Final Masquerade (25 page)

"How many customers do you have in a day? No, don't answer. It's obvious. I was in another shop yesterday morning and there were people browsing all over the place."

"Humph."

"Wouldn't you like to have more business?"

With nicotine stained hands, Max lifted the lid from the cup of coffee and drank deeply, not meeting her eyes.

"I know how you could get a lot of business."

He slapped the cup onto the scarred counter, sloshing hot coffee on the back of his hand. “How's that?” he asked without real interest.

"Hire me. I'll bring in customers."

Max threw back his head and guffawed.

"I'm serious."

"What's a puny little woman gonna do that I can't?"

"Clean up this place for one thing. Put up some shelves, dab a little paint on the walls, arrange the books so people can find them. Books are a big commodity, Max. Give people what they want and they'll come. Just give me a shot.” She glanced around the store again. “What have you got to lose?"

"I haven't got money to pay you."

"Tell you what. You find me some working capital to buy a little paint and get someone to put up some shelves and I'll work for just commission for three months. If, after that time, I haven't brought in enough business to justify a regular paycheck, then I'll be gone, and you'll have a fresh new store to show for it."

Max tore a chunk off one of the bear claws and pushed it into his mouth. “How much money we talkin'?"

"Up front money? For now, about three hundred if we do most of the labor."

"No, no..."

"All right, I'll do the work,” she said. “But for that, I want first refusal on all books that pass through here. I also want to okay every box lot you purchase. Deal?"

"I buy what I want to buy and no woman's gonna tell me otherwise.” He said ‘woman’ as if it were something he'd stepped in.

"Okay, you do the buying,” she conceded, knowing he hadn't brought a single new book into the store in years. “Now, do we have a deal?"

After a few seconds, he nodded, still not meeting her eyes. She reached out a hand to cement their deal, not anxious to touch this man, her new boss, but eager to be on with her work.

"What's your name again?” he mumbled, chewing.

"Angela Lawson. From Providence. Do you have a phone here?"

Max gestured toward a pile of papers.

Paige dialed the number of her hotel, hoping Quentin was on duty. “Quentin. Hi, this is the lady from 243. Do you know any carpenters who work cheap?” Max's eyes didn't leave her face during the entire conversation, that yielded an offer from the hotel clerk to send “someone right over".

She put the phone back, dusting the receiver with a napkin. Paige walked around the downstairs of the shop making notes on a pad of paper. From the corner of her eye she saw Max perched on his stool, watching her while he puffed away on a cigarette.

"Max, are there any empty boxes anywhere?"

"Out back."

"Bring me a couple, would you? I'm up to my ears back here."

She could hear Max wrestling himself off the stool and toward some mysterious storage room at the back. Seeing the mess out front, Paige wasn't in any hurry to see what lay back there. Max appeared, grumbling something about puny pain in the ass women, but carried three boxes, which he unceremoniously dropped on the floor behind her as she kneeled in a corner.

"Thanks. Wait. Don't leave yet. Let me tell you what I've been thinking. We'll start back here, put up shelves around these two walls and make this into a sort of alcove. Put a couple of chairs and a little round table next to this window, a lamp on the table and voila, we have a reading area.

"Reading area? Woman, we want people to
buy
the books and take them home not sit and—"

"Remember, this store sells collectible books. People want to examine them first and we want them comfortable while they're doing so."

"What're the boxes for?"

"All these books have to come out of this area so we can work without tripping on them. I'll put most of them upstairs for now. By the way, do you have a book for doing appraisals anywhere around here?"

"Did have a while back."

"Well, do you think you could get it for me?"

"It's old."

"I realize that, but a new one is five hundred bucks. While I have you here, what color paint do you think we should use?"

"This is your project, not mine,” Max muttered.

"I think beige, and for the accents, brown or tan."

"Whatever,” was his comment, but he remained standing there a long time before trudging away.

