Sinnerman

Chapter 38 Acceptance & Beginnings

"I'm very sorry to be the bearer of bad news like this, Evie. But unfortunately that particular store lot closed sale with another buyer just last night." The realtor opposite her winced.

She had been sat, hopeful, in her towns local realtors building. Facing John, a man she's known all her life. Sat opposite her, a picture of professionality in his navy suit and red tie. And he wore a face that she thought was far too pinched ever since she'd come in and taken a seat in his modest office. Too good to be true - that plain old pain in the ribs of an expression.

It applied too, to her now trashed hope. She felt it. How its caving in her chest. Denying her the right to breathe.

She'd come to put in her healthy bid of almost half her carefully earned savings for the old antique store. Only to have that small glimmering dream now snatched away, dashed to dust, before it even had a chance to grow into fruition.

It had been sold.

Her dream so viciously slaughtered at the first hurdle. She felt like the crushing sadness of it could break her ribs.

Her heart sank. It crashed instantly to her toes. Through the floor. And the floor below that, she's certain. Right through the foundations of the realtors building.

Matter of fact, it felt like it had just clunked right out of her and right on down to the earths core.

The only sound that could crackle out her sad throat was a sore "Oh." Which was more like a sound of a gust of air being squeezed out her lungs in a rattle. A croak is what it was. And it's soaked in her sad disappointment.

"We have a couple of other lots available in town?" He tries to console her with. "There's a great spot just come up on peach street. And- and a charming new ones just opened up over on third avenue..." He brings out thick brochures and hands her pictures. She accepts them with shaky hands and a trembling smile.

But. But. But-

But it's just not the same, she remarks to herself in her head.

She'd admired that antique store since she was a tiny girl. She can remember being walked past it. Holding her mothers hand. She remembers how the first time she went inside, she'd been fascinated by all the old treasures in there. Settees that looked like they belonged in palaces. Old cracked leather chairs. Misty glass ornate mirrors. Gnarled and twisted stuffed animals and trinkets and ornaments of old. A rusty chandelier sparkling sunshine. Old busts and creaking mahogany tables.

The place had looked more like an old store closet than a shop. Everything piled and overlapped. A quirky collection of haunted looking items all bundled together, higgledy piggledy and waiting on new homes.

She can earnestly recall that scent of the place. A smack in that face at the door. Dust. Musty leather. And beeswax furniture polish. She wonders if that smell is still to be found in the cracked tile floors. Or if it's snuck in to hide in the cracked and peeling paint on the ceiling.

No shop could replace that ruin. Not truly. Not in her heart. It's grown on her in ideas ever since she first thought about it. Daydreaming, sat at her desk in Armstrong & Lowery, usually after her boss had made her miserable with some assignment or comment. Or another column had been thrown back on her desk after editing. Literally left her paper bleeding, and picked with corrections from his red pen.

She'd think of that empty dusty old shop. And how it needed some love and attention. And all the 'what if's' that followed. And it was like a great soothing hug to her frazzled nerves.

What if... she'd packed in her job and gone out with a bang. To go do a job that made her happy, one where she'd be appreciated day in-day out. What if... she was the lucky one to turn that shop into an asset for this lovely little town that helped raise her. What if...she'd been braver sooner. Been a lioness instead of a mouse. Leapt at the opportunity to buy the store the very second it came on the market. Then she'd be the happy shopkeeper locking up at night. And hanging seasonal decor in the big bright windows.