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“Wait!”
She slowly pivoted, her body stiff with irritation.
The door opened, the bells screaming in sharp tones. That was it. I’d had it. Those bells had togo.
Wincing, I said to Estrelle, “Do you know what’s going on with my dad?”
The sequins shimmered. “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I don’t.”
Behind me, Mrs. Pollard snorted. “That means she don’t.”
Estrelle narrowed her gaze.
Mrs. Pollard quickly stood and patted her short gray hair. “I’m just going to freshen up in the powder room. Will you keep an eye on my recipe cards, Maggie?”
“Of course,” I said, watching her hurry off.
By the time I looked back at Estrelle, she was halfway across the room, her sequins flashing a hearty goodbye as they caught a thin shaft of sunlight. When she reached the door, she lifted the mysteriously silent bells off their hook, threw me a glance full of mischief and affection, then dropped the bells in the trash can before walking out.
My jaw fell clear to the floor. I glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed what she’d done but no one seemed to be paying the least bit of attention.
Rose called out, “Maggie? Someone here to see you.”
I pulled my disbelieving gaze from the door, turning it toward a woman I didn’t recognize, who stood at the counter. She was studying me, looking nervous as could be with her hands clenched on the strap of her bag. Her face was pinched with worry.
“Go on, sugar pie,” Rose encouraged her, before pulling cups, prepping for the Mermaid onslaught.
The woman, mid-to-late twenties by my guess, was such a tiny thing that I had the feeling a stiff wind would blow her straight down the street if it caught her by surprise. She thanked Rose and returned her smile, which eased the tension in her perfectly heart-shaped face, revealing her to be quite pretty with her fair complexion and high cheekbones flecked with pale freckles. She didn’t so much as blink as she walked slowly toward me on kitten heels, but her attention was nowfixed upon the Curiosity Corner. Her big owlish hazel eyes had gone wide, the mix of green and brown reminding me of the moss that grew on the oak trees in the square. Her eyebrows were pulled low, as if she was trying to puzzle out exactly what she was seeing.
It was a common reaction to the space.
“Maggie?” she questioned as she neared, once again looking at me. “The plum-tuckered Maggie?”
I laughed, because it was wholly true. I was exhausted, and it was barely nine in the morning. “Hi, yes, I’m Maggie. Have we met?”
She didn’t look familiar, and she certainly didn’t dress like she was from around here. Wool. At the end of summer. She was all-out begging for heatstroke.
“We haven’t met, no. My name’s Ava Harrison.” She took another step nearer and thrust out her hand to shake mine.
Being an arm’s length from her brought an ever-so-slight wave of dizziness, a mild shock wave, as if my equilibrium had taken a hip check. It was a familiar sensation, as comfortable—and comforting—as a hug. I enfolded her small hand with both of mine and gave it a squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said, truly meaning it. “I have something for you.”
I lived for these days when one of my curiosities found its forever home.
Hopefulness swept across her face. “You do?”
She had a quiet voice, light and feathery. “I do. Just give me a second to find it.”
I hurried over to the elaborate driftwood display. To anyone else the knickknacks in the magpie’s tree might seem like hodgepodge at its finest—or junk at its worst. To me it was all treasure, even though none of it was mine. It belonged to others. I was simply the patient middleman, the mystical matchmaker.
My mama had felt shock waves, too, having had the ability nearly all her life, just like her mama before her. When I was little, she’d tucked me in at night telling me stories of the matches she’d made. I’d been envious that I didn’t feel vibrations like she did, but she always had faith that one day the gift would bepassed along to me. That time had come when I was eleven, and it was forever tied to the worst day of my life.
I searched for Ava’s match, rooting around in shallow bins and baskets until I felt a similar tremor to the one I’d experienced a moment ago. Finally, I pulled out a silver thimble, its rim embossed with butterflies in flight. I couldn’t quite remember where—or how long ago—I’d found it. Had I picked it up while walking along the beach? At a thrift store? At a yard sale? I had no recollection of a thimble at all, which was unusual. Until today, I’d always recalled exactly where I found my curiosities.
I held the thimble out to her. “This is for you. No cost.”
The items I’d collected for the Curiosity Corner were only valuable to the people they belonged with—and I never charged a dime for them. It wouldn’t have been right, and honestly, they usually weren’t pricy pieces to begin with. Their value was in the memories they stirred.
Tentatively, she took the thimble from me and examined the pattern before closing her fingers around it. “My grandmother had one similar to this, only hers had birds in flight and was dented on the top. I’d forgotten about it until just now.”
