Timeless

CHAPTER 2

A bby had taken the advice, and after grabbing herself a cup of coffee from the new place down the block, she’d decided to leave her car where she’d managed to find a spot and continue walking. Her writer’s block had been hitting hard as of late, and she wasn’t sure what had changed in her life to cause it. Always able to find a new idea and start typing it out, fleshing out the setting, plot, and characters along the way with relative ease, recently, she’d been staring at the dreaded blinking cursor, wondering if she’d ever be able to write another book.

After the success of her first one, the publisher, who had made a lot of money off her work, was ready for the next, and the one after that, since she’d stupidly signed a three-book deal. She only thought it was stupid now. When she’d signed, it had been amazing. Someone believed that her first book was good enough to not only buy that one but also two more that she hadn’t even written yet. But now that she was supposed to be delivering this second book to them, she wished she’d signed a one-book deal and had taken the time to write her follow-up first before promising it to anyone.

She knew the reason she’d been struggling, if she really thought about it hard enough. It was the fact that the first book was successful. People had been calling her the next big thing as an author and had compared her to a few of the greats. That was enough to go to anyone’s head, but in her case, it hadn’t brought out her ego; it had brought out her impostor syndrome. How was her sophomore novel supposed to compare? She’d only had the one idea and had taken a few years to get that book out. Now, her publisher wanted the next two in two years because that was the best way to capitalize on the success of the first one.

Speaking of that success, it had gotten to be a little too much for her. Never wanting to be a famous author anyway, she’d retreated back to this small town from a suburb of Los Angeles the previous year. LA had been her dream once, and she’d felt accomplished when she’d made the move there after college, but being in that city, surrounded by famous people and with a publisher asking her to go to in-person events and meet with studio execs who were interested in optioning her book, had her anxiety going through the roof. It was only then that she’d changed her mind about living in LA forever and had turned right around and moved back home.

She’d wanted to get out of the world’s smallest town every single day when she’d been growing up, but a few years ago – if she had to say for sure, it would be about five years or so ago – she started to feel this longing, this pull back toward the place she’d once wanted to flee the first second she could. She hadn’t returned right away, but the pull had been getting stronger and stronger, and when she’d finally made the move, she’d brought the money that she’d made off her book and the advance for the next one with her. She hadn’t so much gone house-shopping as she’d found a small ranch with two bedrooms online and had asked her parents, who still lived in the area, to check it out for her. Her dad, a former-farmer-turned-contractor with his own business, had given it an all-clear, while her mom, a homemaker, had told her how it would be a great starter home and how it had a solid kitchen. She’d bought it sight unseen and had spent most days holed up in her office, which she’d turned the second bedroom into.

Lectures from both of her parents were now a weekly occurrence. Her mother wanted her to get out to get fresh air. Her dad thought she should have other hobbies outside of writing, which was what he considered her career to be. He didn’t mean it in a bad way. He just didn’t understand it. Her mom had suggested that she at least start taking walks, and Abby had done so. Her walks usually lasted about an hour, and she stayed around her neighborhood. She hadn’t really met many of her neighbors, but she liked their dogs, which always sniffed her and asked for attention as they walked past on their leashes. She was sure their owners were fine, too .

Her initial plan had been to get a dog herself because that would’ve given her another reason to take walks as well as have someone at home so she didn’t feel so lonely, but a dog would need her focus and attention, and right now, she had a book to write. So, she’d tabled that idea until after at least book number two was with the editor, and her mother had then suggested that she not only take walks around her neighborhood but also go into town to check out all of the changes.

“This place is really growing,” her mother had said at dinner one night. “You should stop by and get a coffee, take a walk down the street, and maybe stop into some of the shops.”

“I don’t need to buy anything. I buy everything I need online, Mom. They deliver it to my door. All I have to do is unpack it.”

“And that is unhealthy,” her mother had replied. “If you don’t leave your house, how will you ever make friends or find someone to share your life with?”

‘This again , ’ Abby had thought to herself.

