The side of the box gives, just a little.
“No, Margaret, he doesn’t know Josie.”
I push carefully on the edge, keeping the angle of pressure exactly where I had it. The panel slides out of place. After that, there are a couple obvious pieces to move and I’ve done it. The box is open.
“It’s a figure of speech, Jim. George? George, did we lose you?”
I’m staring into the box.
“Huh? Oh, um, yeah, no, I’m not sure of the date. Look, I’m sorry, I need to…”
“Of course, honey, we’ll talk to you later,” says Mom.
“You go do you, George,” adds Dad.
I mumble a goodbye and end the call. Then I reach into the tiny wood drawer and pull out the treasure I’ve found there.
A little chunk of seaglass, pink, and smaller than a dime. It’s clearly a found object, the sort of thing you’d find washed up on the beach if you were very, very lucky. Smooth and irregular, but unmistakenly shaped like a heart.
I run my fingertip over it.
This box, I now realize, must be the one I first found on the shelf behind the tree. The one Owen said he made for someone.
Beau, maybe? The undeserving jackass. Someone else? I don’t want to think about either. About Owen wanting to give this to someone. About whatever that person did, however they hurt or disappointed him, to make him change his mind.
And I especially don’t want to think about how I am literally holding Owen’s secret, fragile heart in my hand. Or how he didn’t want to let me into the real one.
CHAPTER 49
OWEN
It was getting ridiculous,me sitting around the apartment wallowing. And Zoe texted this morning, saying the wedding planner has been put on bed rest, so it doesn’t look like I’ll be seeing Zoe anytime soon. Which leaves me on my own. Eventually, I decided enough was enough and took myself out for a walk.
I’m wandering through some streets I haven’t been on before when I stumble onto this giant street market. It’s amazing. It’s a huge collection, a craftsperson’s paradise. I wander around looking at ceramics and hand-dyed clothing, metal work, baked goods, some very interesting felting crafts, and a woodworker’s booth.
I go up and examine her stuff. It’s not the same kind of thing that I make, but it’s not too far off either. She’s got a bunch of turned wood pieces. It’s a technique I find fascinating, but I don’t actually have the equipment for it. There are also some hand-carved statuettes and some more utilitarian items like coat pegs and napkin holders.
She’s busy talking to some customers. So I just look around her display. But when I notice her business cards set out, I pick one up and examine it. “Hey, you’re from Maine?”
She looks over. “Yup, ‘bout halfway up the coast.”
“And you sell here?”
“Yeah, I make the trip a few times a year for craft fairs. This one’s my favorite. So many great vendors. I love to be a part of it.” She smiles at me.
“That’s pretty cool. I’m actually a woodworker myself. From Vermont.”
“Oh yeah?” She hands change to a customer who just purchased some ornaments. “Excellent, a kindred spirit. You should give it a try. Always room for more variety—I’m assuming you aren’t going to show up with knockoffs of my carved loons.” She cracks a smile.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. But, uh, yeah,” I wrinkle my nose. “Probably not. Not really a New York kinda guy. I’m just… visiting.”
I look around the fair, teeming with activity and dozens of artists and artisans I’d probably have a lot to talk about with. It’s the most at home I’ve felt since I got to the city. I wonder how many of the vendors here live here. It doesn’t matter. I don’t live here. In a surreal sort of way, something about this housing swap and everything that’s happened has made me feel like I don’t quite live anywhere.
“I hear that.”
“Huh?” I look up, momentarily disoriented.
“I get it. The city isn’t for everyone. Personally, I like it just fine in moderation. I come down, stay with my sister for a few weeks, and then I’m back up north before it gets too much. Pick up some good sales and usually some custom-order customers for later on along the way.”
