Looking for Me (9 page)

“It is,” I promised, pushing my office door closed with the toe of my shoe. “You’ll never guess who just called me . . .”

A
t twelve-forty I left the shop with a wicker lunch basket swinging from my hand. Turning on King Street, I walked several blocks, slowing to look at the window displays, especially those of my competitors. After crossing Clifford Street, I entered the rear entrance of the cemetery.

Set back from the sidewalk, the old iron gates stood open to a path so narrow it could be easily missed. Shaded by a canopy of ancient trees and fringed by overgrowth that tickled my ankles, I walked into the cool shade.

Though I didn’t know many of the residents’ names, I had the feeling they enjoyed my visits. Some might say the property was a tangled mess of plantings left to run wild, but I’d always thought that added to its charm. Olivia and I had been coming here for years and agreed it was the closest thing to a secret garden either one of us had ever seen.

Reaching my favorite spot, I brushed away a few fallen leaves and sat on the moss-stained marble bench. From my lunch basket, I removed a thermos of lemonade and gave it a few shakes. While unscrewing the cap, I spoke over my shoulder, “How are you today, Pernelia? I’m feeling wonderful. This is a big day. In fact, I circled it on my calendar in red.”

Of course Pernelia never says anything, but I liked to think we’d become friends. I leaned over and blew a layer of dust from her stone. Sunlight settled across the carved words:

PERNELIA M. OWNBY

DIED ON MARCH 4TH 1889

IN THE 72ND YEAR OF HER AGE.

MAY HEAVEN’S ETERNAL JOY BE THINE

Other than its graceful arch, the stone was simple and devoid of decoration. I imagined that it suited Pernelia’s personality.

While taking a sip of lemonade, I saw a flash of red on Archdale Street. I peered through the lacy vegetation and watched Olivia Dupree park her ’64 Chevy pickup at the curb—a restored beauty, right down to the gleaming silver grille. A few moments later, she came around the side of the stone church, the oldest Unitarian church in the South.

Olivia maneuvered around the plots, her curly chestnut hair pulled in to a cockeyed ponytail; chances were good that she’d not even bothered to brush it first. The sleeves of her coral linen blouse were rolled up to reveal densely freckled arms, her jeans were worn to near disintegration, and peeking from above her brown leather ankle boots were ruffle-topped socks. Olivia possessed a chameleon kind of beauty. Though she was approaching forty, sometimes, in just the right light, she didn’t look a minute over twenty-five. Some days she’d flounce around town in a Gypsy-style skirt and sandals, looking mysterious and as delicate as a cameo, while other days she’d dress in denim and black leather from head to toe. Those were the days when she looked as if she could easily, perhaps even gladly, kick someone to the curb. I could detect Olivia’s mood by the clothes she wore more than by the words she said. Like me, she wasn’t a native of this glowing city, but she’d succumbed to its lure back in the late seventies and had moved from Jacksonville, Florida, without looking back. Unlike me, Olivia had once been married. His name was Eric, and after five years into a marriage that Olivia claimed was blissful, he’d left her without warning. And he did so to pursue the love of his life—a young blond photographer from California, who oddly was also named Eric. Though Olivia’s former husband apologized profusely and gave her everything, including the house they’d shared, the split-up had come close to destroying her.

Trotting at Olivia’s side was her trusted guardian. Bear was a big brownish black mixed-breed dog that she adopted from a shelter on the day she got divorced. When he saw me, he looked at Olivia. She gave a nearly imperceptible command, and he joyfully loped forward, all but knocking me off the bench. “Hey, Bear,” I said, regaining my balance. “Wow, you smell good.”

“He had a bath yesterday,” Olivia said as she plopped down next to me. “Rolled in something terrible. I don’t even want to know what it was. He’s the smartest dog I’ve ever had, but he loves to roll in the most disgusting things.”

“Sorry about waking you,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich.

Olivia peeled the top from a yogurt container. “Apology accepted. So now that I’m here, let’s have it.”