She was in her late twenties now, and ever since coming back to her hometown, her mom had been concerned that she would die an old spinster with six cats and no one to take care of her when she was old. Of course, it didn’t matter that Abby didn’t want kids, for taking-care-of-her-when-old purposes or otherwise, or that she was a dog person more than a cat one. Her mother had had children and took care of the house, and that was supposed to be Abby’s path, too, her future: pregnant three times, like her mother, grandchildren for the woman to spoil, and a home-cooked meal on the table every night for those three kids and a husband.

Her mother still hadn’t adjusted to the fact that none of that was going to happen and that writing was an actual job. Just because Abby sat behind her desk at home all day didn’t mean she had copious amount of free time to dedicate to a family she didn’t want. Her mom was the kind of woman who was always busy, and her life worked for her . She was cooking, cleaning, working for the church as a volunteer, going to bingo, playing cards with her friends, and getting a little too involved in the lives of her three kids. Still, Abby decided that if she took the woman’s advice at least once to get herself a coffee and walk downtown, if it could even be called that, she could go home, tell her mother that she did the thing, and let that be the end of it.

After passing by a few shops she wasn’t interested in, she considered turning back because her mom didn’t say how long she had to walk for, but something kept propelling her forward, and a strange sense of calm came over her the longer she walked. The streets also weren’t that busy, not like they’d been in New York on her last trip for a book event. She’d barely been able to get two feet without someone’s shoulder ramming into her own there, but this , Abby could handle. This was just three or four people on their way wherever they were going, nodding their hellos as they walked past and around her without shoulder-checking her. This was actually kind of nice.

Not long after discovering that she didn’t mind walking on this street, she came to a stop in front of a shop, not sure what had her stopping there. It was just an old antique shop that both looked like it fit here and also like it was somehow out of time. Abby took a drink of her far-too-bitter coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash can on the sidewalk. At least, she could already tell her mother that she’d never go back there because the coffee was just terrible, but maybe she could also tell her that she went into an antique shop and looked around. Surely, that would give them something to discuss that wasn’t her lack of a love life or friends.

When she touched the door handle, something stopped her in her tracks. It must have been the wind because it felt like she was about to be bowled over, and no one was near her to have had given her one of those New York shoulder shoves. She shook herself out of it, pulled open the door, heard bells clanging, and walked inside.

It was a small shop with two thin tables on either side of an open path from the door straight to the counter. There was carpet by the door, but the tile that had seen better days lay ahead. On her right, there were two large china display cabinets. Abby didn’t know if that was their official name, but her parents had their wedding china in one like them at home. There were various dishes in them, possibly worth real money, but likely not much. In front of them, there were a few more pieces of furniture with large, khaki-colored tags hanging from them, indicating their price and possibly the details of their origin that she couldn’t make out from that far. Then, on the tops of that furniture, there were random items, like clocks, candle holders – really, all sorts of odds and ends that had once belonged to someone – and she shivered a little at that thought.

It was a good shiver, though. Each item in this place probably had a story to tell, and that had given her an idea. Abby turned to the left to see what might be over there and found it to be in somewhat the same organizational pattern: large furniture items against the wall, some smaller ones acting as an aisle separator, if they could even be called aisles, and random items all over the place.

“Hello.”

“Jesus!” she yelped and looked up, startled.

“Oh, sorry,” the woman said. “I saw you come in.”

Abby pressed her hand to her chest, but not from the startled feeling. The woman in front of her had a wide smile. She also had long blonde hair, which was in a braid over her shoulder, and the brightest blue eyes that Abby had ever seen.

“I’m the owner,” the woman added. “Can I help you find something?”

“Abby.”

“Sorry?” the shop owner said.

Abby wasn’t sure why she’d just blurted her name out like that – it wasn’t something she’d ever done before – but there was something in her that wanted this woman to know her name, and she hadn’t been able to control her word vomit.

“My name,” she explained. “It’s Abby. Abigail, actually. Abigail Brennon.”

“Quinn Jordan. But, sometimes, people call me Liz. ”

“Liz? Why?” she asked, curious now.

“It’s my middle name. My parents fought over giving me a more modern or more traditional first name, so I got Quinn Elizabeth. My mom won with Quinn. My dad got Elizabeth for my middle name, which he took from his own mother. I do not know why I’m telling you all this, though.” She laughed.