That evening Paige nearly crawled home. Her back and upper arms were strained from the exertion of hauling boxes of books around all day. Why was she doing this? Offering to work for a man who obviously didn't want an employee. Her little voice nagged that there was no better way to get first whack at the collectibles.

She stopped at a liquor store and small supermarket where she bought a bottle of wine and a del Monico steak to reward herself for a job well done. It was nearing six p.m. and nearly dark. The city was abuzz with workday people. Paige watched for Chris and his truck, but there was no sign of either.

Paige folded open
The Star Tribune
classifieds beside her dinner plate. She circled several ads advertising shelving units and furniture for sale. She made appointments for the sellers to deliver the goods the following morning, confident that Max would come through with the promised money.

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Paige left early, savoring the brisk morning air and the soreness in her shoulders. The unfamiliar ache was exhilarating. Her life finally had a purpose. She arrived in the alley at 8:30 a.m. after walking the five blocks from the hotel, a distance that would be shortened by three blocks when she moved to her new apartment the following week.

Paige entered the bakery, smiling and greeting Polly.

"Land alive, woman you did it! What
did
you say to him?"

"I just made him aware how much he needed me."

"And he said..."

"Said, he'd gotten along all right without me. I told him the place needed a woman's touch."

"And he just laughed at you, right?"

"Right. Why does he dislike women so much?"

"That's a story that will take a week to tell you. We'll have to get together one of these days.” Polly slid a tray of flour-dusted dough circles into the oven, then brushed her hands on her long apron. “I confess, I
never
would have believed ... Well, anyway, what can I get for you this fine morning, new neighbor?"

"A coffee and a couple of those beautiful cinnamon rolls you have cooling there. I could smell them a block away."

Polly handed the rolls across the counter, still shaking her head in doubt. “Just never would have believed it."

"Thanks, Polly. Have a terrific day.” Paige floated into the alley the same time as a small pickup backed up and stopped in front of the store. A man wearing denim farmer's pants and a flannel shirt greeted her. “I have some shelves for someone named Angela. Is that you?"

Paige smiled. “Yes. Would you just prop them against this wall?"

She unlocked the door with her shiny new key. It hadn't been hard to convince Max to make a copy. He knew it meant he wouldn't have to hurry to the store in the mornings. What was difficult was talking him into walking to the hardware store to make the new key. But, walk he did, grumbling at least until he was out the door.

The carpenter arrived, clad in white from head to foot. He introduced himself as Dan the Man. She stifled the smile as well as she could and showed him what she hoped to accomplish. She pointed out the shelves she'd bought to save him time—and save Max money. He said he could start work in the morning and could stay two or three hours if he could come in at seven. Paige winced but agreed before he could renege. She knew from experience in Santa Barbara how hard it was to get a carpenter to work this quickly.

"You must owe Quentin a big favor."

"We go way back."

The next day, while Dan the Man sawed, measured, cut, and nailed, Paige stood at the top of a stepladder, painting. Painting was another thing she'd never done before. Dan showed her how to hold and swing the brush, keeping streaks and lines to a minimum. Gradually the smoke stained wood took on a bright clean look. The beige paint and tan trim practically gleamed.

At 11:30, Max arrived. He stood in the doorway watching the goings on with a look somewhere between a frown and a smirk. Polly appeared behind him carrying a large coffee and wax-coated bag, which she handed to him and ran back to find Paige.

"I can't stay. I just had to come see what you were doing with the place,” she said.

"No, you just wanted to check up on Max. Make sure he was still alive and in possession of his faculties!” Paige showed Polly the plans for the downstairs.

"Wait just one cotton picking minute,” boomed Max, lumbering across the hardwood floor. “I only okayed $300 for this project."

"It's going to be lovely.” Polly directed the next comment to Max. “You should have done this ten years ago.” Then to Paige, “I have to get back to the shop. I just wanted to see how things were going. Congratulations.” She patted Paige's arm.

Polly said something to Max on her way past but Paige couldn't tell what it was, although she did hear his trademark grumble.

