Looking for Jane (2)
Chipped mug of coffee in hand, Angela mentally shakes herself and sets about the usual tasks of sorting new inventory and following up on order holds. For the life of her, she can’t imagine why the store has stayed in business this long, especially with real estate prices being what they are in this city. The small apartment over the shop has been rented out as additional unnecessary income since the property was first purchased by Angela’s aunt Jo (who married Old Money and really has no need for employment). Although she could easily sell the place for a fortune in a matter of days, Angela suspects her aunt has kept the shop running simply for something to talk to her immaculately groomed friends about during their weekly manicures.
Prior to starting at Thompson’s, Angela had hopped around in retail, most recently working for an uptight manager at an overpriced shoe store. Although she couldn’t prove it, Angela suspects she was “laid off for the season due to a decrease in sales” when her boss found out about the pregnancy several weeks too early. He was a fifty-something conservative and borderline homophobe, almost certainly of the school who believed maternity leave was nothing but a corporate inconvenience. Angela had confided the news of her pregnancy to a coworker after she ran out of excuses for her frequent trips to the staff washroom to throw up, and she’s sure the coworker blabbed.
So when she found herself out of work, smack in the middle of her thirties after undergoing budget-draining fertility treatments, she plumbed all her networks looking for a new job—any job—that would allow her and Tina to pay their rent and still build a nest egg for their new addition. At their last family Thanksgiving, Aunt Jo, with a wave of her magnificently bejeweled hand, offered Angela a managerial role at the shop so that she herself could “finally start phasing into retirement.” Though her experience with antiques was negligible at best, Angela was in no position to decline, and she knew Aunt Jo wouldn’t ever fire her own niece for becoming pregnant. Jo handed her the keys three days later.
On Sundays, Angela’s the sole staff member, but it’s usually a sleepy day anyway, particularly in the fall and winter months when tourism slows to a glacial crawl. After the new inventory is sorted, she moves on to the task of processing the unclaimed holds. This is one of the most frustrating chores on Angela’s list. Eight times out of ten, the furniture is reserved by an eager out-of-town “antique hunter” (usually self-proclaimed and newly minted) who journeyed into the city with rich friends on a shopping excursion. They shiver with glee at a prospective purchase, then demand a hold be placed so they can come back with a truck of appropriate size with which to haul away the object of that Saturday’s treasure hunt. And almost every time, the shopper then dodges Angela’s phone calls long enough that she releases the hold, and the would-be buyer is spared the shame of admitting the sale was a passing fancy. This process means that Angela spends a good portion of her Sunday mornings tearing pink hold stickers off the items and leaving them in their cozy corners of the shop, where they can await the next near-purchase tease, like aging orphans.
First on the list is a small three-drawer dresser. Angela knows exactly which one it is, and wanders to the very back of the shop. Approaching it, she notices the bright pink slip of paper that indicates a hold stick-tacked to the front of the top drawer. She yanks the slip of paper off, causing the dresser to lurch and the drawer to slide out a notch.
“Ah shit. Ouch!”
Coffee splashes over her hand. She licks it off, then peers through the crack, glimpsing a curious spot of white inside the darkness of the drawer. She casts her eyes around for a safe place to set her mug. She uses the pink hold slip in lieu of a coaster and places her coffee on a nearby bookshelf, then pulls open the drawer.
Just then, the bells above the door jingle, welcoming the first customer of the day. With a knot of intrigue in her stomach, Angela shuts the drawer and navigates her way back to the front, carefully stepping over and around piles of haphazardly stacked books.
“Hello!” she calls.
“Hi, there,” says a teenage girl with mousy brown hair and hunched shoulders.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Angela asks, pulling her scarf closer around her shoulders. A wintry draft has swept in with the girl, which irritates Angela, somewhat unfairly, she knows. She wants to get back to the drawer.
“Not really. I’m just browsing, but thanks.”
“Certainly,” Angela replies. “Let me know if you need anything.”
The girl smiles vaguely and turns to inspect the nearest bookshelf. It’s the politest possible snub, but Angela takes it as a welcome dismissal. She returns to the dresser and opens the top drawer again.
Reaching in, she removes a heavy marble box and places it gently on the weathered floorboards. It was the white stone that caught her attention. Nearly all the antiques in the shop are made of some variety of wood. The rest is mostly brass and silver: tarnished picture frames with intricate Victorian scrolling, hand mirrors that call to mind Regency-era puffy hairstyles capped with lace bonnets, and collectible teaspoons with faded crests and intricate familial coats of arms.
Angela hasn’t seen anything made of marble since she began working at Thompson’s, and this is a beautiful ivory stone shot with sparkling grey ripples that some antique hunter may actually want to buy. Abandoning her lukewarm coffee, Angela carries the box to the front desk. She glances up to check the browsing status of her single patron, then perches on the bar-height stool and flips open the gold clasp of the box.