At Wick's End - Tim Myers [7]
I never know what to do in those situations. We had just met, so I couldn’t very well offer her an embrace unless she initiated it. Nor did I feel comfortable just standing there until she cried it out of her system. I finally settled for touching her shoulder lightly. “It’s probably too soon for you to be working,” I said. “Why don’t you go home and I’ll take care of the shop myself.”
She swabbed at her damp cheeks and said through the snuffles, “You must think I’m a fragile old woman, falling apart like this. I’m so sorry.”
“What I think is that you just lost a very dear friend,” I said gently.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Black,” as she touched my hand.
“It’s Harrison,” I said.
“Not Harry for short,” Eve said, trying to lighten the gloom in the air.
I smiled. “You can call me whatever you want to, but Harrison’s the only name I’ll answer to.”
She nodded. “Harrison it is.” As she wiped the last tear from her face, she said, “Why don’t we get started.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked, suddenly curious about this turnaround in her behavior.
“Why, I’m going to teach you all there is to know about making candles,” she said as she headed for the back room. “Give me a minute to get things set up. Just keep an eye on the front door. If anybody comes in, call me.”
I was standing by the display of books on candlemaking that we stocked, selecting a copy of each for my supplemental education, when the bell over the front door chimed.
An older woman walked into the store, draped in fur and the smell of money. “May I help you?” I asked, hoping she knew what she needed, since I wouldn’t have a clue to the answer of the most basic of questions.
“I’m here to see the proprietor,” she said airily.
“You’ve found him,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I was passing by and saw the wonderful display of candles you have here. I understand this is a place for instruction as well as purchasing, is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Very well, I’d like to learn to create my own candles. It’s always best to start at the beginning. After all, one must have a foundation in the basics before one’s imagination can take control. Are you free for instruction now? I have some time available.”
“I’m sorry, but my schedule’s pretty full at the moment,” I said. I wasn’t about to admit that the only thing I knew about candles was how to burn them. “However,” I added, “we’ve got a woman on staff here that is most adept at candlemaking, and I’m sure she would be glad to help you today.”
Her gaze tightened slightly. “What is your name, sir?”
I gave her my name, and she said, “Mr. Black, I work with proprietors, not with their staff.”
“I could try to work you in, but I’m not making any promises,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint and allow Eve to teach her.
The woman looked at me steadily for a few seconds that felt like days. “As I said, I expect the owner to assist me. I suggest you find the time for me. I trust you’ll be able to give me an hour on Thursday. Let’s say ten o’clock, shall we?” She handed me an elegantly printed card as she left. I hadn’t lied to her, but I wasn’t about to confess that I was the rankest amateur either.
Eve was standing in the wings. “Harrison, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re going to need to work on your people skills if you’re going to run At Wick’s End. That woman was ready to spend a fortune, and those customers are rare enough to be treated like royalty when they come in.”
I studied the card. Mrs. Henrietta Jorgenson was all it said, in raised letters that looked handcrafted. “Can you believe this? She actually gave me one of her calling cards.”
Eve asked for the card, and I handed it over. She said, “Mrs. Jorgenson! She’s a legend around here in the craft circles. Wilma Martin runs the needlepoint store in Three Corners. She told me one time Mrs. Jorgenson paid for her Alaskan cruise with two purchases