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Onyx
Tuesday and Wednesday passed without me hearing anything from Helen about my response to my buyer’s bullshit offer. She told me she passed along my go fuck yourself, but in business friendly verbiage.
I wasn’t sure if I appreciated her filtering my response or not.
It was Thursday morning, and Alys and Maddox were both working. She was splitting her time between her app and the game, while she waited on QA. He was tweaking volume and range on some sound effects.
I was supposed to be going through images, to see which I wanted to take with me to the new store and which went in storage. Alys and Maddox had already claimed several they said I wasn’t allowed to steal.
Every photo or signed album that reminded me of one of them found itself in the decide later pile, which was ten times bigger than either of the other piles.
Fuck this—I could come back to the pictures.
I had a small collection of antiques I’d identified that wouldn’t be going with me. I’d put off talking to Deacon about the best way to rehome them, because I hadn’t told anyone about the move. Now the news was out, there was no reason to delay.
I called him, to see when he might have time to come check things out, and he was at my place less than fifteen minutes later.
“You weren’t supposed to drop everything.” If I could keep this conversation light and fun, I would.
Deacon gave me a dry smile. “I would drop half a dozen Bay vases, to get my hands on that jukebox.”
What now? “I’m going to assume those are common?”
“Like Limited Edition black albums. But I still want to see this thing up close.”
I gestured toward one corner of the shop, where the item in question sat. It was a jukebox, but the cabinet was hand carved to look like a wooden pipe organ, and the speakers were set up inside. I’d gotten it when I first took over here.
Deacon walked around it, never making contact. “And you still have the photos?”
“I do.” I’d gotten the jukebox from the granddaughter of the man who built the case, and it had come with original photographs proving who the creator was, and how old.
It had been on display here since I picked it up, so Deacon had already examined it dozens of times. He let out a whistle sigh. “What do you want to do with it?”
It was the kind of piece that had local ties—it was created to look like the old Mormon tabernacle pipe organ—so it was more likely to appeal to a buyer here than draw attention in Arizona.
Keep it. Where it was. Not have to move it or get rid of it.
I also wanted to put everything back on the walls, and not sell. Not leave.
Why had I gotten myself into this situation?
“I don’t know. Sell it on consignment?” I said. “I want it to go to someone who will appreciate it.”
“You appreciate it. The people in town appreciate it. It looks perfect where it is.”
Great. He wasn’t helping.
“You were the one who rushed over here when you heard I was selling it,” I said.
Deacon jammed his hands in his pockets with a shrug. “I kind of didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe you’re leaving.”
Not him, too.
“Because Haddarville is the promised land? People move.” I tried to keep my tone neutral.
The front door swung open, and the new customer was one of my regulars. She called back with a wave, and moved directly to sift through the new arrival vinyl.
“It’s not that,” Deacon said. “You’re leaving the people who matter behind.”
