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“What about you guys?” I waggled my brows at my mom. “You and Dad going on a hot date tonight?”
“We’re headed over to the Millers’ for bridge. Do with that information what you will, but I’m guessing I’ll get to bed early and wind up with a wine headache for tomorrow morning.”
“At least I’m the one opening the store in the early a.m.” I chuckled, loving how my parents still made time for one another. They’d been married for thirty-eight years and acted like it had been ten. The funny thing was that I'd thought I had that too. You know, before my BFF took off with my fiancé. Oh, did I forget to mention we’d been engaged?
But I was so over it.
Really.
Possibly.
Maybe, someday.
Emily turned off theOpensign and propped the door just as the thunder rumbled through the air. The electricity combed over my skin, and I knew our sorting time had abruptly ended.
We scurried outside and brought the remaining boxes inside before locking the front door. And within minutes, a flurry of activity whirled around me, with coats and purses grabbed, most lights shut off, and a pug tucked under my mom’s arm.
My mom double-tapped a statue of Artemis, which had belonged to my grandma, and then kissed her fingers afterward. It was tradition. She was certain my grandma still graced the figurine’s presence, or maybe it was the other way around. Our family had lots of little quirks like that. It wasn’t that we were necessarily superstitious or mystic, but there were plenty of times when someone in the family thought they had a special…power, and let’s just say none of us ever wanted to rain on someone’s parade.
For instance, each of my siblings and I have a vintage item my mom handpicked upon birth that she felt told her something about our potential life partners. I received a broach. Emily got a necklace. Mae received a pair of earrings. Audrey got a hairpin. Brad had a watch. To this day, my mom swore up and down that each of those items would give us some hint about whom we should wind up with. Being that we were all very clearly single, it wasn’t something we brought up often.
The thought made me chuckle as my family gave one last group wave and wandered out the back.
This was always one of my favorite times. I liked to linger and very rarely wanted to hurry anywhere. The smell of well-loved books drifted through the air, and the mannequins draped in vintage lace anchored the aisles along with Art-Deco and Mid-Century Modern clocks ticking a tale that I could finally let my mind imagine. This was my favorite part about working in an antique store. I’d touch a piece and imagine who held it last, what their life meant to their loved ones, the legacy they left behind, and the mystery that remained. It was downright exhilarating.
That was why I had to open the box that I’d been eyeing all day. I’d placed it behind a curio cabinet to ensure I’d get first dibs. There was something about the worn cardboard that just called to me. I’d had this feeling before where my fingers and toes tingled with anticipation, and the sensation always led to good things.
I grabbed a box cutter from behind the counter and tore into the cardboard.
“Ouch,” I hissed to myself as the blade ran across my skin. I glanced at the tiny slash, sucked on it for a second, and put my shirt over it to stop the bleeding.
I ripped the tape to shreds without the razor blade, and the cardboard flaps sprang open.
A pop of dazzling turquoise caught my eye as I focused on the earthenware vase packed carefully between Styrofoam. The tingling sensation zipped through me as I recognized the color Theodore Deck’s pieces were known for. He'd developed a beautiful glazing technique in the late Nineteenth Century with vivid colors like this exact turquoise lying in front of me.
But there was no way we could luck out with the sandwich plateanda vase by Deck.
No way.
Not our little antique store in the middle of nowhere off the coast of Washington State.
My trembling hands raised the turquoise vase, which I turned over to see a signature.
TH Deck.
With wide eyes, I placed it back down and noticed several folded bundles of paper had fallen from the vase. Each one had been tied with a piece of twine.
I picked up the vase again and brought it to my right eye when it sounded like something else rattled inside. I spotted a tiny book, maybe a diary or address book, shoved inside. I shook the vase, hoping it would fall out. My hand was definitely too large to shove inside the narrow opening. But I had these letters and could start there.
A little bit of guilt pricked its way through me as I eyed the stack of neatly tied bunches. Technically, everything we bought was ours, so I did have a right to open one of the bundles and read whatever was written.
I twisted my lips into a contemplative pout as my fingers touched the rough string. A tingle spread through me, and without another thought, I untied the top packet. The paper felt old but not ancient. The vase had done a good job of protecting the stationery over the years. As I unfolded the top paper, that little irritating speck of guilt surfaced again, especially when I started to read the letter.
My Dear Little JJ,
My star baseball player, talented artist, and best speller in the state, your dreams will always be my dreams. I love you more than you could ever imagine, and I can’t wait to watch you grow up to be an incredible and absolutely lovely man. But right now, you’re my little JJ, and I’m cherishing all the snuggles we have together.
With all my love,
