Page 30 of Just a Client

The store’s front door opened at exactly nine a.m., and a man with white hair and a beard carrying a sandwich board tucked under his arm exited. He set up the big orange open sign on the front porch. After installing the sign, he waved at us and waited by the door for us to join him. We couldn’t turn back now.

The proprietor, Melvin, wrapped Cameron in his burly plaid-covered arms for a bone-crushing hug. He rocked them back and forth, almost lifting her off the ground.

“It has been too long, Cami. How is that little girl of yours?” The old man focused solely on her.

“She is getting big. Off to college in the fall.”

“Time flies.” He turned his misty blue-gray eyes to me. From a distance, I’d pegged the man as a Santa Claus look-alike. I couldn’t have been more wrong. His face had passed weathered probably twenty years ago. His skin was more like rawhide than anything else. He had mileage.

“You brought me a customer, I see.” The old man looked at my expensive Italian loafers like they were an affront to all footwear.

“I’m Wilson Phillips,” I said, holding out my hand.

We shook hands, but his eyes didn’t leave my feet. Not once. And when he waved me inside, he watched me walk, scrutinizing each step.

The shop was unforgettable. Racks and boxes of boots of every size, shape, brand, and color filled all available space. He’d stacked boxes all the way to the ceiling along two walls. The place was a fire code violation, a museum, and a treasure trove. The smell of leather permeated the air.

In the center of the first room, a round table held a few pairs of obviously special boots. Exotic leather and incredible craftsmanship elevated them to works of art. I picked up a pair of black crocodile boots that would look at home on any singer striding the boards at the Grand Ole Opry. Not for me, but incredibly cool.

“Well, son, what are you looking for?” Melvin asked.

“Boots?” The inadequacy of my answer in the face of the array of choices in this place made me shift uncomfortably from foot to foot as I tried to take in all the options.

“Wils, help the man out. Tell him what you want.” Cameron prodded me forward.

I turned and caught her eye. I had no clue what to tell Melvin, so I shrugged, my eyes imploring her to help. It was why I brought her along.

“Why don’t you tell him?” I pushed her in front of me.

She sighed and looked at Melvin for assistance.

“You can’t help those who won’t help themselves. Shoes off, Mr. Phillips.” Melvin walked around me, studying my feet from every angle as I stood sock-footed on the dusty wood floor.

“My boots have stories to tell from as far back as the 1960s. They have plenty of life left, and I want to make sure they get to live it with the right owner. Vintage, I think people like you call them.”

Like me? What exactly did that mean? Californians? Out-of-towners? Rubes?

Cameron raised one eyebrow, her look daring me to laugh. Hell no. Not happening. I glared back at her.

Melvin lifted his gaze from my feet long enough to look between us and harrumphed, crossing his massive arms over his barrel chest.

“I have the boots you want to try right over here.” He pulled a box from the middle of the precarious stack without asking my foot size. “You will enjoy the experience.”

The twinkle in his eyes, paired with the beard, recalled the image of Santa Claus that I’d discarded earlier. I accepted the tan boots and sat down to pull them on. It was a tight fit, but I wanted to trust the experience. The pinch turned to near-crippling pain when I stood up.

“They’re a bit tight.” I tried not to sound disappointed.

“I know that,” Melvin chuckled and gave me a wink. “Can’t win them all.”

I hobbled over to whisper in Cameron’s ear. “What’s he doing? You said he’s never wrong. Boots of my destiny and all that. These are killing my feet.”

“I don’t know. This has never happened before. We’re in uncharted waters.” She spoke out of the side of her mouth, her voice pitched so low that I almost couldn’t hear. It would have been so easy to tug her belt loop and pull her into my chest, to press against her like I did last night when we danced. To indulge in her.

“That damn boot jack’s gone missing again.” Melvin rummaged behind the counter, pushing around a basket of socks, looking for something. As he searched, he let fly a string of unique and inventive curses but came up empty-handed.

“Sit over there; we’ll get those off you.”

My feet throbbing, I sat, grabbed the heel of one boot, and tugged. Nothing. I wiggled my numb toes and tried again. The boot didn’t budge. Panic started building; I’d never experienced claustrophobia before, but it had to feel like this. I’d need a knife—a big one—to cut these suckers off.

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