With one leg crossed over the other like we’re about to have a performance review.
And there would definitely be a smell.
I step forward and prod the skull. It’s obviously plastic.
“…Why?” is all I can say, looking at the mess.
“Your grandmother was a weird bird.”
Still is,I almost say.More than you know.
I will be asking her about this later.
“I guess she thought it was a funny joke, or maybe it was left over from Halloween?”
“Your grandmother never struck me as a prankster, but I would imagine that if she had a place hidden and locked up to keep folks out, she’d enjoy the thought of scaring anyone rude enough to sneak in.”
Hunter joins me in the small room and reaches for the skeleton’s arm bones. From up close, it’s pretty clear that this particular skeleton is on a smaller scale than an average human, like a Hobbit skeleton, and I can see the plastic seams. I can’t believe I spent a solid minute thinking I’d just discovered another corpse. I guess when you learn that magic is real, you assume lots of other improbable things are real, too.
The door slams with such suddenness and ferocity that I jump.
We both stare at it, and Hunter walks over and opens it.
“Well, that was weird,” I say. I suddenly want to get out of this room, but I don’t want to seem like I’m freaked out by a slamming door.
Hunter looks toward the back of the store, his brow drawn adorably down. “Must be some sort of suction caused by the AC. At least the lock isn’t sticky.”
He’s right. The AC is definitely on. I’m freezing. And I want to know more about this office. I am desperate to get out of it and go upstairs and ask my grandmother a million questions, but being alone with Hunter is a lot more fun, even if the vibes areoff and he’s currently not my biggest fan. Plus, he’s here to give me an estimate, not sit around while I interrogate a cockatoo about a Hobbit skeleton.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to get all this cleaned out,” Hunter says, still standing in the door. “The dumpster is right out the back, and since there are only two active businesses on the alley, there’s always plenty of room for trash. I can bring a dolly, and we can get it done in an afternoon. And I’ve got a door stopper in the truck. Don’t want you startled again.”
I’m excited to get things cleaned out until I remember that I have to pay this guy. “So do you have an hourly rate, or do you give me an estimate? I don’t want to waste your time rolling boxes of dusty paper out to the dumpster when you could be building the bookshelves of my dreams.”
A raised eyebrow. I didn’t know he could do that.
“You dream about bookshelves?”
“You don’t?”
That gets a chuckle.
“I already built the bookshelves I wanted for my own house,” he says. “But I see your point.” He turns back to the store and looks around, hands on his hips as he considers it. “My typical rate is forty an hour plus materials, but I do thirty for downtown businesses not owned by the Coves. Now, that rate is for incidentals, for your honey-do list. For the shelving project, let me measure out and give you a solid estimate. That way, you don’t see me taking the time to drink some water and think you’re paying for it.”
“I wouldn’t—”
A wry grin. “Plenty of people do.” He pulls out his notebook again, takes it over to the counter, and draws as he talks. “So I’m going to show you a sketch of what I would do, given mydruthers—what I think would be the most useful to you and the most beautiful. Then you can tell me if you love it, if you hate it, if you envision something else. Once we have a design we both like, I’ll take the measurements and price out the wood.” He looks up, meets my eyes. “This is going to be the most expensive part of this endeavor. Wood ain’t cheap.”
I nod. “Which is ironic, as it grows on trees.”
He pins his lips to avoid smiling; he can’t seem to stay annoyed with me for very long, as much as he’d like to. “But there are options. There are cheaper ways to start, just to get the doors open, and then, if you’re successful, I can make improvements. Basically, you can have your Beast library, but it might be on layaway.”
As he sketches, I look around the store before decisively tromping over to the front window and plucking up the cardboard displays one by one, tossing them in a pile on the ground.
“ThatTerminatorstand-up is probably worth five hundred dollars,” Hunter calls.
I stare down at Arnold’s sun-faded face. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. Before you throw them out, check eBay. That’s all I’m saying. If you can find buyers for all those displays, that money can go toward wood for the bookshelves.”
