“A young lady brought that in just the other day.” The shop owner’s voice sounded like sandpaper on a chalkboard. She took another puff of her cigarette.
“Said it was her graddaddy’s most prized possession.”
Jason ducked his head to avoid the pillar of smoke spewing from the old lady’s face. He turned the weathered photo album over in his hands. The cover was pale tortoiseshell, probably the real thing, considering its age.
On the front, set deep in a cutout rectangle, the words “Our Friends” were embossed in gold.
Jason squinted suspiciously at the antique dealer and opened the album again, just to make sure he hadn’t missed something.
“Really?” he asked as he leafed through a few of the thick pages. All were blank. “There aren’t even any photos in here.”
The wrinkled, painted face arched a pair of drawn-on eyebrows and shrugged.
“That’s the strange part,” she said. “The fella’s granddaughter said that he kept all his important pictures in that album. But when they went to clean out his stuff a week after he died, all the pictures were gone.”
“Really.” Jason’s tone was even more sardonic than he had intended.
The antique dealer shrugged her shoulders higher, and her eyes popped open wide.
“That was her story!” She took another drag, savored the hit. She added to the blue haze of her basement shop with, “Nothing else was missing.”
“Hmmm.” Jason closed the album, which was completely empty. He wasn’t buying the origin story, but there was something compelling about the book, nonetheless.
“Well, I have to get back to work,” he said. “I was just passing through on my lunch break and saw your sign. Never noticed it before.” He looked around at the dingy shelves packed full of baubles and trinkets. All of it was covered in a thick layer of dust. “How long have you been here?”
The old lady coughed and turned to shuffle off toward the front of the basement room, where her cash register stood. Jason couldn’t see her face, but he got the feeling she didn’t want to make eye contact.
“Oh, I’ve been here forever,” she said. “Do you want that album? I can let you have it for … say … three dollars. You know, since there are no photos.”
Three dollars! Jason had been sure the tall tale about the old man and his prized pictures had been a setup for a gouging.
“That’s not enough,” Jason said. “Surely it’s worth more than that.”
“Ah,” she waved a dismissive hand. “That’s my offer, take it or leave it.”
He nodded and smiled as he strode toward the checkout.
“OK. I’ll take it!” he said. He dug his wallet out of his pocket, wondering if the shop owner could even take credit cards. He was sure he didn’t have any cash.
Except, when he opened the billfold, three crisp one-dollar bills waved at him like old friends.
“Uh, is there tax?” he asked.
“That’ll be three dollars,” the chimney said as she punched a few buttons on the ancient cash register and it dinged open.
Jason nodded and handed her the bills.
“Thanks, hon,” she said. “Come back, you hear.”
“I will,” Jason said as he turned toward the stairs to climb up to the street above. He knew he wouldn’t be back.
As he took a step out onto the sidewalk, the old woman called behind him, “Have fun with your friends!” and closed with a cackle.
The outburst startled Jason, and he looked over his shoulder into the darkness below, but he couldn’t make out anything through the blue smoke and general dinginess.
In that moment of distraction, he lost his bearings and felt the air change of someone bustling along the sidewalk an instant too late. The passerby crashed into Jason’s right side, sending him stumbling sideways and the photo album tumbling to the pavement.
He snapped his head around just in time to meet the softest, most beautiful pair of deep brown eyes he’d ever seen.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” the young brunette said, gracing him with a rueful smile.
His bell rung, Jason shook his head, and parlayed that movement into a mea culpa.
“No, no,” he stammered. “It was my fault. I should look where I’m going.”
The stranger’s smile warmed a little more and she nodded before continuing on her way.
Jason watched her for a beat, then stooped to scoop up the album, which lay facedown, opened. He picked up the book and closed it, then gasped with realization.
He fumbled through the pages until the album was once again opened to its center pages, and his heart leapt into his throat.
There, in the middle of the left-hand page, a beautiful smile and warm, loving eyes beamed at him from within a frame of radiant chestnut hair.
He inhaled sharply and looked down the street, where the young stranger stopped suddenly and pivoted, returning his gaze, smiling. She waved, then continued on her way.
Positive he was imaging things, Jason rubbed his eyes with one hand, took a deep breath, and chanced another glance at the photo album.
The girl was still there.
And, on the opposite page, another photo — the girl, a baby boy … and Jason, one arm around the beauty’s shoulder, and the other cradling the child.
Jason shot a look to the entrance of the antique shop, but found only a brick wall. At its base lay a small clutch, tossed haphazardly and catty-cornered on the concrete.
As if, just maybe, its owner had bobbled it during a chance collision.