If a hesitant customer wanted to know how old something was, Pierre always muttered something like “turn of the century.” It wasn’t technically a lie, since he never said what century.
One look at my latest creation, and Pierre slapped my shoulder and delivered his favorite words of praise. “What can I say? GH, you’re a class act!” Sure. A class act at fraud. But he was careful to leave that last part out, and I was grateful for the omission. I did feel an occasional pang of guilt when I would have dinner at La Mère Denise and hear Denise herself bragging about the “authentic touch” her newly acquired antique bookcase added to the restaurant. Given that she had bought her bookcase from Pierre, I knew it was about as authentic as a three-dollar bill.
Pierre would swear up and down with good cheer and utter sincerity that his scam benefited all parties involved, customers included. Every time I objected to his methods, he’d use his favorite catchphrase: “I’m a dealer of dreams, and dreams are ageless.” I’ve known Pierre forever. I used to walk past his store every day as a snot-nosed kid on the way home from school. I always thought he might have had a thing for my mother. He always complimented her on her clothes or her new haircut, and his wife always gave him the stink-eye whenever Mom and I crossed paths with them in town. Old Pierre helped get my carpentry business off the ground—he was the very first person to entrust me with a commission for a piece. I couldn’t have been more grateful.
“What’s got you all grumpy today?” he asked, looking me over.
“It’s that damn chest. It took a couple of sleepless nights to get it done.”
“Right! The chest, of course. How about telling me what really happened? You get in a spat with that blonde of yours?”
“I wish. I’ve been having a bit of a dry spell since Melanie left.”
“Don’t worry about it. She wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed anyway, truth be told. So, it’s business and not romance that’s got you down . . . What, are you broke? I know we didn’t have the greatest season this year. If you’re hard up, I can commission a set of table and chairs. I’m sure I can manage to sell them before the end of winter. What am I talking about? I can do better. How about you make me a pair of antique sleds, like seriously old ones? I found mock-ups for these hundred-year-old models. We’ll make a killing at Christmas, no doubt about it!”
Pierre hurried off giddily to the back and returned with a book that he beckoned me to look over. His sleigh mock-ups dated back to the nineteenth century. I could tell at a glance it would be a lot more work than he thought. But I humored the man, taking the book with me and promising to take a closer look.
“GH, I’ve known you since you were just a wee little tyke. So, how about you quit messing around and tell me what’s got you down?”
I tried to avoid his eyes and moved toward the door, but he was right. Pierre knew me far too well, and I just couldn’t lie to him.
“I got a . . . funny little letter in the mail, Pierre.”
“Couldn’t be that funny, if it’s got you all twisted up in knots. Come on, let’s get out of here. You can tell me about it over a hot meal.”
Seated at La Mère Denise, I read the letter to Pierre.
“Who sent it? Sounds like one hell of a busybody,” he said.
“No clue. See for yourself, it’s unsigned.”
“Well, whoever it is, they sure put a lot of funny ideas in your head.”
“You know, I’m just so sick and tired of secrets, and things ‘better left unsaid’! I just want to know who my father is, once and for all.”
“If he wanted to meet you, GH, don’t you think he would have come? After all these years . . .”
“It’s not that simple. I went to see Mom.”
“Ah, yikes. As bad as ever, I take it?”
“She comes and goes, it never gets any easier. But she told me something—confessed something—that I can’t stop thinking about.”
I let Pierre in on what my mother had said back at the home.
“And she was in her right mind when she said that?”
“Certainly seemed to be.”