Part 19 (2/2)

I have a kind of in-built clock which always reacts against anything Orthodox.

-VIVIENNE WESTWOOD I felt a need to defend my beliefs, a surprising turn I'd have to reflect on later. ”Bad day, Dad?”

He clenched and opened his fists at his side, as if fighting something within himself.

Certain he meant to blast Aunt Fiona, or both of us, for the ritual brooms, I thanked the G.o.ddess, or my mother, for the scent of chocolate growing stronger and overshadowing that of burning smudge sticks.

Or, chocolate is how my nostrils interpreted the scent. G.o.ddess knew what my father thought.

He took a deep breath, hands relaxing at his sides, and breathed easier, as if overcoming his inner turmoil. ”You locked the door in the middle of the day,” he said, less hard, more in sync with the peace of our ritual.

”Dad, this is a business. We're not open till noon tomorrow. The locals are eager. When this was a crime scene, I sold an outfit, outside, from one of the boxes in the parking lot.”

His shoulders also relaxed. ”To be truthful,” he said, as if he couldn't believe himself, ”as I cleared the stairs, I got a flash of your mother in labor eating a candy bar on our way to the hospital.”

Holy thingamabobbin, he smelled the chocolate, too.

”That shouldn't make you cranky, Harry,” Aunt Fiona said. ”It should make you smile.”

”She's right, Dad.”

Welcoming peace, he gave a serene sigh, and his lips curved up, almost involuntarily. ”Other men griped about crumbs in their beds. For me, it was chocolate wrappers.” He chuckled, surprising us all, even himself.

I dropped my broom to throw myself in his arms. ”That's the most open you've ever been about Mom. I've ached to know that kind of silly little detail about her.”

He held me tight for a minute, really tight, until he cleared his throat and pushed away as if seeing me for the first time. ”Look in the mirror, Madeira. She's right there.” He touched my cheek. ”That's her dimple.”

Like Fiona, I swallowed. ”I've been known to eat chocolate in bed, too. Didn't know it was hereditary.”

”Poor Nick.” My father hesitated, the puritanical professor tripping over unacceptable knowledge about his daughter. ”So,” he said, changing the subject and rubbing his hands together. ”You already made a few bucks?”

”If you want to call three thousand dollars a few.”

That got his attention. ”How many outfits?”

”One.”

”You got me,” he said. ”You do know what you're doing.”

It was pure luck that somebody donated a treasure trove of rare vintage and that the White Star Circle harbored a true collector, but I wasn't admitting that to the man who once predicted my failure.

Dad watched while Fiona and I swept up the debris left by the electricians.

”Harry,” Fiona said, as we were finis.h.i.+ng up. ”We need to move some furniture down to Maddie's sitting room area, so the shop will look good for her grand opening.”

”Not a bad idea.” He looked over the possibilities in the storage room. ”It'd save you money, Madeira, if you didn't buy new.”

”I know, Dad. I may as well go vintage all the way.”

”I can get a few locals to help move you after work hours,” he said. ”What did you want downstairs?”

”The fainting couch.” I ran my hand over it. ”The jadeite lamps, this side table, that desk. I'd use the cabinet if it were enamel black, not hospital white. I'd display my fas.h.i.+on dolls in the gla.s.s-front top.” And relegate the tools of the mortuary trade to a body drawer.

”I can spray paint the cabinet,” Dad said. ”Won't take much sanding. Time has taken care of that, but there's a drawer missing.”

”It's in my bedroom. I took stuff home in it.” A quilt and outfit that Eve feared I'd read in front of her, but Dad knew nothing of my psychometric ability, and I prayed he never would.

He nodded. ”I'll paint it in the bas.e.m.e.nt at home, happy I'm not teaching as many courses this semester.”

”Now if we could figure out a way to shed some light on the collection I put inside.”

”Madeira,” my father warned.

”I'm thinking out loud.”

”You could paint the inside a lighter color,” Aunt Fiona suggested, ”to give the fas.h.i.+on dolls prominence.”

”Pale yellow inside,” I said, ”and after the outside dries, I'll paint funky fas.h.i.+on designs on it. Maybe make the bottom cupboards look like they have frog closures. I'll see where my muse takes me. Let me know when it's dry, and I'll decorate it before we bring it back.”

The scent of chocolate got stronger and sweeter, swirling around us like ribbons of fudge bringing the three of us closer, tying us with a chocolate bow.

”Your mother,” my father said, startling me, ”inherited furniture from her parents that she loved. In the, uh, early days, after we lost her, I relegated them to the bas.e.m.e.nt beneath a tarp. Take what you want for the sitting area. She'd be pleased.”

My mother knew how much I adored those pieces, my first introduction to art deco. The designs fascinated me. I remember tracing them with a tiny finger. I wonder if Mom had just nudged Dad's memory.

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