Page 36 of Brewbies
“Kiki and I are not enem—”
A flash of pink had Ethan swiveling his head like an owl in time to watch the luscious Darby Dunwell saunter right up to the one door on Water Street always caked with dust and grime.
Roy Dobson’s You Want It, Take It.
What—and he could not stress this enough—the fuck?
SEVEN
Hard Bean
COFFEE GROWN AT ALTITUDES OF 4,000 TO 4,500 FEET THAT PRODUCES A SLOWER-MATURING FRUIT AND A HARDER, LESS POROUS BEAN.
Darby stoodin the entryway of You Want It, Take It, her mouth open in full gape.
Anemic light shone through the dusty front window onto haphazard piles, the glass foggy and hazy with dirt and years of grime. Cobwebs clung to every corner of the ceiling, spreading to some of the furniture and boxes belching their contents from age-swollen bottoms.
The cramped shelves and counters bore an assortment of items that defied explanation. Valuable pieces crammed in among filthy, old stuffed animals and toys. Water-damaged posters green with sun damage leaning up against oil paintings that would have been perfectly at home at her parents’ Hamptons estate.
A single word echoed in Darby’s head as a clock ticked quietly somewhere in the strange hush created by Roy Dobson’s hoard.
Depression.
She could feel it coating everything as thick as the blanket of dust settled atop various items in the shop. She could smell it as strongly as the dank mildew creeping up at the walls.
Below it, the sweetness and spice of tobacco.
Darby had waited until the exact moment when Roy stepped out into the alley to smoke his cigar to slip in through the front door, shocked when she found it unlocked.
But then, maybe Roy assumed he didn’t have anything worth stealing.
How wrong he was.
Even just a cursory glance around the store had revealed several pieces her father’s stodgy auctioneer would have wet their starched shorts to get their greedy hands on.
Outside, the laughter of a group of pedestrians provided a surreal soundtrack to this profoundly disorienting moment.
As if in a trance, Darby found herself pulled deeper into the mess, her fingers drifting over random objects as she made her way toward the ticking sound. Tucked behind a large armoire out of sight from the main part of the shop, she found a glass case bearing a strange assortment of items, all in pristine condition and carefully arranged in a thoughtful display. A woman’s vanity set with ornate silver hand mirror and matching hairbrush with dark strands still woven between its bristles. An ivory comb with delicate floral embellishments and perfume atomizer with the residue of golden liquid at its thick glass base. A collection of chic hats and cloches perched atop the black velvet display podium.
Through a door beyond it, she spotted what must be Roy’s work desk—a cluttered mess of paper and knickknacks, illuminated by an old desktop computer monitor and grimy keyboard. Darby stepped into the room and noticed a set of blueprints pinned to the wall with several pieces of string tied around pushpins. She walked closer and saw that they were detailed plans for an addition to You Want It, Take It. A space for a kitchen and dining area with living quarters at the back.
The sight of the thermal coffee mug he brought to her camper every morning sitting among the mess next to the dried-out husk of a sandwich hit her like a sledgehammer to the gut. Peeling her eyes away from the painful sight, she ran her fingers over a dusty paper bearing the wordsMy Family Treebelow an elaborate crest.
“Get away from that.”
Startled, Darby dropped the cigar box. It hit the floor with an accusatory thump as she spun around to find Roy standing in the doorway behind her, his face a mask of fury.
“What are you d-doing in here?” His gaze shifted to the desk’s abysmally cluttered surface.
Darby could feel her heart pounding in her chest and tried to recall the excuse she had practiced on the way over, but found her mind utterly empty until her eyes darted toward the window.
“My bike,” she blurted. “I just picked it up from Pedal Pushers, and those assholes replaced my vintage chrome handlebars with cheap-ass mass-produced aluminum alloy. I know it’s a long shot, but I thought you might have something more period appropriate?”
Darby’s teeth caught her lower lip as she waited through a stony silence.
At last, Roy’s perma-scowl softened into something like a skeptical frown. “I might. What kind of bike you got?”
Bingo.
