The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter Six

CHAPTER 6

Marcus waited unseen. In the shadows he watched Mr. Owens bag each record meticulously, a care that only came from genuine feeling. It wasn’t that Marcus had any issues with taking Mr. Owens then and there in front of all the store visitors, but the separation was always harder when the soul had to deal with sudden gasps and screams of those viewing their lifeless body. While he waited, he studied Mr. Owens. He was a good man. Marcus could tell. And he protected Abigail. Abby as he’d called her. Marcus chuckled. She didn’t look like an Abby. Somewhere beneath the misery that was Abigail, there was an Abby. Marcus wanted to know Abby.

The light jingle of doorbells jarred Marcus from his thoughts. A resonating, “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” told him his time had come. Silent clicks shattered his hesitation as Mr. Owens locked the door and turned. Instantly, the elderly man froze. His face whitened with shock, pale as untouched snow. Marcus stood squarely in front of him with his hands in his pockets.

“Good evening, Mr. Cornelius Owens,” he announced formally and inclined his head.

Mr. Owens took a step back and held his hands up in surrender. “Listen, son, I don’t want any trouble. There’s barely any money in the register, but it’s yours if you want it.”

Retort edged on Marcus’ lips, but he bit back his words. Dressed in all black and appearing out of thin air, he couldn’t blame Mr. Owens’ deduction, however offensive he thought it to be.

    “I’m not here for your money,” he said. “I’m here to talk.”

“To talk?” Mr. Owens regarded Marcus with an arched brow. “What business do you have that’s so important it couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”

Marcus walked to a nearby shelf, running a hand absently over the ledge. It was cool, but not enough. He lowered his hand and turned. “I came here in part to talk to you about Miss Arch—about Abigail,” he admitted.

Mr. Owens’ brow furrowed further as if gauging Marcus’s sincerity to which Marcus added, “Please, I just want…I need to know more about her and I didn’t know where else to go.”

Mr. Owens studied him for a long moment. Finally, he tilted his head toward the back of the store where a battered sofa and armchair comprised a seating area.

Though worn and age-beaten, Marcus found it to be quite comforting. Smoothing his hand over the worn leather of the sofa, he let out a breath. The coolness was slight, but a relief to his blistering hands.

Mr. Owens sat opposite Marcus. “So you want to know about Abigail?” he said, speaking first. “She’s a good girl. Maybe you should know that first. She’s a nice girl who doesn’t need any more trouble brought her way. You’re a rather good-looking man and should have no problem finding another girl for a good time.”

“I don’t want another girl—any girl for a good time,” Marcus said curtly.

“Then what is it that you want? Abby’s been through enough. Leave her alone so she can live her life.”

“If what she has is a life,” Marcus complained, more to himself. He gripped the armrest and paused, realizing that for the first time the truth was the only answer that would give him peace. He lowered his eyes, ashamed. “I’m quite certain she never wants to see me again, but perhaps if I knew why she remains so…so…hidden, I can let her go. I want to understand.” He motioned around his neck. “The scarf, the big coat, and all the shields. I want to know why...” She waits for me.

Marcus lowered his eyes. He plucked at the seams of the sofa with a nervousness he didn’t understand. It unsettled him feeling so open, exposed…so honest. The weight of his confession was supposed to have lifted from his chest. After uttering the last word, Marcus felt the load multiply and a cold sweat dampen his skin. What if Mr. Owens refused to tell him anything about Abigail, leaving him with the nothing he already held in his empty hands?