We shake hands and I grin. Not a bad start to the day.
The familiar bell jingles as I walk into Old Vines, and I pause in the silence that follows.
As the first one in most mornings, there’s a surefire serenity that comes with seeing the full shelves painted with late morning light. After a few seconds, the silence comes to life. The faint tick-tocks of old clocks say their good mornings and mix with the rich, musty scent of old pages and notes of worn varnish. It might be giving me an ulcer at the moment, but this place is my sanctuary.
I flip the lights on and the closed sign to open, then drop my purse behind the counter. The yellow notepad I’ve been using to brainstorm ideas for fixing the store’s finances taunts me from next to the register, right where I left it last night. I skim over it like maybe someone added better ideas since I closed up.
They have not.
In the first few months of the downturn, I was convinced we just needed to double down on not spending and be patient. But after a year, patience and not spending aren’t doing enough. We need to do more.
We have some money in the business account—just over forty thousand dollars—but with bills that keep coming, I’ve moved to the offense, selling what we can directly to other dealers like Dirk.
I’ve cut all employees except my mother and me.
I’ve signed us up for a few markets this summer, something we’ve never done before.
I’ve been looking into getting certified as an appraiser so we can take on estate sales. That takes time and money; both are scarce.
Relax, Rue,I tell myself as I rescan the list.We have time.
I flip the notepad over as if not looking at it will help me forget our reality—fat chance—and get to work. After a quick sweep of the floors, I fill a bucket with soapy water and shove a mop in it, reconfiguring numbers and second-guessing my loss to Dirk as I do. Catastrophizing our finances has become my favorite pastime. When I imagine myself homeless with Bennie snuggled in a box under a paper bag, I pause mid-drag of the mop and take a deep breath. Then another.
I’ve skipped meals and lost sleep over the money, but I refuse to have a freak out while I’m mopping. I refuse to have a freak out at all. Despite my worries, with the amount of money we have in the bank and if we’re smart, we have time. There’s enough for the roof. And, as long as there are no surprises, there’s enough for months of expenses and paychecks even if we don’t make a single dollar.
We’re healthy.
We’re happy.
We have time.
One more deep breath, and I carry on like I always do. Mopping, organizing, researching new inventory.
A couple of customers drift in and out throughout the next hours. One buys two old Coca-Cola bottles, the other an animal figurine. With the comic book, so far, it’s an eight-hundred-dollar day. That’s a damn good day.
Fall is a busy time in Fontain, maybe we could partner with a local vineyard for an antique and wine event. It’s only May. Thatwould give us three or four months to plan something—that’s plenty of time.That’s a good idea.
I jot ideas down on the notepad:Antique wineglass included, tickets? Raffle? Think of other businesses to work with, band??? Would a food truck add value??
The bell to the store rings as the door opens, pulling my attention as it always does. My mother walks in with a smile I return.
“Mom,” I greet her casually, returning my focus to the list at hand. “Where have you been?”
“Shopping,” she says, with an excited tone—tooexcited. She crosses the store to stand across the counter from me, setting a purple velvet bag on the notepad.
My eyes narrow.
“Take a look,” she says, wiggling her fingers.
I do.
And while I would never kill my mother, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it’s currently crossing my mind as I slip down the fabric to reveal a crystal ball.
“Explain,” I say, annoyed.
“Don’t take that tone,” she huffs, waving a dismissive hand through the air, line of bangles jangling up her arm as she does. While my dad wore practical khakis and solid-colored, button-down shirts, my mother has always existed in an explosion of color. My friends’ moms wore high-waisted, white-washed jeans and sensible flats; Mom arrived everywhere in clothing sewn with threads of eccentricity. At sixty-three, she hasn’t changed.
“Don’t take that tone?” My eyes widen. “Mom, the store is losing money.” I glare at the crystal ball. “How much did you buy this for?”
