Vivian puts down the phone, smiling; Rachel can wait. She’s hoping coffee and some bread will ease the dull throb she now feels in her head. And a Xanax; one should never discount the efficacy of that. She flips open her prescription bottle and slips a tablet into her mouth; the familiar, bitter taste is a jarring welcome. Whenever her primary care doctor suggests they discuss her weaning off them, she shuts down the conversation.
Vivian walks to the back table of the shop—her makeshift sort of kitchen—and tears a large chunk of French bread while brewing a pot of coffee with the Kona beans she imports from Hawaii that cost about forty dollars a bag. Is this the type of luxury that she won’t be able to afford anymore? As her shoulder ache progresses to a full-on throb, Vivian regretfully realizes she should likely cancel her upcoming appointment with Marlen, her massage therapist. Perhaps expensive coffee beans are theleastof what she will have to give up. She hasn’t sorted through the entirety of her mother’s financial mess yet, but she knows enough to realize that her mother was in heavy debt.
Christ; Vivian’s in so much trouble.
The coffee finishes grinding, and she deeply breathes in the smoky aroma. She washes down the bread with the coffee, and as she stretches her arms overhead, warming up her stiff shoulder, she feels her body start to settle, as if pieces are slowly rearranging themselves.
The door chime jangles as another customer enters the shop. But when Vivian turns around, she finds her friend Xavier holding a bottle of rioja, wet from the sleet.
“Hello, dear,” he says, tilting his head up to kiss her on both cheeks. He’s short, or at least shorter than she is. His hair is dark, curly, moistened from the weather or from sweat. His bald spot—which she can see atop his head like a sunny-side-up egg—has grown since his last visit.
He hands her the bottle and shakes off his coat, which is much too thin, given the chilly outside temperature. He always dresses for the wrong season. Everyone has quirks, but their group of friends—she, Xavier, and Rachel—have more than the average number.
“You have no idea how much I need this today,” she says, and then instantly regrets it.
Xavier doesn’t drink, at least not anymore.
Xavier raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Well, as they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere. Wait…” He pulls out his antique pocket watch—another quirk—to check the time. He started carrying it after a failed attempt to use a cell phone. “What do you know, it’s just after five in Spain. Shall we?”
It’s too early for a drink—Vivian didn’t mean that she needed itright now—but since Xavier is clearly trying to smooth over Vivian’s gaffe, she nods. She gets out a pair of wineglasses and uncorks the bottle. As she pulls out a sparkling water from her small fridge for Xavier, he takes a gander at the shop.
“Any new pieces?” he asks, meaning has she acquired any estate pieces worth his while. Xavier’s a jeweler known mostly for his bespoke nineteen-karat gold pendants that many a Boston woman wears, but he also dabbles in selling antique jewelry.
This is their routine: He comes calling every few months with a wine bottle in hand, ostensibly to see her inventory, but more so to catch up.
“Just what you see,” she says. She thinks but doesn’t add,This could be the last of it for a while.
“Do you still happen to have that U.S. Customs contact?” Xavier asks.
“Yes, I do.” Through the years, navigating the perplexing rules surrounding antique imports and resale, Vivian’s developed relationships with certain Customs agents. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, a wealthy client of mine who recently became widowed is intent on acquiring an elephant ivory necklace,” he says, and then adds, “You people with money and your quirks.”
She notices he groups her in with this; he’s well aware of her upbringing.
“Elephant ivory,” she repeats, with a short laugh. She walks over and hands him the wineglass filled with water. “I don’t think I can help you with that. Isn’t that illegal nowadays?”
Xavier clears his throat. “Well, I might have a lead on the piece already, so it’s really the importing aspect I need help with. Perhaps you could simply connect me to your Customs contact, and I could take it from there?”
Vivian meets his eye; he’s never asked for something like this before, and it makes her a little uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Xavier, but I don’t think I can.”
“Understood,” he quickly replies, nodding. “Figured it didn’t hurt to ask. Cheers.” He raises his glass with a ceremonial lift.
But when she hesitates, he says, “Oh, that’s right; you like to clink.”
It’s true, she does like to clink, despite her mom telling her that proper etiquette dictates otherwise. A quirk of Vivian’s, perhaps. She likes to pay respect to a theory surrounding its ancient origins: Clinking was performed to mix together the contents of each cup so that if one contained poison, a few droplets would splash into the other. It was a gesture of trust.
“I promise I’mstillnot poisoning you,” Xavier adds teasingly. It’s what he and Rachel used to say to her, back in the day when the three of them regularly hung out.
“Cheers,” she simply replies, and they clink their glasses together before she takes a hearty sip of the wine.
“It’s a 2012 vintage, from a vineyard in northern Spain.” Then he adds, rather earnestly, “Do you like it?”
Vivian does; she wonders how much it costs. Xavier has never been wildly extravagant in his wine purchasing, but he always brings a respectable bottle. As with her coffee beans, Vivian prefers expensive wine. But she needs to start adjusting her lifestyle choices sooner than later.
Vivian smiles, trying to put on a happy front. “It’s very good,” she concludes, but her voice betrays her, cracking.
“Bad day so far?” Xavier asks, tilting his head.
