the Sidewalk street story cont.

 Once the play-dough girl and Jess were ushered out, Faun watched him lock the door

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” she asked looking up at him

“I hadn’t, actually —I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” he said now and reached to shake her hand, 

“I’m Grant Stephenson,” and shook her hand noticing how delicate and small it was with slender long fingers. Her nails were clean and neat but not manicured, he noticed, but then, her hands did not require embellishments as they’d only detract their elegance, he thought. 

“I’m Faun,” she said redundantly and felt quite foolish after saying as he had established before that he knew who she was…. she stepped back carefully 

“So….well —just let me clean up, the coffee grinds need ….to be dumped….” she began to walk in the direction of the little coffee shop, which was just an alcove in the wall with a surround counter and a tall long marble table in the center with surrounding dark green upholstered tall bar stools. The barstool’s dark green matched the walls interiors exactly, as well as the velvet draperies that adorned all the tall windows. The wall paper, with the dark green background had a Victorian floral fine print with dark shades of deep burgundy, teal and navy blue and the print matched all the Victorian lamp shades in the shop; it was like walking into a pre-Raphaelite painting, Faun had thought, the first time she went into the shop.

Grant watched her as Faun systematically washed the coffee shop items; two small espresso shot cups and saucers, lemon peels, two small saucers and little spoons. She laid each item out to dry on the coffee cup rack. Then she wiped down all the tables and counters and put away the cleaning supplies. 

“I’ve been locking up the till,” Faun headed toward the purchasing desk where there was an antique burgundy and gilt painted cash register that had been refurbished and worked with on POS computer which also ran the credit card; another interesting detail for a modest shop. Without waiting for a reaction from him, she ran the close outs of both machines and opened the register to remove the cash drawer. Without looking at him she took the paper receipts with the closing reports and with the drawer headed to the bookshop’s office. 

She went in first and put the till down on the desk. He watched her open the safe. It was an odd safe, an antique, like the cash register, was also painted burgundy and gilt. It was custom made and opened with a skeleton key and face-recognition, which, if tricked wrong set off an alarm and called the local police. 

Once Faun completed closing up the safe with the till she stood aside and motioned Grant to the chair behind the huge antique wooden desk that served all the store’s office needs. 

But Grant did not sit down,

“oh, I think we had best go to Uncle Arthur’s office—the papers and ….the shop and other matters are all back in there….”

“Is it in the building?” she asked, not having realized Mr. Bishop had an office 

“Yes, it’s in the cellar….”

a side walk street side story

 

“But why would someone smell like play-dough —like—all the time???” she implored her friend 

they stood by their espressos perched upon the high gloss dark wood counter at the local bookshop. They came after school, as they did nearly every day, on their way home after classes; pretending to be more than sixteen 

Their voices traveled upstairs to the second story of the local bookshop, the second floor of two more—plus the attic and the weird cellar downstairs 

The interiors of the shop were reminiscent of bygone years. Faun de Roet had to wonder how it was possible to maintain such quality furnishings considering the decline of bookstore shoppers. But this had been a question she had been meaning to ask Mr. Bishop ….not expecting his sudden death. She had only just met the Bishops at the beginning of the summer and ….well, after their short but wonderful acquaintance Mr. Bishop took ill.

It seemed only natural to step in and run the shop considering all her years as a bookstore manager 

Faun stood puzzled a moment still hearing the girls chatter 

“Maybe he works at a toy store after school,” the other girl suggested 

“But like—all the time? I mean, come on Jess, that’s just weird in that gross and icky way.”

“You don’t have to kiss him—“

“Omg—shut up, I’m gonna gag, you just made me spill coffee on me!”

Faun heard someone behind her and turned around fast. She had an armload of books she was working on putting away but her sudden move caused her to drop most of them right on the feet of her intruder.

When she looked up she saw him bending down to help her as he said,

“here, let me help you.”

By just a few words she realized he was English. And as she studied his face she searched it, assuming he must be a son or relative of the Bishops 

“Thank you,” she said accepting his help as he handed her the books from the floor

“No, I should be thanking you,” he said

“Why?”

“For stepping in and running things during —all this—I mean, you must have your own life to see to?” he spoke so softly. Some of his words she had trouble with understanding; his accent, it was so ….lilting, like poetry, every word he spoke fell like drops of pearls but —she had trouble understanding. 

“Oh….” was all she could think to reply but then suddenly without knowing she would she said, “are you the son—or you’re—no the solicitor….?”

“Neither—I’m —not really exactly related, well more like the step nephew but, yes, I am here to manage the properties and his legal matters as he has left for Aunt Fiona,” he explained. There was an odd sheepish expression on his face just then. But quick as a wink it disappeared. 

She liked his face. There was something open about his expression and he had a gentle demeanor. He was warm colored; eyes and hair like a walk in a forest

 and yet to him having learned of her name before seeing her thought she had eyes much like a doe caught by surprise and the sense of autumn leaves 

“So—what will happen to the shop?” Faun asked in a hushed tone and quickly glanced around to be sure her voice had not carried 

“Ahh…that is a complicated question ….” the sheepish expression returned —there!—an instant! then was gone, “that is—actually—what I erm—meant to—had—hoped to tell—ask—talk to you about.”

But his accent rendered most of that incomprehensible to her. She only got the part he said “to you about”

She felt oddly self conscious 

“You came to talk to me?” 

She had a moment to take him in fully. Dressed somewhat conservatively in a shirt and cardigan, with the predictable khaki trousers and such —yet, not; he wore unusual shoes and she picked up on a scent he wore; some earthy spice (cologne or hair product or body wash?) ...age? not too young, not too old, a bit wise and still wondering 

“You’re busy,” he said it like a question and also like a stated fact 

“Well, the sign says we close at six and—“

He pulled out his phone,

“ah—time to usher out the riffraff,” he glanced back up at her as he slipped his phone back where it had been in his pocket before saying, “shall I lend a hand? You see, there’s some sticky things which needs being seen to and I don’t know who else to ask. Aunt Fiona is —understandably still beside herself.”

“Oh—if I can help….? Of course!”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

this is not apples, Magritte

last seen

 

https://youtu.be/jLGobWuiYuc?si=_o9OdQ5AiK5tGL4f

do I mourn a loss if it was a connection that has gone away without acknowledgement ….when I’d believed it when it was said I was seen 

The Sci/Fi wizard story notes

 

when you deal with crazy people

                                                        they start to make you feel crazy 

—make them go away

 

tonight it was clearly Red