“Well, when I was up home, I all but begged Mama to come for a visit. But that’s always our parting ritual. I beg, she says maybe, and that’s the end of it. So when she called and said she wanted to spend a week with me, I about fainted.”

Olivia licked her spoon and looked at me thoughtfully. “Any idea why she changed her mind?”

“I can’t imagine. At first I wondered if she was thinking about selling the farm, but she’s doing pretty well leasing the land to a neighboring farmer, so that’s probably not it.”

“You’ve lived here for . . . what, eighteen years? And all of a sudden she wants to come visit? Sounds serious to me. So will I get to meet her? I’m dying to, you know.” Olivia turned on her hip and said, “Sorry, Pernelia—just a figure of speech.”

“Of course you’ll meet Mama. She’s amazed that you make a living restoring and selling old books.”

“Not old books, Teddi.
Rare
books. There’s a huge difference.”

“I know, I know. Sorry.”

Olivia’s lips curved into a wry smile. “I wonder what she’ll think of my Pez collection.”

I laughed and took a bite of my sandwich. “She’ll be speechless. And she calls
me
a junk picker.”

“Guaranteed that’ll change when she sees your shop.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Mama’s not inclined to admit she’s wrong.”

Olivia tore open a bag of pretzels, crushed a few in her hands, and tossed the crumbs to a chickadee that was pecking around Emma Wilson’s stone. On the opposite side of the cemetery, an elderly couple strolled arm in arm along a path. He was dapper in a beige seersucker suit and a blue bow tie, and she looked feminine in a flowery print skirt that moved gently in the breeze.

“Look how cute they are,” I whispered, nodding toward the couple. “Do you think we’re missing out?”

Olivia unscrewed the cap of her water bottle and took a long drink. “On what, getting old?”

“C’mon, you know what I mean. They just seem so . . . I dunno . . . so connected.”

“Of course they’re connected. They’re holding each other up.”

“I’m serious. Look how they walk in perfect unison. Maybe they used to be dancers. Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

Olivia unwrapped a cheese-and-tomato sandwich. “Well, if the past few years are any indication, then I’d say the chances are slim. That last one stripped me to the bone and left me for dead. I never want to go through anything like that again.”

“Well, what did you expect? He was only twenty-three years old.”

“Age doesn’t matter,” she said defensively. “I adored Louis. It was the most intoxicating two months of my life.”

I laughed. “It was the most
lustful
two months.”

Olivia gave me a narrow-eyed look. “What’s with these questions? Have you met someone?”

“No,” I said, grabbing my napkin as the wind tried to steal it away. “But some days I wonder if something’s wrong with me. I mean, think about it. I’m in the prime of my life and I’m not even interested in going on a date. Why am I so happy being alone?”

Olivia nearly choked on her sandwich.

“What’s so funny?”

“Teddi, you’re the only person I’ve known who analyzes why she’s happy. Does your mind ever
rest?”

I gave her a nudge with my elbow. “No. It doesn’t.”

“Hey, on an entirely different subject, I forgot to tell you that I’ve got a new treasure. Do you have time to take a look after lunch?”

“Sure, as long as you’ll drive me back to the shop.”

While Bear lounged in a spot of sun near the stone of Jonas Buckley, Olivia and I discussed topics that ranged from how many more bookshelves I thought she could fit into her upstairs den to the nineteenth-century tulipwood desk I’d recently acquired for my shop.

When we stood to leave, I looked over my shoulder. “See you soon, Pernelia.”

Olivia winked. “Take care, honey. Rest well.”

Within a few minutes, Olivia turned her truck on Montagu Street and rolled to a stop in front of her house—a blue-painted Federal nearly hidden from view by a wall of dense hedges. When she unlocked the front door, a series of shrill beeps
sounded before she punched in her code and the alarm fell silent.

Should anyone attempt to break into her home, he’d be in for a shock on three counts: Her security system was state-of-the-art, Bear was a highly trained guard dog, plus Olivia claimed to have a pump-action shotgun and swore she knew how to use it.

