“Almost everything. Some of the furniture is from my personal collection and not available for purchase.”
She wanders inside and turns in a circle, stopping to look more closely at a pair of sterling silver ballet slippers sitting on the end table. “My daughter would love those. She’s in her fourth year of ballet.”
“According to our records, they used to belong to one of the members of a dance company in Moscow.”
Meryl smiles. “In that case, I must have them.” A light laugh follows. “And to think I was resistant about coming. I’ve hardly made it through the front door and already found something I can’t live without. This is going to be dangerous, isn’t it?”
My grin is so wide, it almost hurts. “I’m not sure what you were expecting, but we pride ourselves on having a unique collection of one-of-a-kind items that will tempt you unmercifully because once they’re gone—they’re gone forever.”
Amy hovers a dozen feet behind Meryl, at the antique desk where we process payments from the general public when we’re open on Fridays. She’s been even more anxious than I have for this appointment, because she knows how much I’ve wanted Meryl as a customer for months. Even though I promised I could handle it on my own and Amy could take the afternoon off, she stayed to see exactly how it went.
“Would you like to follow me upstairs? The third floor is where all the newest items are displayed.”
Meryl glances around the room. “Do I get to come back down and pick from all of this as well? Because I’ve got my eye on a few other things, and we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“Absolutely. The entire store is your playground for the afternoon, Meryl. We can take however long you want.”
She squeezes her hands in front of her, and I wonder if she’s secretly trying to stop herself from clapping them together like a kid standing in front of a bakery case. “All right. Show me the way.”
“If you’ll follow me.”
We reach the third floor, and Meryl’s mouth drops open.
As soon as she called on Monday afternoon to make this appointment for today, I pulled out all the stops in our restocking. Did I go a little overboard? Maybe. But I don’t care. I want to impress her—need to impress her. I’m not sure why I care so much, but it goes deeper than me seeking her approval.
I think . . . I think I want her friendship, and this is the best way I know how to start. There’s just something about Meryl Fosse and her commitment to her causes and her convictions that inspires me to grow and evolve.
Curated can’t just be about creating the perfect social media feed, and I’m starting to realize that it never was. It has always fed my need to make sure that unique and beautiful items aren’t lost and forgotten in our world where everything seems to be disposable and nothing is built to last anymore. I want people to appreciate amazing workmanship, and the time and effort it took to craft so many of our pieces by hand.
“Oh my word, it’s like Ali Baba’s cave—full of treasures,” Meryl says in a soft voice as she turns in a slow circle.
She walks toward the curio cabinet with mismatched hand-painted pieces of china displayed on delicately tatted lace. But before she reaches it, she stops next to the sofa and studies a blown glass lamp in the shape of water lilies.
“Scarlett . . . this, this is incredible.”
She stares at the lamp in awe, reaching out to touch it, but stops before her fingertips make contact.
“You can touch it. It’s delicate, but not that breakable. It makes me think of Monet.”
Meryl’s head turns toward me. “I learned how to paint by studying the water lilies. This takes me right back to my teenage years when the only thing that made any sense was a brush in my hand and paint on my smock.”
“I didn’t know you were an artist.”
Her fingertips gently skate across the green glass. “My mother told me I’d never make a living at it, and I’d be better off putting my efforts into finding a husband. She was probably right that I couldn’t make a living at it, but I wish I hadn’t packed up my paints quite so soon.” She retracts her hand and turns to face me. “I have a wall at the center that needs a mural, and I was going to commission someone to paint it for me. But this . . . this makes me wonder if I still have any skills left to do it myself.”
“All you can do is try,” I say with an understanding smile. “I’m sure the kids would love to see your work.”
Her eyes light up. “They’re the most wonderful group of children I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Did I tell you we have a carnival Sunday afternoon? It’s open to the public . . .”
I know what she’s getting at. She wants us to bring Bump, and I think it could be amazing for him. “I don’t think we’re busy. I’ll talk to Gabriel and Bump, and see if we can make it work.”
Meryl’s teeth flash pearlescent white as she beams at me. “Excellent. Now, time for me to shop.”
Nineteen
Legend
When the Escalade Creighton Karas sent rolls to a stop in front of the building housing the Upper Ten, the driver climbs out of the front to come around and open my door, but I can manage myself. We meet on the sidewalk as I shut it behind me.
“I’ll show you up, Mr. Legend.”
“I can find it,” I tell him.
The suit-clad man produces what looks like a credit card from his breast pocket. “You’ll need this to access the top floor of the building. If you leave with it, it’ll be deactivated within hours.”
“I’ll leave it with Karas. Don’t worry, I won’t be in a hurry to come back. This isn’t exactly my scene,” I say, glancing down at the sweats I’ve shoved up around my calves and the running shoes on my feet.
“Understood, sir. I’ll be out here to return you to Legend once Mr. Karas is finished with you.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him not to worry about it, but my promise to Scarlett won’t let me. No taking unnecessary chances with my safety.
“Thanks.”
He inclines his head, but I’m already striding toward the doors. Inside, the building looks like it’s been restored to its glory days of the Roaring Twenties. It definitely gives the right vibe for a high-end cigar club that even I can appreciate, although cigars have never been my thing.
The keycard gets me up the elevator, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up when I hit the top floor. They’ve gotta be watching me. I don’t look for the telltale signs of security cameras, though. There’s no point. They’re definitely here.
The elevator lobby leads to two massive wooden doors. I haul one open and find myself in an entryway with a high ceiling and a fancy-looking clock in the corner. One wall is glass, and through it I can see the crown jewels of the Upper Ten—boxes upon boxes of cigars in a big glass room that must be temperature and humidity controlled. Rumor on the street is that they’ve got millions of dollars’ worth of tobacco in this place, which seems fucking crazy to me. To each their own.
A man who is built a hell of a lot like Bodhi Black stands between me and the next set of doors, which lead into the Upper Ten. I have to give him credit, though. His eyebrows don’t go up when he sees me wearing gym clothes.