I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. “Some of Nanna’s jewelry. A few first edition books. And this.” I hold up a framed black-and-white print.
“Your grandmother’s Adam Reynolds!” He reaches for the photograph, his hands shaking with age and eagerness. I will myself to let go of the photo that has been in the landscape of my life for so long. A picture of a naked woman lying amid sweeping sand dunes. Light and shadows stark, flowing curves sensual. The woman is my grandmother, taken when she was in her twenties. She had an affinity for photography, bohemian artists, and getting naked back in the day. It was her kind of luck that she modeled—and possibly more—for Adam Reynolds, one of the most celebrated American photographers. He gave her a few prints over the years, but this was the first and most famous of the photographs from their collaboration.
“How much do you think it’s worth?” I swallow.
“This is way out of my league, my dear. But I do have a friend who might be able to appraise it and find a buyer if that’s what you truly want. He owns one of the best galleries in San Francisco.”
“Thank you. That would be great.” I smile, pretending not to care that I’m talking about selling my legacy. Bartering the last tangible threads that connect me to my family piece by piece.
While I busy myself by carefully stacking the jewelry and the books on the counter, Mr. Jensen evaluates each item for consignment and makes notes in a leather-bound ledger.
She would have wanted this, I remind myself. My grandmother would have wanted me to keep our home in our beloved neighborhood, even if it means selling a few things. She left the house for me, and it’s my job to make sure I keep it up and don’t lose it. The photograph could pay to fix the leaking roof. Or the iffy plumbing. Or make a dent in the taxes. If I’m really lucky, maybe all three.
Just a few weeks ago, I graduated with my master’s degree in creative writing, a process that took years longer than planned as I cared for Nanna through her long battle with cancer. All our savings had gone to medical bills.
Guilt stabs me. I probably should do the practical thing and take a job that pays better than working at a local bookstore. A former classmate offered me a position as a technical writer. If I took it, I could afford the upkeep on the house without selling my grandmother’s things.
But I think my soul would die writing software instructions all day, and I fear it would be the end of my dream of becoming a novelist. My job at the bookshop doesn’t pay much, but I love it. It gives me the time and mental space to write, and I’m surrounded by inspiration all day.
I don’t have to decide my future now, I remind myself. By selling the photo, I can buy more time to write and live the life I want.
This shop had been lucky for me in the past.
Five years ago, I sold a vintage typewriter.
In return, I got a pen pal, a best friend, and a hopeless crush.
It was as if this dusty store somehow knew I needed a little magic, so it brought me Remington.
Now, here I am again, needing another miracle.
Mr. Jensen’s eyes twinkle as he pulls an envelope from a drawer. “Did you think I forgot your birthday?”
“Thank you, Mr. Jensen,” I say, both embarrassed and touched. “But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“It’s not from me,” he says as he passes me a letter.
If it’s not from Mr. Jensen, it must be from Remington, which is a surprise since we haven’t exchanged an actual letter in years, but maybe he remembered my birthday and sent me a card. I look down at the envelope, and my breath catches.
“But—how? It’s from…” I trail off in confusion.
“Your grandmother gave this letter to me for safekeeping shortly before she passed. She wanted you to read it on your twenty-fifth birthday. I’d planned on visiting you later today, but you saved me the trip.”
I take the envelope with one hand, careful not to wrinkle it. With my free hand, I trail a reverent finger over Nanna’s elegant script, tracing the familiar loops and curls. A wave of longing to hear her voice cuts through me.
Grief is a funny thing. It’s not linear. I’ll be fine, just making my way through my day, and then a small detail that reminds me of her will grip my heart. Tasting her favorite tea. Hearing a beloved song on the radio. Seeing her familiar scrawl on an envelope.
“I can’t believe it,” I say, holding the letter tight to my heart. Part of me wants to tear it open now, to share this moment with Mr. Jensen. But another part wants to be alone when I do. I’m sure there will be tears. A fountain of them.
Mr. Jensen seems to sense my dilemma. “Open it at home, in the place your grandmother most loved,” he says. “Happy birthday, sweet Olivia.”
I say goodbye, push my way out the door in a daze, and walk the block back to my house in that lingering moment before dusk turns to twilight. Streetlamps flick on, while the last bit of light hangs stubbornly in the air.
When I get to the corner, I wait for the light to turn green and try to view my house across the street from a stranger’s perspective. What would they see? In the soft glow, the faded pink Victorian I grew up in looks like a genteel lady of a certain age, one who was once the toast of the town, but now has few prospects. Its pale-rose paint and white trim are dim and peeling, the steps sag to the left, and the large bay window in front is in need of a wash. It feels out of place now among the impeccably restored Victorians around it, a vibrant mix of family homes and locally-owned shops.
When I was young, Nanna made our house bright with laughter, a gathering place for her artist friends. They’d knock on our door at all hours, stumbling in, drunk on wine and life. She’d get to work, cooking a midnight feast. At some point, hearing the tinkle of glasses, the strain of music, I’d creep downstairs, hair in a braid, feet bare, pajamas on, and curl up in my favorite window seat in the living room, letting the voices and guitar strumming wash over me.
Now, it’s just me in the old, cluttered house echoing with too many memories. The elegant bar cart is always filled and ready, though no one comes for a party anymore. The pie cupboard with green glass and delicate china, the baskets and books, the collection of cameras and typewriters that line the built-in shelves. It’s all still there, minus the things I’ve had to sell.
I shake my head clear of the memories and cross the street.
My phone rings, and I dig into my bag as I reach my front steps. I look at the number. Despite my contemplative mood, I smile when I see it’s Daisy, my exuberant neighbor who adopted me as her friend years ago.
“Hey, Daisy,” I say into the phone.
“It’s your birthday, bitch. You better be out at the clubs already, having drinks and flirting with boys.”
“Um, it’s like you don’t even know me,” I say.
She snickers. “It’s your twenty-fifth birthday. You should be partying. Please don’t tell me you’re not going out?”
I don’t want to admit that I have no plans. That makes me sound way too lame. “How’s wine country?” I ask, changing the subject. Daisy owns the vintage clothing shop next door to my house and spends most of her weekends traveling to estate sales like the one she’s currently at.
“It’s amazing, Olivia.” Daisy lets out a dreamy sigh. “Mrs. Vanderpool has the closet of my dreams. Rare Pucci prints. Yves Saint Laurent dresses from the seventies. Everything is in perfect condition. I have online buyers just waiting. You know how my shop has been struggling? I think this might turn it around. But I’m so sorry to be missing your birthday.”
“It’s fine, Daisy. I’m a big girl.”
“What are you doing tonight? And don’t say staying home.”
“I’m going to stay home,” I admit.
She groans. “Olivia! Guys would fall all over you if you gave them a chance. I’d kill for your rocking curves and long black hair. You’ve got that Snow White thing going on, if Snow White only wore baggy jeans and oversize sweaters. So squeeze into something sexy and hit the town.”