“Well. What do you think?” Maggie asked with pronounced pride, hands on hips.
“I’m overwhelmed,” I said truthfully since I’d really expected something more along the lines of flea market wares.
She beamed. “’Tis just the time difference talkin’. In no time at all you’ll be regular whelmed.”
I smiled. “I couldn’t help but notice the red shoes in the front window.”
“Oh. Those are no’ for sale. They belong to you.”
“To me?”
“Oh aye. So much to tell. They were more or less put there as a beacon. Consider them a welcome home gift. Just let me close the front door. Would you like to see your house first or should I put the kettle on in back?”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about the references to my garage and my house. The terminology sounded alien when my brain tried to process it.
“Tour first then tea. If that’s okay with you?”
“Well o’ course you want to see what there is to see. Let me lock the shop and we’ll have a quick look.”
“Oh. I don’t want to cause you to lock the store.” It was a lame protest because it was a lie. I totally wanted her to lock up so I could get my tour.
“Do no’ fret a bit. Tuesdays are slow as sap.” She locked the front door, turned the CLOSED sign around, then headed toward the back. As she passed by me, she said, “I’ll bet you’re full of questions.”
I nodded. “I am. First question. Who’s the buyer? These things,” I gestured toward the shop, “are amazing. I’m no expert and even I can see that they’re extraordinary.”
“Well we don’t have a buyer per se. The stuff just shows up.”
I blinked slowly. “Just shows up?”
“Oh aye. ‘Tis part of the shop’s charm it is.”
“So you, um, I mean we don’t pay for what we sell?”
“No’ in the Queen’s currency. No.” She shifted an item a quarter of a turn and stood back to assess something I could not see as she said, “Tonight we’re to have dinner at Lochlan’s house. He’s eager to transfer ownership to you.”
“Lochlan? He’s the one who wrote to me. A solicitor?”
“Oh, aye. Looking forward to meetin’ you he is. You’ll like him. He was a heartbreaker in his time,” she said wistfully. Then added, “Though a bit studious.”
“So he’s older?”
An unreadable expression flitted across her face, but she recovered her bright demeanor quickly. “He is mature. Aye. Make a list of questions if ye wish. We’ll have a lovely meal with Q and A. He has a fine cook. Envy of all who eat.”
All who eat? Wouldn’t that be everyone?
“And mayhap,” she continued moving toward the rear, “we’ll get to know you a bit better.” She stopped, turned, smiled and winked. “The supper’s sure to be accompanied by a fine spirit or two.” With an abrupt about face, she ordered, “Come this way.”
I followed Maggie’s curvy figure toward the back of the store. Her shoulder-length hair was wild and fly-away and the color left some faded clues that she must have been a bright redhead before the white began its campaign to take over. Not that I could talk. I touched up my own mahogany tresses on a regular basis. So no judging about physical evidence of time passage.
By the time I took the fortieth birthday grand scale ribbing complete with headstone cake and Geritol as a wrapped package, I’d come to terms with the fact that the only way to escape the march toward pallor of skin and hair was death. I’ll take option number one. Thanks.
It was impossible to nail down Maggie’s age on looks, and that was made harder by the fact that she ‘seemed’ young. You might call it an attitude. Or an air.
My eyes fixed, as they had again and again since I arrived, on the pendant she wore at the end of a braided silver chain. It was a stone that appeared to be a light aquamarine, the size of a child’s hand. It picked up and reflected light and color every time she moved. Of course, it couldn’t be a real aquamarine. If it was, it would be worth more than the entire village.
I saw that she’d caught me staring. So I owned it.
“Your necklace is so unusual. I’ve never seen anything like it and just can’t seem to stop staring.”
“’Tis unusual. The only one of its kind. ‘Twas a gift from a cousin. Long time ago.” With a hand wave to her right she continued the tour saying, “There’s a little office here for cataloguing new inventory and officey kinds of things.” She motioned to the left. “There’s a little kitchen here for tea or whatever you prefer. ‘Tis good for breaks and havin’ lunch. You do no’ have to worry about missin’ customers.”
“Why not?”
Maggie pointed to a bank of monitors above the door that connected the back rooms to the store. I could see the shop from every angle.
“Oh. That’s very, ah, modern.”
Maggie chuckled. “’Tis indeed.” She leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially. “’Tis also fun to watch people when they do no’ know anyone’s lookin’.” Her eyes sparkled with such mischief that I couldn’t help returning her naughty smile.
“No’ much more to tell about the downstairs. The proprietor’s residence is through there.” A cherrywood door with arched top sat at the end of the hall. Maggie fumbled with her jumble of keys before pulling three free. They hung on their own hammered silver ring, a Celtic dragon chasing its tail. “This one is for this door that connects the shop to your house. This one is for the front door that faces the lane beside us. And this one is for your garage.”
With outstretched hand, I accepted, then rubbed the silver between my fingers. It was heavy and intricately ornate. “This is beautiful.”
“Oh, aye. We have a silversmith in the village. Exceptional fellow. You’ll meet him.” She glanced toward the door. “Go on then. You do the honors. After all, ‘tis your house now, isn’t it?”
With a long look at the door, I said, “So when you said proprietor’s residence, you meant me.”
She laughed. “Well, o’ course. Who else might I be meanin’?”
“Honestly I’m still processing all this. Three days ago I had no idea I was related to an English shopkeeper.”
“Who said ye are?”
I was dumbfounded. “The letter I received said I inherited property.”
“Perhaps ‘inherited’ is the wrong word. ‘Tis more like you were chosen. A great stroke of luck to be sure. You must be Irish.”
“Not that I know of. What do you mean by ‘chosen’?”
“I don’t know all the criteria that goes into the process of choosing, but I’ll tell you that ‘tis always a person who’s deservin’. The last owner was a lovely man. Lived to be over a hundred and was still doin’ most things for himself. I think there’s somethin’ about the place that promotes long life. Happiness maybe.”
My skeptical and cynical sides were screaming at me to not be seduced by the prospect of happiness. From the outrageous talking car to the wares that ‘show up’ I was feeling more like Alice down the rabbit hole than the luckiest soon-to-be divorcée ever.