The reason for the heavy security was Olivia’s work. As a well-regarded book conservator, she often had upwards of a million dollars’ worth of rare books and manuscripts in her possession.

To enter Olivia’s home was to experience a quirky smorgasbord for the eyes. In every corner, on every shelf, and behind every door, something offbeat was waiting to be discovered. A person could spend days wandering through the rooms and still not see everything. Her collections were eclectic and ranged from marionettes (Howdy Doody, Captain Hook, and Tinker Bell) to perfume bottles to her prized Pez collection. Her foyer walls were crammed with black-and-white photographs of old Hollywood stars—Jackie Gleason, the Lone Ranger, and her all-time favorite, Marlon Brando. The shelves above her kitchen cabinets were filled with at least fifty old soda-pop bottles, which wouldn’t have been so strange had they not been topped by hand puppets.

Whenever I teased Olivia and called her a junkaholic, she’d lift her chin and fire back, “And
you
are
a furniture slut. I swear, you just about drop your panties for any old walnut chest that comes your way.”

Then we’d both laugh at the truth of it.

Today, as I did each time before entering Olivia’s workroom, I joined her at the kitchen sink, where we washed our hands with a lemony astringent soap. The first time Olivia had invited me to handle a rare book she was restoring and had told me to wash my hands, I thought it was odd.

“Why don’t you wear thin white gloves like they do in the movies?” I’d asked.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “That’s a silly myth perpetuated by clueless Hollywood producers. She tapped her thumb and forefinger together. “A light touch and dexterity are most important. Only the pads of the fingers should be used.”

With our hands clean and thoroughly dried, I followed her into her climate-controlled workroom, where overstuffed bookcases sagged beneath volumes of literary works—Tolstoy, Faulkner, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Mirroring my passion for antiques was Olivia’s strong relationship with books. She devoured them and often read as many as five a week. She hunted them down, mended their wounds, and brought them back to life.

Olivia walked past an oak worktable that sat in the middle of the room. To the left, a wheeled utility cart held jars of conservation glue, sheaves of acid-free paper, and glass tubes filled with bookbinding needles. On the far wall was a large framed photograph of the Little Rascals. Olivia slid her hand along the bottom edge of the frame and pushed a button. Hinged on the right, the photograph swung open to reveal a small vault recessed into the wall. She waited for me to look away so she could turn the dial. I knew the drill and didn’t take it personally. When it came to the vault, she didn’t trust anyone.

Reaching inside, she removed a small book and ceremoniously placed it in my hands. “You’re holding a first edition, first impression of
The Tale of
Peter Rabbit.
It’s one of only two hundred fifty copies in the entire world—issued privately by Beatrix Potter—
and
it’s signed. She was rejected by so many publishing houses that she self-published in 1901.”

Carefully, I leafed through the pages. “The illustrations are fantastic. Josh loved this story. I read it to him so many times that both of us knew it by heart.” I closed the book and handed it to Olivia. “Mama will be fascinated when she sees what you do.”

“I can’t wait to meet her. In fact, I’ll cook a special dinner for the two of you. Something tells me it will be a
very
interesting evening.”

From over my shoulder, I glanced into Olivia’s foyer, where a soft-sculpture witch sat in a rusty Radio Flyer wagon. “I have no doubt.”

Olivia set the book on her worktable and looked at her watch. “C’mon, I’ll drive you back to the shop.”

“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. It’s a beautiful day for a walk.”

After pulling my empty lunch basket from the seat of Olivia’s truck, I strolled along the sidewalk and thought about my mother’s upcoming visit.

Daddy had driven to Charleston once, about a year after I left home. He didn’t tell me he was coming, and when I saw him walk into Mr. Palmer’s shop, I was so surprised that I let out a whoop and nearly knocked him over when I catapulted myself into his arms.

His damp hair was lined with deep comb marks that reminded me of his freshly plowed fields. He wore a brand-new pair of brown twill pants that still had creases from being folded on a store shelf. Though he was wearing his old farm boots, I could tell that he’d slathered them with oil and cleaned them up as best as he could.