Page 10 of The Woman on the Jury

Smudges of dirt and grime, the origins of such were best not thought about, given that damn near everything in this shop was seventy-plus years old, were on my cheeks, and one was obscuring the cleft in my chin.

I didn’t put on makeup, but the mascara from the day before that I hadn’t taken off before bed was smudged all under my eyes, making the light blue bluer, sure, but also highlighting my paleness and bags from little-to-no sleep.

From a hidden corner, perched on an ancient rose-colored Captain’s chair, I could hear my grandfather’s loud snores reverberating through the store.

I’d tried to send him home at five.

He’d insisted that the store was open until seven, and he’d only closed early five times in all his years working here, so he would not be going home until after closing time.

I hated that I thought it, but I couldn’t help but wonder how many customers possibly came in before I started working here and found him sleeping.

Did they take their money and leave?

Did they take items with them?

That was why this damn inventory was so necessary.

Every single picture frame, every ring, every old book, I wanted to make sure I knew it existed, where it was, and what it was worth.

I was getting better at being able to recognize something’s worth and things like that, but I was still leagues behind my grandfather on it.

What he lacked in organization and the ability to sell items, he made up for in knowledge about them.

I prayed that someday, I could be as informed as he was.

I had a coffee table full of books about antiques that I’d purchased secondhand or borrowed from the library, in the hopes of expanding my knowledge base. But I simply hadn’t had any free time to read.

A jingle signaled a potential shopper.

I quickly tried to scrub at the smudges as I emerged from one of the cramped rows.

“Welcome to… oh,” I said, my customer service smile falling from my face.

“I’ll try not to be offended by that,” Lauren, my best friend—my only friend—said, holding up a cardboard drink tray with two extra large coffees nestled in it. “I brought coffee, and it looks like you need it,” she said, grimacing at my face.

“It’s not that bad,” I insisted, taking the coffee.

“Oh, honey, it is,” she said, laughing a bit as she reached out toward my ponytail, and pulling a whole damn cobweb out of it, flicking it into the garbage. “How go things in the world’s stuffiest store known to mankind? Whatisthat smell anyway?” she asked. “The hands of a million people touching everything in here?”

Lauren had a strong distaste for all things antique or even secondhand. She could be a bit, well, let’s say…particularabout cleanliness. Even when she bought brand new items for her house, she had to run a disinfectant wipe over them.

Lauren was the kind of girl who had an immaculately clean house no matter what time of day or day of the week you dropped by. I’d once caught her sneaking out to the kitchen when she was sleeping over at my last apartment, and she claimed she couldn’t sleep because she knew there were dishes in my sink.

So, yeah, this store was her own personal version of hell.

It was a testament to how much this store had been taking over my life that she was venturing in just to spend a little time with me.

Lauren was the light to my dark features, all honey-blonde hair that was all hers. I’d doubted that when we’d dormed together in our first year of college, until I saw a family picture and found thatallof her family had blonde hair. Her eyes were a dark blue in a rounded, pretty face.

Our bodies were different too.

Where I was short and pretty average-sized, she was tall and leggy with thick thighs, hips, and big boobs she swore gave her a wicked neck ache daily. She would frequently claim she was going to chop them off someday—much to the outrage of any men in earshot.

She was dressed in jeans that I swear looked painted on, and a winter white sweater that cropped a bit toward the center, showing off just a hint of a belly roll.

“God, I forgot what clean looks and feels like,” I admitted as I looked at her. “I feel like this place has embedded itself in my skin.”

“Not to rub more metaphorical dirt in your wound, but youlooklike it has embedded itself into your skin,” she said, taking a long sip of her coffee.

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