"Dan, before you leave today, I want to show you my plans for the loft. It's very dark up there. I think a skylight or two..."

"We aren't doing
anything
in the loft!” Max bellowed.

Paige put an index finger to her lips. “It's all right, Max. We aren't doing anything up there until this floor is finished."

"I
said
we aren't doing anything up there!” Max marched away. He slammed the door, shaking the place to the timbers.

Paige shrugged at Dan, who rolled his eyes and climbed back up his ladder.

While he hammered away, Paige divided her time between painting and her self-appointed task of sorting inventory. Much of what Max had collected over the years was junk: books with covers torn off, pages missing, mold, dust and mildew throughout.

Amidst coughs and wheezes, she developed a system: haul a box to the attic window in front of which she'd made three piles—one for good to excellent, one for mediocre, and the last for rubbish. She knew the third would be the largest pile, and that she'd somehow have to sneak them past Max, sentried on his stool. He'd protect his stock at all costs and grumble, particularly when he had to pay the recycle man to haul them away, but...

By the end of the following week several wonderful things had happened. Paige had moved into her new apartment where she spent hours staring out her windows, absorbing the peace of the surrounding city, holding the cat, and not thinking about Chris.

Something Harry had conveniently forgotten to mention was that the cat came with the place. Paige balked at first, not wanting the responsibility of another being, but finding comfort in the soft tri-colored fur that followed her everywhere, even to bed, and who also provided a sounding board for her frustrations over Max's constant muttering and complaining. The cat, whom she named Spirit for the luck they'd both had in finding each other, purred and meowed in response to Paige's every comment, almost as though understanding that this human needed a friend as much as she did.

The entire first level of the shop was now painted and shelves erected. Paige, having spent an entire evening devising a layout for the proper arrangement of the books, began to line the shelves. Customers straggled in. Some, who'd been there before, remarked repeatedly about the extraordinary changes in the place. Max's sour expression was occasionally replaced with a look akin to that of a lord attending his castle.

But the most amazing event was the remarkable ‘find’ Paige made in the attic. Wrapped in protective paper, lying midway down a box of elementary school history books was
Somebody's Darling
by Larry McMurtry, a 1978 Simon & Schuster first edition.

With sweaty palms Paige fumbled through the antiquated
Huxfords Value Guide
that Max had dug up somewhere. She read the details under the McMurtry, Larry heading, then excitedly turned her attention to the book itself, searching inside the cover for the dedication from the author to film director Peter Bogdanovich, his friend and collaborator. “Oh, it's here!” she exclaimed. “I can't believe this.” Paige had taken the volume downstairs and showed it to Max, who, for once, wasn't perched on his stool. She found him in the back talking to Dan.

She sighed. Dan was a wonderful carpenter who showed up on time and worked cheaply, barely over the cost of materials. She couldn't afford for Max to alienate him with his grumbling and complaining and countermanding her requests.

She ran up to the two men, who turned as if they'd thought they were entirely alone in the building. “Is everything all right?” she asked no one in particular.

"Why shouldn't it be?” Max replied.

"I just thought ... Oh, never mind. Look what I found."

She handed the book to Max, who glanced quickly at the title, then just as quickly handed it back to her. “A western. So?"

"Max, this western, as you so crudely refer to it, is worth at least
five
thousand dollars.” She waited for the numbers to sink into his whiskey soaked brain. When she detected a slight twitch in his cheek muscles, she continued, “Do you have a special cabinet with a lock that we can use to store books like this?"

"Used to have."

"Go see if you can find it, would you?"

"Take all day,” he muttered, taking the book from her and looking it over more carefully.

The shop door opened and a familiar voice called, “Hello."

"Harry! Whatever brings you here? Just one second.” She gently took the book from Max, put her hand on his arm and steered him away from Dan, saying, “Please Max. Can you find the cabinet?"

She tossed identical grins at Harry and the carpenter as they watched Max waddle to the storeroom, a room she still hadn't dared to enter.