Two days after several floors of the office building turned into indoor swimming pools, I arrive at the warehouse near the coast of San Francisco with only one thing on my mind.
Calliope.
I can’t believe she’s actually here.
I’ve spent the past two days trying to work out whether she remembered me and hid it really well or I’m completely forgotten. Unable to decide in the moment, I’d gone with the latter and pretended I didn’t know her either to try and save us both some awkward embarrassment, but even when I announced my name, there wasn’t a single flicker of recognition.
Granted, it’s been five or six years since I saw her last, but I could never forget that face. Or that smile. Or that body.
My rental car glides into the parking lot without a hitch and I park near the front of the building, surprised by how busy thisplace seems. This soon after the new year, I’d expect a skeleton crew as staff make the most of their holidays.
I climb out of the car, and Calliope immediately catches my eye just as the slight saltiness in the air catches in my lungs. We’re close enough to the coast that the enticing scents of the sea drift in with the wind. If it weren’t utterly freezing with ice covering the ground, I’d be tempted.
Can’t remember the last time I went to the beach.
Calliope stands near the entrance, her head down and her black hair creating a long curtain to protect her face from the cold wind. She rubs her bare hands together and stamps her booted feet in the snow, trying to conserve what little warmth she has left.
“Calliope?” I hurry toward her, painfully aware that every second I take to admire her is a second longer she has to spend out in the cold.
Her head snaps up and she tucks her hair behind her ear while giving me a polite smile. “Mr. Baird.”
Oh, that stings. “Just Elijah, please.”
“Alright. Elijah. Are you ready for your tour?”
“Yes, please. I hope it’s warmer in there than it is out here.”
“You’ll be disappointed, I’m afraid,” Calliope says, leaning back as she hauls open the door. “You won’t find much warmth in these warehouses.”
“What about the workers?” I ask as I follow her inside.
“In Jimmy’s words, they work enough to warm themselves up.”
I stall on the doormat, stamping my feet to rid my shoes of any lingering snow that hitched a lift on the walk from my car. “I’m assuming well within regulations?”
“Of course. You’ll find everything here is up to code. To the letter, and not a generous amount more.”
She wasn’t kidding. While there’s a subtle warmth to the air that’s only detectable in the first few minutes after walking inside from the bitter cold, it’s too cool inside for me to be comfortable. I huddle into my coat and follow behind Calliope as she shoves her hands into her pockets and uses her shoulder to open the next door just past reception.
“How long has Angelic Jewels been working out of these warehouses?”
“About four years,” Calliope replies. “We used to have warehouses deeper in the city closer to the offices, but there was a rent dispute and we secured these at a cheaper rate.”
No wonder Jimmy’s scrimping on the heat. Despite the numerous cars in the parking lot, the interior warehouse is vast enough that we only run into one or two people during the tour. Stacks upon stacks of metal shelving stretch high to the rafters while countless wooden crates weigh down the shelves, line the floors, and stack high on pallets near a larger delivery door. One man drives around in a forklift, moving the crates around, but Calliope takes me on a route that prevents us from getting in the way.
“So, explain to me how this works,” I say as I fall into step beside her. “This feels more like a storage warehouse than a shipment one.”
“It sort of is. Jimmy will decide what he wants sent to the stores once each season switches, and those specific jewels are usually sent here first. In the back there, we have a small sorting team that will go through these crates when smaller numbers are required, but more often than not, these crates themselves are delivered to the stores in our trucks. Then it’s up to the staff to ensure that the right stock goes on sale at the right time.”
“Seems… inefficient.”
“It depends.” Calliope huddles deeper into her coat. “Everything is well packaged so it’s not hard to sift through, and it only becomes an issue if the stock doesn’t sell in the stores.”
“Common these days, I’d expect.”
She flashes me another polite smile but doesn’t reply. Instead, she adjusts our route and leads me closer to some open crates where countless soft black bags rest atop thickly piled fine straw. “Everything is clearly labeled so as long as there isn’t a mix-up with our own supplier, it’s a smooth process.”
“Are these checked?” I ask, plucking one of the black bags out of the straw. “What sort of quality control ensures that these are all in pristine condition before they reach the stores?” The silver cord around the top of the black bag unwraps against my palm, and a ruby necklace spills onto my palm. The white gold chain drapes past my fingers as I examine the gorgeous stone embedded within.
