Vivaldi sputtered and trilled in the passenger seat, announcing to Barnaby Harris that his boss had decided to ignore all promise of leaving him alone on today of all days.
“Honestly, George,” Barnaby muttered, guiding his car down the heavy traffic of Main Street. Wafting flurries of snow muted brake lights and wobbled steering to and fro. “Give me a full day off and I can get my shopping done in one day instead of two half days!” He swerved as a brightly-colored shopper ducked out from under an awning to pelt across the street. “Everyone and their dad are out right now.” His cellphone buzzed again and he ignored it, fingers clenched around the steering wheel.
Up ahead, taillights cut through the snowfall. An orange arrow blinked on the left rear quarter of a car pulling out of a parking space ahead of Barnaby. “For what we are about to receive,” he mumbled, slamming on his right blinker. “We give thanks, Deus Viarum.”
As he guided his Honda into the spot, he yelped as a pair of headlights darted toward him. As if to punish him for his half-remembered Latin, a green sedan had attempted to cut across traffic and park the wrong way in the space he now occupied. The window rolled down and a shadowed head poked out; muffled curses and oaths filled the air but Barnaby shrank, shutting down his car and awkwardly clambering over the gearshift to exit via the passenger side. “Merry Christmas to you, too,” he grumbled.
The sound of shouting continued and Barnaby hunched his shoulders against it and the wind, drawing his purple and cream scarf closer around his neck and tweed hat farther down over his ears. He fumbled with gloved fingers in his pocket and managed to dump two dollars in change into the ivory drifts around the base of the parking meter. “Oh, for-” he crouched and scrabbled in the snow, but was only able to recover three quarters and a dime. “Well, that’s no problem!” he said aloud to himself with a wry smile. “I’m sure I can get in and out of three stores in half the time I planned!” He affected a German accent. “But it is Christmas, Theo; it is the time of miracles!”
“I beg your pardon?”
Barnaby started, whipping around to find a grey-haired lady glaring up at him. Shopping bags lined her arms and she was wrapped in rich, grey fur coat and hat. He recognized her at once from when his boss brought her to the fourth of July barbecue. In company of George’s superiors, the woman oozed obsequious pandering while managing to bestow left-handed compliments to George’s subordinates. “Mrs. Havlacof?” he stuttered.
George’s wife drew herself up in regal offendedness. “Yes, it is I,” she retorted. “And I suppose you think it is funny to imitate my husband for your own amusement, do you?”
“I, no, what-“
“Well, you can be sure I shall tell him of this. Then he might have something to say about rude employees and their future in his department!” She flounced off, bags swaying. Then she whirled and fixed him with a glare once again. “By the way, your scarf is caught in your tie pin.”
Barnaby dropped his gaze to his chest. The pin had worked loose and in his tucking his scarf against the chill, the sharp point had torn a springy length of thread from the pattern. He groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Terrific.” Taking a deep breath, he fixed on his salesman’s smile, and turned back. “I do apologize Mrs. Havlacof-“
She was already moving down the sidewalk again, grumbling to herself.
Mentally counting to ten, Barnaby placed the incident on the “Deal With Later” list and focused on the task at hand.
Next to the car, the window of Boris and Quimby beamed its name in gold letters, lit from within by flickering brass chandeliers. Barnaby remembered taking Eliza to the shop for the first time and a smile stretched his lips, aiding the unpleasantness of the present away. His daughter had been only four and goggled at the coziness and smartness of the shelves, even before discovering the confectionery section. The owner and his wife fell in love with her and insisted on filling a small shopping basket with tiny jars of jam, little cheeses, and other tasty morsels.
It was tradition for Eliza and Barnaby to visit every other Christmas Eve and pick out the next morning’s breakfast. On the off years, Barnaby went by himself to choose a few things for Eliza’s mother to put in her stocking.
Barnaby pulled open the tall glass door. The bell overhead was drowned in a hubbub of noise and clamor. He blanched. The line stretched from the counter, wound down every aisle and culminated at the very entrance itself. Customers squeezed past and jostled for position. There was no way he would be able to find anything for Eliza, pay for it, and return to his car before the meter ran out, much less visit the rest of the stores on the block for other gifts.
“Close the door!” snapped a man at the back of the line. He shifted his heavy-laden basket to his other elbow and made a shooing motion at Barnaby. “You’re letting in the cold air!”
Barnaby stared at the jar of Hormingway Best Raspberry Jam at the top of the man’s basket, then gazed at the shelf nearby where the Hormingway row was empty. Eliza’s stocking would be substantially flatter this year without the spread, to be sure. “Sorry,” he said and let the door fall shut without entering. A puff of wind drove snowflakes down his collar and he shivered once. Then danced and swore as the droplets managed to soak all the way down his back.
A mother and daughter shot him a shocked look as they passed and Barnaby sighed. He ducked down the alley between Boris and Quimby and the art gallery and thought hard out of the wind. He could pursue his other shopping for now and come back later, of course, but he might not be able to send Eliza’s gift in time. If he found something else – and it would have to be more than suitable to stand above her love for Boris and Quimby not to mention judgment by her mother’s family – he would be able ensure to delivery by Christmas.
“But what else?” Barnaby muttered to himself. He strode deeper into the alley, intent on reaching the book store on the opposite side of the block. “Something wonderful.” There were no fantasy books Eliza would not read nor listen to as he read aloud, no tales of princesses, dragons, elves, and the arcane to which she would not dedicate passionate listening. “Something magic.”
He stumbled in the alley, foot catching the edge of a stoop. He looked up. An emerald green door, set with a glass window, read SOME THINGS MAGIC in gold letters upon the pane. Pausing, he craned his neck to peer in.
Dickens would have painted the interior richly. A counter of burnished crimson wood held court amidst shelves crammed with odds and ends. The round, the oblong, the half-obscured by candle-flickered shadows, the oddly gleaming, the mysterious all rested within. And above. Barnaby turned his head to follow a wooden ladder’s steps up and saw that the second level boasted much of the like of the first.
Then he took a step back and gazed up at the roof.
The entire block featured nothing but one story buildings.
Author’s Note: This story was originally on Kindle Vella. With the winding down of Amazon’s attempt to bring back serials, I requested its removal and will release the first story arc chapters here. Reviews, comments, and feedback are welcome. Featured photo credit: Kathryn Anne Creations
Elk Writer 