“I do,” I say, and my voice sounds a little petulant, a little defensive. What business is it of his, what I need? Maybe I’ll try to go at a time when he’s not around. He can’t possibly be there all the time.
“I’m there open to close pretty much all this week, and would be happy to show you around.”
Shit.“Oh. That’s very nice of you, but I don’t think it’d be right—”
“No expectations. I won’t say a word about Beaumont to you, not unless you ask me.”
I lean down and touch the plain, boring handle that’s currently keeping place on my beautiful, original, built-in china cabinet. I know there’s probably antique handles and doorknobs online, but I’m a materials scientist. It matters to me to hold things, to touch them, to feel their weight. I’d rather see this stuff in person before I buy it.“I guess I could come by,” I say, but then quickly add,“I’m really busy though. I could come on my lunch hour, maybe on Thursday.”
“I’ll make time,” he says firmly.
Once we’ve settled the details—when I’ll be there, where to find him once I come in—there’s really nothing more to say, but I feel a strange reluctance to hang up. It was nice, for a few minutes, to have his voice in my ear. It seemed to dull the echo I was feeling in the house before I called.
But that’s ridiculous, completely ridiculous and needy, and also inappropriate given that what I’m most interested in from Ben Tucker is for him to leave me alone about his stupid job offer. And that I get to look at his doorknobs, or whatever. So I say, maybe a little more abruptly than is natural,“Thank you very much. See you Thursday,” and disconnect.
I open the music app on my phone and turn the volume up loud. Then I get back to the job of making this place a home.
* * * *
When I drive up to Tucker’s Salvage on Thursday, I’m resolved to make it a short visit, frustrated that I’ve spent too much time since Monday feeling flushed and fluttery whenever I’d thought of Ben, at one point seriously considering asking Marti whether I might be having hot flashes. Plus, I feel a little disloyal—is going to see Ben a suggestion that I’m open to his recruiting? The thought has plagued me, and I’ve not even told Zoe and Greer about this visit, so determined am I to make this outing a mere formality. I’ve come a little early, having wrapped up my morning work, and I figure that I’m fulfilling another task. I said I’d be here, and I am, and I’ll make it quick.
But when you take one step inside Tucker’s, you get the sense that there’s no way to make it quick. The building itself is probably the size of a football field, and the space that greets me is sort of a large anteroom—there’s an L-shaped set of glass cases, the kind you’d see in a jewelry store, behind which is what looks to be an office. All around me are large, gorgeous pieces of refinished furniture, set out to create aisles and alcoves within this large room. Above me hang pendant lights and chandeliers of all types, some of them casting prisms of light on the concrete floors and along the walls. Along one wall—top to bottom—are shelves lined with labeled bins, the sign above indicating that this is where you search forHardware.
I look down at the crystal doorknob I’m carrying, the one I brought from my upstairs bathroom. I’m supposed to find a match for it in there?
It’d take at least a full day to get through this front room alone, and I can see beyond that the warehouse is full up, and I feel simultaneously overwhelmed and intrigued. I want to look around, to explore this place that’s probably full of treasures, but I don’t much feel like doing it around Ben Tucker. I don’t think I should betray that kind of enthusiasm in front of him.
“First time here?” comes a voice from behind me, and I jump, almost dropping the doorknob. When I turn around, I find myself—well, not face to face, yet, until I look down—with a man in a wheelchair, his left leg extended and elevated, his left arm held close to his body in a sling. He has graying hair and kind, blue eyes, and I know right away that this is Ben Tucker’s father. I’ve thought of Ben’s face that much since last week, which is probably not a good sign.
“Oh, hello. Yes,” I say,“It’s my first time here. It’s—ah. It’s big.”
The man chuckles, uses his right hand to move the lever that propels his chair forward, and then extends it to shake mine.“I’m Henry Tucker. This is my place.”
“I’m Kit. This is wonderful,” I tell him, shaking his hand and looking around again.“I had no idea this was here. I came to look for—”
He cuts me off before I can finish.“For my son? You’re the one he’s been telling me about this week.” He smiles up at me, a teasing glint in his eye.“Says you’re smart, and also immune to his bullshit.”
“Oh. Well. I suppose I am,” I say, feeling a little proud of myself under Henry Tucker’s regard.“I’m sorry about your accident,” I blurt, and then feel awkward for doing so. I mean, the wheelchair and casts don’t make it any kind of secret, but maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it.
He shrugs the best he can, given the sling.“These things happen. It’s just that when you get old, they happen and you’re probably going to break something. You ever break a bone?”
“No,” I say.“I’m a pretty risk-averse person. My brother used to make me wear a bike helmet when I played kickball as a kid.”
That makes him laugh, and once again, I feel that weird surge of pride. It probably feels good to laugh when you’ve been laid up, and I’m glad to be the one who’s done it.
“Dad?”
That’s Ben’s voice, echoing from somewhere in the depths of this giant building, and I feel a spike of nervous energy. There’s athunk thunk thunk, heavy steps sounding on a metal staircase, but from where I stand, I can’t see it. I didn’t even realize there was a second floor in here. I immediately raise a hand up to my hair, smoothing it, and then I straighten my glasses. I completely fail at not blushing when I realize that Henry Tucker has caught me primping, but I clear my throat and give him a side-eye that’s meant to communicatesomething likedon’t make any assumptions, mister. But probably it does not communicate that. Probably it looks like I have lint in my eye.
Ben strides in from somewhere deep in the recesses of the warehouse, and—wow. He looks different. The Ben I saw last Friday was the kind of handsome that made you do a double take, a lean, polished, practiced look that reminded you of high rises and fast cars and dimly lit restaurants. But this Ben—this is the kind of handsome that gets you right in the stomach, that makes your knees feel weak. His dark blond hair is messy, a slight curl at the ends, his face more tanned than it had been when I’d seen him last week, his square jawline shadowed with stubble. His gray t-shirt bears a strip of paint across his right pectoral, which—damn. The man has a chest. And shoulders. You could see it the suit, sure, but in the t-shirt, you couldseeit. I picture, for a flash, my hands spread across that chest.
“Hi,” he says, and oh, that smile. Like he’s genuinely glad to see me.“I see you’ve met my dad. Who is not supposed to be at work this week.” Ben gives a scolding look down at his father, who waves an annoyed hand in Ben’s direction.
“I’m renting this baby for sixty bucks a day just so’s I can be right here where I can see you, kid,” says Henry, tapping the chair with his good hand.“So you don’t go selling any of my treasures on the cheap.Again.”
“Dad, that was a good sale. You weren’t going to get two grand.”
“I could’ve got twenty-five hundred! This sideboard,” he says to me, as if we’ve known each other forever, as if I’m part of these conversations all the time,“you should’ve seen it. Mid-century modern, teak. Almost perfect condition—”
