to the front room and the CD player beneath the counter, Annabelle dug
beneath the tasteful classical music she typically played when the store was open
until she found what she wanted.
She smiled at the posturing cast of
The Matrix
. The obliviously cool Keanu Reeves. Sexy Carrie-Anne Moss. All that black leather.
Slipping the CD out of the case and into the player, she queued up her favorite song
and cranked it.
Marilyn Manson blared from the speakers hidden throughout the shop. Closing her eyes,
she let the hard-driving drums and guitar pound at her brain. She couldn’t help herself,
her feet wouldn’t stay still, and she started to sway to the music.
Hairstyle be darned. They didn’t call it head-banging for nothing. Music had been
one of the few normal teenage things she’d been into. And she couldn’t seem to cure
the addiction to industrial metal she’d picked up when they’d lived in Germany for
several months in her teens.
The music throbbed in her blood, lending itself to a total release of inhibitions.
Thank God no one could see her—a grown woman dancing like she was a fourteen-year-old
in the concert pit. Pins flew from her hair and she raked her hands through the mass
to take out the rest. She’d fix it later. After she got this restlessness out of her
system.
It felt good to let go. She’d been living in a fishbowl since breaking up with Gary.
A young woman with no family, no boyfriend, and very few friends living in a tight
community was cause for speculation.
If she hadn’t—
Someone started clapping.
Eight
With a gasp, Annabelle stumbled over her now schizophrenic feet, grabbing onto the
nearest piece of furniture to help her regain her balance. She froze, lungs gasping
for air, and scoured the room until she found the intruder.
Silhouetted against the front window, Jared Golden glimmered like a mirage in the
morning sun.
He wore a denim shirt under a black leather jacket and a pair of jeans that clung
lovingly to his
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