Page 16 of Storm Warning
KAYLEE - JUNE 20, 2004
Don’t goto the shop. Don’t go to the shop.
I reiterate to myself yet again that I need to allow myself to take breaks. A futile attempt at best, but one I try my best to stick to.
How the hell does anyone enjoy a day off? The concept seems completely foreign, like I’ve been dropped off in the middle of nowhere with no map and no instructions. I always find myself right back at Southern Sip, keeping an eye on the place, not because it’s my pride and joy—not entirely at least—but because, overall, it’s all I truly have.
I pace around my house, hoping to find something to clean, but it’s so spotless that if I wipe the table again I might start to remove its finish.
Releasing a sigh, I let my body fall into the clear purple, inflatable chair in my room and stare at the ceiling.
Well, this is it. I’ll just die of boredom.
I grab my cell phone and think about the cute little dangling heart charm that Daisy has on hers. I wonder where she got it from.I bet I could make one myself.In fact, I know Ican because it’s just some string and beads.Well, looks like I know what I’m doing today.
The sound of the plastic squeaks against my skin as I get up from the place I previously planned to make my grave—not literally, but metaphorically—at least, for today. I walk toward my closet to grab a pair of shoes and glance up at all of my clothes. Each piece created by hand, transformed from something someone didn’t want, into an entire room filled with sparkles, fringe, and love. Warmth fills my heart as I glide my hand over a few pieces close to me. The shop has kept me so busy I forgot what it was like to just do something for fun, so that’s today’s plan. Do something for me.
My first stop is a small store down the road from me—Molly Mae’s. There’s a mixture of antiques as well as crafting supplies. It’s as though she’s the Willy Wonka of treasures, and every time I enter I’m the person with the golden ticket. Her collection is unique, and more than once, I’ve heard people mention the plethora of junk within its walls as I glide through each aisle trying my best not to buy everything I see. One man’s trash truly is another’s treasure. People piss me off for any number of reasons, but something that really sets me off is the wordjunkin a place as magical as this.
If they just took a nanosecond to look at the things she brings in, truly look, they would see that these items weren’t discarded like crap, but rather collected by Molly herself. Every single item has a story to tell. Some are probably more heartwarming than others, but still a story nonetheless.
A set of bookshelves are tucked off to the left side of the door, their spines a myriad of different colors and fonts. I stop to run my fingers over their textured surfaces, taking a moment to read their titles. So many classics cover the wall, and my eyes land on a green velvet book covered in gold foil flowers. I can tell it’s been treasured just from the spine alone. Dentsgrace every edge. I pull it out, finding many of the pages dogeared, marking the many sessions where its readers left off. I turn over the book to view its cover. Delicate gold writing and a picture of a small girl replicate the gold foil on the spine.The Secret Gardenby Frances Hodgson Burnett. I trace my pointer finger over the indent of the design, wondering about all those who cherished this edition so thoroughly, holding it close to their heart. I blow out a small huff at how clear it is this book has seen more love than I ever have and maybe ever will. As I fan through the well-loved pages, a small slip of paper floats down to the floor. I pick it up, scanning the cursive writing upon its surface.
To my one and only.
May our love be found among the wildflowers.
This note may never find you, but my heart always will.
- G
A heaviness settles on my chest as I search the rest of the book for an inkling of whose it could be. I wonder what it would be like to be loved like that. To have someone worth writing handwritten notes to, even if they’ll never find them. My mouth gapes open when I reach the end and find an old worn photo of a young couple taped within the back cover. The photo isn’t in color, but somehow its sepia tone feels filled with warmth that has nothing to do with the brown hues. It’s as if I can literally feel the love in the picture. A young woman with dark hair and eyes smiles brightly at the camera, her joy shining through every inch of her face, like nothing in the world could be better than the very moment she finds herself in. The man beside her holds her close, his cheek pressing intohers along with a smile that mirrors the one she wears. The only difference being that while she smiles out into the world, his eyes are firmly planted on her. The landscape behind them is blurred, but appears to be a field of flowers and a tree line. Unsticking the tape from one of the corners, I lift the photo to check the back, hoping the owner wrote something there as well, and smile once I see they had.
My love, the only thing better than a Secret Garden.
Grace & Walter
I place the corner of the photo back down, then close the book after shoving the note in the middle of its pages for safe keeping. My mind swirls with thoughts as I tuck the book under my arm and I continue through the store, passing a wall filled with paintings and shelves lined with small nicknacks and collectables. A jewelry case stops me from progressing toward the crafting supplies, and I peer into the glass. It wouldn’t be Nashville if there wasn’t a large section dedicated to bolo ties and belt buckles. Many of which bare patina on their surface along with a turquoise stone or two. I look at every piece for the hell of it and nearly drop the book when I spot a belt buckle I can’t ignore.
A curvy, beaded edge frames the entire design. Within its border lies a filigree pattern, with the letters PABRA stamped into the top metal banner. Centered on the bottom banner, the year 1987 hangs right below a cowboy riding a bull. It’s not in pristine condition, there are small dents embedded into the silver, and it’s flatter than the other buckles, but it’s just the same as the day I found it in our driveway when it slipped from my dad’s bag and ended up under his tire as he pulledaway. I stare at it, then lightly rub my eyes to make sure I haven’t just imagined a lost piece of a history I consistently wish I could forget.
The buckle remains stagnant. A trophy meant to mark the talent of a rider who took home the prize years ago, but when I look at the worn metal I only see loss. The first time my dad came home with more than a trophy to mark what he had won that day. Obvious bruising along his jawline that I, as a child, never understood. A day that many families would have seen as a great celebration, but for us just a reminder that we had no reason to.
My gaze flicks over the rest of the buckles, wondering if they too had a story with little to no light, or any of the items in this shop for that matter. I hate the reminder of him more than anything, but also wonder how his buckle got here. The last place I remember seeing it was in the junk drawer I tossed it in the day I found it. After that, I erased the memory of it and him. Glancing over the rest of the case, my excitement for the wonders within these walls is cut in half.
I guess some of this stuff is trash.
I head toward the crafting supplies and look for the jewelry making stuff before gathering everything I think I’ll need for my little makeshift phone charm and the beads to attach to it. My gaze scans over the beads, before I decide on black, white, and neon green. A good, vibrant base. Now for something a bit more ornamental. There’s so many cute and unique charms, but after debating with myself far longer than necessary, I decide on a few pink jewels and a little star before making my way toward the counter to check out.
Molly is stationed where she always is. Her curly gray hair poofs out around her frail features— always looking like she’s frazzled—and her massive circle glasses are so thick they magnify her eyes. She reminds me of Rose from The Golden Girls, sweetand naive, always offering a story even when they don’t have a punchline or lesson. Every finger is adorned with rings of gold, silver, and every jewel you could think of. As always, she wears a loose fitting, floral dress and a cardigan over top.
“Good morning!” She greets me with such life and youthfulness, you’d never know she was in her eighties.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mae. How are you today?”
“Wonderful. The sun is shining and my heart is beating. Couldn’t ask for more if I tried.” She glances down at the collection of goods in my hands. “Ahh, what are we making today?”
“A little charm to hang off my phone,” I reply with a grin. I swear Mrs. Mae’s happiness is infectious, and I always look forward to our conversations, no matter how long or short, when I come here. She’s got this way about her that just makes you want to talk. Open up. It’s almost as if you aren’t a stranger when you walk into her shop, but a loved one. Like your words matter to her no matter how big or small.