Abby wanted to bottle that laugh to be able to pull it out on a day when she needed to hear something sweet so that she could smile at it, put the lid back on, and listen to it again the following day. She actually had to look away from Quinn’s face then because the pull toward her was too strong, which was another thing she hadn’t experienced before, and she couldn’t exactly just walk behind the counter of this shop and kiss this woman named Quinn Elizabeth. She was pretty sure she’d get arrested if she tried that. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about it.

She had no idea what was happening. She’d never been instantly attracted to a woman like this before. She’d never thought about bottling a laugh. Who thought about stuff like that? For a second, she wondered if she could use that phrase in her second book, but then, she realized that she had to refocus because Quinn was still staring at her with that beautiful smile and kind-looking, soft eyes.

“Well, my name is Abigail Foster Brennon, so there’s that.”

“Foster?”

“My mom’s maiden name. They went that route instead of naming me after another relative. I guess I was named after all of her relatives in a way, though, huh?”

“I guess so,” Quinn replied, still smiling at her. “So, what brings you into my shop today?”

Abby was a little disappointed that Quinn seemed to want to get down to business because she could’ve stood there for a while, just talking about names and what they meant or who they came from, if it meant that they could keep talking, but business would still allow them to talk, so she went with it .

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

“Oh,” Quinn let out, sounding a little disappointed, or maybe Abby was reading into that, and it was only confusion. “Okay. Well, you can have a look around, or I can show you a few things you might be interested in if you give me some ideas of stuff you might like.”

“I don’t know what I might like.”

“Um… Okay. I guess just look around, if you want. I was packing an order in the back, so I should probably finish that. If you decide to buy anything, just yell or ring the bell, and I’ll come back up.”

“Oh,” Abby said this time.

She didn’t want Quinn to leave just yet. She turned her head to the left and found a box on top of one of the thin tables lining the path to the counter. Inside it, there were photos, and there was one in the very front that caught her eye. It was a picture of a newly married couple. They were in their dress and suit, standing on a front porch. They weren’t exactly smiling. It was more like they were posing seriously for their wedding photo. Next to the woman, though, and not entirely in the camera’s frame but visible enough at the edge of the image, was another woman who was probably the maid of honor or something because she, too, was in a dress and holding a small bouquet of flowers. She wasn’t smiling, either. In fact, she looked pained. Those two people getting married pained her somehow.

Abby had no way of knowing if that was true, but there was something else about that photo. She didn’t know what it was, but there was something familiar about it to her. If she had to guess, it was from the 1930s or 40s, maybe. She’d done a lot of research on that time period for her first book, so she felt like she was probably right. Of course, most of that research hadn’t actually ended up in the book, but it hadn’t been a complete waste of time, either, because right now, she was thinking about using it in her next book, which she’d just finally gotten the idea for.

“Can I buy this?” she asked, holding up the picture .

Quinn looked a little shocked or surprised, maybe, and Abby wanted to ask her to define that facial expression. She found herself wanting to know all of Quinn’s expressions, but just asking for something like that seemed a little personal for knowing the woman for about a minute and a half.

“Uh… You want that ?”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “How much is it?” Abby turned the picture over. “Only a quarter? Haven’t seen anything for a quarter in a long time. I don’t have any cash on me, though, and I don’t imagine you want to run a credit card for twenty-five cents.”

“You can just take it, if you want,” Quinn replied.

“No, I want to buy it.”

“It’s not worth me ringing it up.”

“Can I buy–”

The phone rang when Abby was about to ask if she could buy something else to make it worth Quinn ringing her up, which would’ve given them another few minutes of conversation, at least.

“Sorry, I’m the only one here. I need to take that,” Quinn told her. “But you can take it if you come back and maybe tell me why you wanted it.” She held her hand over the phone, letting it hover there as if waiting for Abby to answer before picking it up.

“Um… Okay. Yeah, I can do that,” she replied.

“Great. I’ll… see you then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirmed.

Having heard her response, Quinn went to pick up the ringing phone and said, “ Jordan Antiques .”

Abby looked down at the photo in her hand once more, met Quinn’s eyes right after, gave her a smile, got a sweet one back, and turned to go. While she very much wanted to stay, shop a little more, and wait for Quinn to get off that phone, she needed to get home quickly because the idea was coming to her, and if she didn’t get it written down soon, she’d lose the thread.