“And expensive. All those pieces are pretty rare. They’re all from the 1920s. I got them from the estate of a customer who passed away early this year.”
“My mother has one or two.”
I wandered more and discovered a selection of rare books locked up behind glass. I put my nose to the pane and pointed. “What’s that?” I pointed to several folders.
“Original sheet music—scores from Broadway plays with handwritten notes from the composers. I have Gershwin, Berlin. Harry Warren, who wrote the music for42nd Street, and Frank Loesser, who wroteGuys and Dolls.”
“My mother loved Broadway, but my father hated it, so she’d take me once Ethan was away at college.”
“Ethan’s older, right?” He leaned against the display counter.
I picked up a letter opener shaped like a dagger and slid it in and out of its brass case. Mostly so I wouldn’t have to face him. “Yeah, by ten years. We weren’t that close when we were younger, since he was away at school, but he’s become my best friend over the years.” I might’ve never told Ethan that, but it was true.
A wistful expression settled over Presley’s face. “I would’ve liked a brother or sister.”
“At least you had Frisco. You two seem as close as brothers.”
“We are, but his parents’ divorce scarred him in ways I’m not sure even he understands. One day he’ll figure himself out, and I’ll be there for him, the way he’s always been at my side.”
I hoped Frisco appreciated Presley’s devotion. It was a rare thing to find, but then, Presley was a rare person in my world.
As the day progressed, though there wasn’t a steady stream of customers, many casual browsers turned into buyers after Presley used his considerable charm. I could understand why he didn’t want to close the store for the day. My informal tally of his sales so far reached over two thousand dollars.
At one o’clock, I left the store to pick up a late lunch for us. Many times I found myself waking up this side of midday with a furry mouth and pounding head, lounging in bed, wasting away the hours. My weekend days were merely holding patterns for me until nighttime came.
“Food deliv—” I walked through the front door of the store and stopped short at the sight of Presley cozied up to Frisco. “Oh. Hello.”
A smile curved Presley’s lips. “Good. I was afraid Frisco would have to leave before you got back.”
Relief flooded through me. “Glad to finally meet you, although I feel like I know you already, as much as Press talks about you.” With one hand holding the bags with our salads, I extended the other. “Hi. Nate Sherman.”
“Does he? All lies, I tell you.” Frisco’s eyes gleamed. “Excellent to meet you. And Press needn’t have worried. I fully intended to plant myself here until you returned.”
We laughed, and Presley insisted on splitting his food with Frisco.
“Being a food critic must be a fun job.”
“You wouldn’t think so, the way he whines sometimes.” Presley poked Frisco. “He’s so spoiled, he won’t even eat a pretzel from a cart anymore, when everyone knows they’re the best thing about wintertime in the city.”
“Because they’re salty, smelly things. God knows what germs are in them.” Frisco wrinkled his nose.
“Your delicate palate is offended, yet you’ll eat hot dogs, and they’re made of mystery meat.” Presley forked some of his salad into his mouth.
“What can I say?” Frisco said, his eyes dancing. “I like a nice fat sausage every once in a while.”
I choked on my water, and Presley handed me a napkin as he shot Frisco a disgusted look.
“God, you’re like a horny fifteen-year-old.”
I wiped my mouth. “I love those pretzels too, with lots of mustard.”
A delighted smile broke over Presley’s face. “Yes. Exactly. See?” He nudged Frisco. “He knows what’s good.”
“I sure do.” Hoping to see that cute blush, I held Presley’s gaze and was rewarded when he ducked his head.
Frisco snorted. “Yeah, but is he talking about pretzels or sausages?”
I drank my water. “That’s between me and Presley.”
