Page 18 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Ever since we entered the entertainment industry, we’ve been in something of a friendly competition,” Nic explains, a grin washing over her face. “I can’t count the number of times we’ve been nominated for the same awards or categories. We’d spend the whole ceremony shit-talking each other, whoever won rubbed it in the others’ face and then we’d pop a bottle of champagne together.”
“We ended our careers in a draw,” I add and rub my hands together. “Now what better way to settle it, once and for all?”
Chapter 6
Lauren
Amanda’s antique store envelops me in a silence that surrounds me like a hug. As soon as the door closes behind me, the familiar scent of lavender, lit candles and old wood hit my nostrils.
I still remember the first time Nic and I set foot in here, navigating around ceiling-high towers of furniture that threatened to fall with every creaky step.
We helped Amanda, the owner of the store and resident Wiccan, turn the death-trap labyrinth that her store was into a place that wouldn’t have you fear for death by falling objects. One by one, more people from town joined us, and by the end of the afternoon we were chatting with them as though we had known them for years already.
That was two months ago. Now I still help out here from time to time. Whether it’s helping Amanda source antiques, running the website we set up for her or carrying stuff around that her shoulder won’t allow her to anymore, I’m her girl.
This store is where I go when I can’t bear to be in the chaos that is my home and Nic has Henry over. Helping out here is more of a hobby than a job, but honestly? It gives me a sense of usefulness and as if there’s at least something I can accomplish, while my house is in disarray.
I love it here. I’m surrounded by antiques, each one holding an untold story that I can discover. Or make up. For example,how that scratch got into that wooden dresser, or how a splash of color made it onto the picture frame to my left.
At least when I’m here, I’m doing something other than failing to put my own furniture together or drinking coffee and bemoaning that fact.
With my two new, fluffy roommates, I’ll have to get my home put together, rather sooner than later. For now, I’ve banished some of the chaos, namely unpacked Ikea bags and pieces of unassembled furniture, into the room that will one day be my library. I’m manifesting it.
My living room is still stacked with boxes that I can’t unpack unless I have bookshelves to unpack them onto, though.
I’ll get to it. One day.
“Hey Amanda,” I whisper-shout and walk past boxes of old home decorations that must have come in early this week. An old wooden cuckoo clock peeks out from the cardboard box, a doll’s dead creepy eyes follow me as I pass by her.
I never quite know what I’ll find her doing. Last week I came in here, and she was cleansing a new antique with burning sage and reciting a protection spell.
Another time, Nic and I found her trying to learn a new way to shuffle her tarot cards, which ended with most of them on the ground.
Most of the time, and apparently today is no exception, I find her in the cramped adjacent room to the shop, carefully placing tarot cards on the table in front of her, a focused crease between her eyebrows and a stern expression on her face.
“Oh, there you are,” she says absentmindedly when I peek inside. Her unruly, fiery red curls are contained with a claw clip fighting for its life, the sleeve of her dark green blouse a bit too close to one of the candles for my comfort. “Come in, come in. The cards have something to tell you.”
“They do?” I arch an eyebrow, but enter tentatively.
God, Ireallydon’t like this room. It’s small, dark, basically the physical manifestation of my claustrophobia. Sitting at the table makes it feel as if the walls start closing in.
Old pictures are hung from top to bottom on the wall behind Amanda, with barely any space in between. And not just any pictures. All of them are black-and-white portraits. Some are twenty years old, others hundreds, yet there is one thing they all have in common: disapproving frowns on their faces.
I don’t think she even knows any of these people. The disapproving stares drill into my skin whenever I’m in here. It doesn’t feel much different from being at any of my family functions.
But similar to the disapproval directed my way during family get-togethers, I’ve gotten used to it. Hell, on a slow afternoon, I’d even tried to find out who these people are, though not very successfully. I only learned that one of the children is called Victoria, and she died in 1871, about three states over.
Amanda, however, is the opposite of my family. She radiates warmth. Not the loud kind that demands a room’s attention, but the quiet, steady kind that lingers. Any problems you have, any questions, she’ll listen to you without judgement and help you sort your thoughts.
Even when her own thoughts seem miles away, she somehow makes you believe that you are the most important person in the room. She listens, truly listens, even beyond what you say. Sometimes I swear she can reach right into my mind and read my thoughts. It’s a little unsettling, but honestly, kind of amazing.
As always, the room is illuminated only by Amanda’s signature black candlesticks. The soft scent of evaporating wax and smoke in the air always reminds me of Christmas.
“What do they want to tell me?”
“I don’t know,” she says, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes, as if she’s trying to listen for something. “Have some tea.”
Without looking up, she pushes the teapot and a cup on a blue porcelain saucer with a white pattern my way. I pour myself a cup of Earl Grey.
