Page 89 of About Last Christmas
“No.” She pulls back and gives my shoulders a little shake. “You donotowe me. We look out for each other.”
I smile and wave as she rushes back to work. I’m still learning to accept help without feeling as if there are always strings attached. What’s that old adage—“It’s a marathon, not a sprint”? In real life, I hate both. But figuratively, I can see the value.
“Greta.” Adelaide taps the side of the box, snapping me to the moment. “Santa has nothing on me.”
“Oh really?” For the past several months, when Adelaide would sweep into the store, my main objective was to endure her scheming spiel and get her out as quickly as possible. I’d never taken the time to truly look at her or even get to know her. She’s approached this counter at least once every two weeks, yet I had no idea her husband had been injured or that they were struggling. How many others cross my path who are fighting battles, suffering in silence, and I’m completely unaware? I’m sure I didn’t always say the right words, but … was I kind? Because kindness is a language we can all speak.
This new consciousness has me smiling at Adelaide. Her roots are outgrown, revealing more tinsel gray among the brown. The small creases fanning from the corner of her eyes and framing her mouth are the only other signs that time’s catching up with her. But overall, the woman exudes energy. Which is impressive, considering what I discovered about her recent circumstances. I feel like I can understand her better.
“I thought of you the moment I set eyes on this.” She tugs free a beach towel that served as a protective covering. With careful movements, she lifts a small trunk from the box. “This is the real deal.”
My head rears slightly. “You didn’t get this at Bowken’s Flea Market.” Because what I’m looking at is a Harrison & Co. New York cabin-sized steamer trunk that’s at least a hundred years old.
“This was in my aunt’s basement.”
I run my hand over the floral embossed metal panels. The oak sides and lid seem in good condition. The key is attached to the latch by a velvet ribbon. I inspect the inside and note some cosmetic wear, but nothing out of the ordinary for a piece this old. “This is … a nice find.”
“Well.” She straightens with a gleam in her eye. “I believe it was once used by Calvin Coolidge.”
I snort. “Adelaide, we were doing so good.” I seriously doubt this trunk belonged to the former president, especially since the initials P.D.B. are painted in red on the top. “I can give you three hundred dollars for this.”
Her jaw slacks at the sum, but then she counters, “Three fifty.”
“Deal.” I already have customers in mind who’d be interested. We fly through the paperwork, and I give Adelaide the cash.
Her gaze pins to the wad of twenties in her hand, and she softly whispers, “This should help some.”
She didn’t mean for me to hear. But I did, and this is theinI’ve been waiting for. “I’m sorry about what happened to your husband.” I keep my tone gentle.
Her eyes snap to mine, and I expect her to clamp her carefully constructed mask into place, but instead, she lets it crack. “Thank you. It’s been somewhat difficult.”
I blink at her vulnerability but quickly recover. “Is there anything I can do?”
She pats my hand. “You’re sweet, but unless you have an attorney in your back pocket or maybe a major news network to command, it’s helpless. We can’t get anyone to listen.” The fire returns to her eyes as she relays the tragic accident that stole her husband’s mobility. “Our lives are forever changed, but his employer won’t take responsibility. The injustice of it all is enough to make you feel?—”
“Hopeless? Like no one cares?”
“Yes, exactly.” Her face softens. Then, as if her transparency hit its time limit, she squares her shoulders with a lift of her chin. “Well, I should be going.”
“Oh, one more thing. Wait here.” I hustle to my office and grab one of my favorite books from the desk drawer. While in the back, the business line, which I left on the counter by my cell, rings. I return to the showroom, but don’t get to it in time.
I hold out the book to Adelaide. “This is for you. Gran gave me this when I was first interested in antiques.” Of course, my copy is upstairs, all marked up and highlighted. “It details what to look for when buying antiques. It breaks the information down into different categories, so it’s easy to read. This will give you the knowledge to shop with confidence.” And maybe stop trying to rip me off.
She takes the book from my hand, surprise marking her features. “Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas, Adelaide.”
I close the shop a few minutes early to catch Fletcher before he leaves for the day. Though I didn’t have to worry because I find him in his office putting golf balls into a Sheetz cup.
“Things slow?” I ask with a knock.
He glances up and smiles. “Two Greta sightings in one day. Come in.”
“I brought this for you.” I hand him a paper with all of Adelaide’s information. “The chosen one for this year’s Silver Creek Secret Santa.”
He props his putter against the wall and grins. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“A total breeze.” Like catching a cool breeze in the Sahara.
