"Me, too. Hopefully, my dad has just gotten into one of his 'everything-must-go' moods. When we were teenagers, and the house got messy, he would go through our rooms with garbage bags and toss anything away that wasn't where it was supposed to be. He hates clutter. Maybe he's doing that to himself now." She glanced over at him. "Was your grandfather strict about cleanliness?"
"Not at all," Jax said. "Grandpa was a messy person. The house was always filled with junk. He didn't like to throw anything away. After he passed, I realized how worthless most of it was. Why would anyone need to keep a dozen cans of old, random nails or your wife's clothes when she's been gone ten years or every fishing magazine that ever got delivered to the house?"
"Some people find comfort in keeping things. You seem to travel light, though. What is your real home like? Is it as stark as your apartment at Ocean Shores?"
"No. I've been living in a luxury condo in Nashville for the past three years. It was professionally decorated, and since I spent many years traveling around with a few guitars and nothing else, it has no clutter. I have a few things of sentimental value, like my grandfather's guitar and his tools, but not much of anything else. What about you?"
"I like to feel warm and cozy in my space, with pillows and blankets and soft things that feel warm and cuddly."
"Pillows," he echoed with distaste. "Please tell me you don't have a dozen pillows on your bed that have to be taken off every night before you go to sleep. I mean, what is it with women and pillows?"
She laughed. "I don't have a dozen; I have four. And they provide a nice accent, plus they're cozy. I also like to decorate with unique, artisan-crafted items, so I'm a big fan of art fairs and farmers' markets."
"My mother used to take me to flea markets." His voice softened as he went back in time. "Funny. I forgot about that until just now. She used to call it treasure hunting. And we always came back with something fun."
"One person's trash is another's treasure."
"Something like that. But if I were looking at that stuff now, I'd probably think it was junk. But to each his own."
"That's what I think. Your living space just needs to feel right to you, not to anyone else."
"I agree."
She glanced at him once more. "We have something in common."
"More than one thing," he returned, his blue eyes sparkling. "If you weren't driving right now, I'd show you. Maybe later."
Her entire body tingled at his words. "Maybe later," she echoed. "But first, we have to find Ella."
The antique store was located in one of the many brick buildings in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego, squeezed between a tattoo parlor and a boutique selling vintage clothes. The entire block carried the Gaslamp mix of ancient history and modern tourism. A sign above the front door read Forget Me Not Antiques, and the front window display was cluttered with old typewriters, vintage lamps, ornate picture frames, a silver tea service, and a stack of vinyl records.
As they stepped inside, a musty smell enveloped them.
"This place smells haunted," Jax said.
"Well, there are a lot of people interested in ghosts," she commented as a throng of people crowded the aisles. "Business is booming."
"Your father would have a heart attack if he came into this clutter."
She laughed at that thought. "He would, but my mother would have loved it. She used to have a tea set like the one in the window. It might have been worth something today if my dad had kept it."
"Or not," Jax said pragmatically.
As they moved forward, the store unfolded in sections rather than aisles. Furniture near the front. Military memorabilia in glass cases on the left. Shelves lined with vintage cameras and old beach postcards, and ocean-oriented vases and bowls. As they reached the back, she became aware of the soft jazz playing in the background, which went with the framed concert posters covering the brick walls. Pictures taken at jazz clubs, supper lounges, and festivals from the fifties and sixties. Wooden bins overflowed with vinyl albums, and there were framed black-and-white publicity photos leaning against one shelf.
She caught her breath as her gaze caught on a black-and-white photo of two dark-haired women, in black cocktail dresses, standing in front of microphones on a small stage. The caption read: "The Chapman Sisters — Live at the Starlight Lounge."
"Oh my God," she said. "That's Anita and Reina in the club." Anita stood angled toward the camera as if she already understood how to own a room, while Reina stood slightly behind her.
"You know my mother?" a woman said, coming up behind them.
She whirled around in surprise. The woman in front of them appeared to be in her fifties with the same dark-brown hair and features as the woman at the front of the stage.
"Anita Chapman," the woman repeated, giving her a quizzical look. "You just mentioned her name."
"You're her daughter?" she asked as her pulse sped up.
"Yes. I'm Ella Morena. I'm the owner of this store."
