We both rise slowly from our seats and I’m lovingly ushered toward the door. I don’t even know what I say as I leave, or how he says goodbye, but my body remembers the one-hand shoulder squeeze while his other hand shakes mine firmly. The door closes behind me and I smile all the way down the hall.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I’ve looked it up. It’s a jewelry shop.
I don’t know how I feel about that fact, but I’m going anyway.
My most recent instructions are simple, “I have a gift for you. Just pick it up.” And then there are geographic coordinates. So I looked it up. The coordinates are smack in the middle of Halloway Jewelers on 3rd Street downtown. Halloway’s the fine jewelry store. The one with the pillar clock out front and the twinkly diamonds in the window. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve driven by it a million times.
I’m not exactly sure what a gift of jewelry could actually mean. I mean, I know what a gift of jewelry means in the ordinary sense. I’ve seen the “Forever Begins Here” or the “Say It Without Words” advertisements for Halloway’s. But this is different. This is from my secret guy who, so far, has been faithfully unconventional and hard to predict, so that eases my mind a little. Maybe.
Nevertheless, I’ve parked and I’m walking to Halloway’s on 3rd Street to pick up a gift that is there for me. From a man I’ve never actually met. At a jewelry store.
The front of the store matches the rest of the street, with its brick facades and plate-glass windows, but the iron pillar clock out front, with its ever-ticking hands, and the luminescent sparkles coming from the window, is pretty, um, shall I say, romantic. Or ominous. I’m not sure which. One part of me feelslight and special, like who am I to have someone want to give me something so, potentially, sparkly. Another part of me feels embarrassed, like I’m unqualified to be here and will be turned away upon entry.
I shuffle through the heavy door as a small gold bell rings joyfully from the frame. An elegantly dressed man in a crisp, black, pinstriped suit, white shirt cuffs exposed the perfect amount, leans on a glass case and eyes me over his glasses, then through them. “Good afternoon, sir,” he says. His cuff-links sparkle radiantly.
“Hello,” I say, approaching the glass case. My eyes dart around the displays of diamonds and gold and gems, all under glass but illuminated in a way that’s intoxicating. My heart warms a little to think that something in this store has been reserved for me. I keep trying to dismiss the idea that my secret guy has somehow left me a sandwich or a hammer or something totally unconventional for a jewelry store to have. Deep inside, I’m actually wishing for something random like an apple pie so that I can just laugh along as intended and carry on with my life. I’m terrified that it’s actually an item from one of the glass cases that sparkles or shines. I can handle an apple pie. Or a sandwich.
“Do you see something you like?” the man says, spreading his hand to highlight the display cases. “Are you buying for you or your special someone?”
My gaze turns to him and I can’t help but smile. My “special someone.” What a great term.
What am I thinking?
I start at the beginning: “I’m actually here to pick up a package. I’ve been instructed to pick up an item that’s been left here for me.” Avoiding eye contact, I look past the display cases at the wall of shelves beyond. They sparkle too, but with more color, rubies and sapphires maybe.
“Oh, you do say.” He clasps his hands together in a ball and smiles broadly. “And the name, please.”
“Liam Everett,” I stumble. I’ve known my name for my whole life, so I look away when I have trouble getting the syllables out.
“Of course, Mr. Everett.” He turns and approaches a shelf behind him with several small boxes, each with a tag. He flips each tag to inspect them and finishes, then starts again, repeating the same action and turns to me, “Might it be under another name, sir?”
We try “William” instead. Same result.
I feel the pulse rise in my neck, my ears grow warm. I have no other information.
“Are you sure it’s not here? I’ve been asked to come retrieve it,” I say.
He looks me in the eye, then to the rear of the store, and back again. He points a single finger my way, says, “Allow me one moment,” and disappears into a doorway I hadn’t noticed before.
I take the opportunity to spin slowly in place and absorb the entire shimmering universe that is Halloway Jewelers. You can’t help but smile in a place like this, and feel a little sparkly.
He returns quickly and meets me in the middle of the store, between the glass cases. “I’ve spoken with my colleague, and I am sorry. There is no item for pickup for a ‘Liam or William Everett.’”
I stare at him for a moment. Heat is running up the back of my neck. I don’t know what to think. “Are you certain? Nothing?” I’m rubbing my palm on my forehead.
“Yes, I’m certain. I’m sorry, Mr. Everett.”
It can’t be. I know that my “special someone” has been wholly unconventional, but this feels outright mean. There must be some error. I decide that what this man needs in order to findmy package is my life story. I mean, the story of how I came to be standing in Halloway’s on 3rd Street. I tell him all the details of my secret person and the grand adventures, smiling deeply, until I get to the moment we’re both experiencing. I do skip the part about the book theft.
“What a lovely story,” he coos, and then frowns. “My apologies. Perhaps there has been a miscommunication. We do not have a package for you, Mr. Everett. Again, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t break eye contact in what is the most professional heartbreak I’ve ever seen.
I exhale sharply. “Thank you,” I stumble. “Thank you anyway.” My body slumps and I trudge toward the door, which opens with its ever-joyful ring.
“Good luck,” he offers with an outstretched hand.
I let the door fully close behind me before walking on.
