Old Fashioned
320
Old Fashioned
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781414379333 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tyndale House Publishers |
| Publication date: | 01/01/2015 |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.80(d) |
About the Author
Rene Gutteridge is the author of twenty-two novels, including Misery Loves Company, Heart of the Country, and Greetings from the Flipside. She is also a screenwriter and is releasing her first feature film, Skid, in 2014. She lives with her musician husband, Sean, and their children in Oklahoma. Visit her website at www.renegutteridge.com. Rik Swartzwelder is a writer-director-producer whose films have screened at over 145 film festivals worldwide and garnered over 50 major awards, including a Crystal Heart Award, a CINE Special Jury Award, and the Sprint/PCS Filmmaker of the Future Award.
Read an Excerpt
Old Fashioned
Chivalry Makes a Comeback
By RENE GUTTERIDGE, Rik Swartzwelder, Sarah Mason
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2014 Old is New, LLCAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4143-7933-3
CHAPTER 1
HIS DAY STARTED OUT quiet and ordinary, the way he liked and assured himself of. The morning light of early autumn rose in the east and filtered through the old, cracked windows of the antique shop, carrying with it smells of dust and wood shavings and varnish.
Every morning for nine years, before the sun fully slipped from its covers, Clay had unlocked the old shop. The store was tidy and presentable, like a perfectly tailored suit, showcasing the uniqueness of all the antiques. Everything, as it always did, had its place.
This morning he stood in the midst of them, carefully surveying the room and inventorying what he might need to acquire this week. Some items he found at estate sales. Others, the more unique pieces, George brought his way. Most needed, at the very least, a good buffing; typically they needed much more. They came to him as trash. But with hard work—tried-and-true elbow grease—there was rarely anything that couldn't be restored. There was no magic in it, but sometimes when he was finished, it felt otherworldly. A piece would arrive at his doorstep hopeless and pathetic and leave him one day treasured and beautiful.
Wax did wonders. So did sandpaper. And paint.
But the truth was, not everything could be fixed.
It was this early part of the morning that he loved so much, before the busyness of the day began. At the back part of the shop, through the swinging doors, was his little slice of heaven, where the smell of sawdust stirred in him a delight he'd never been able to fully explain to another soul.
Clay set his keys and coffee mug aside, keeping the front lights off because Mrs. Hartnett had a bad habit of dropping by before the crack of dawn if she saw a light on. He knelt beside the small rocker he'd been working on the last several days. An elderly man had dropped it off, hardly saying a word, paying for it in advance even though Clay insisted he didn't need to do that.
"What's your story?" he murmured, his fingers gliding over the now-smooth wood. The chair was a hard-bitten thing when it came in, chipped and cracked and neglected, smelling vaguely of smoke. Whenever he worked on an old piece of furniture—or anything else, for that matter—he found his mind wandering to possibilities of where it once came from and how it had gotten to where it was now. Most pieces had spent dark days in attics and basements and back rooms that never heard footsteps. Somewhere in their lives, they'd served a good purpose. The lucky ones stayed in the house but sat invisibly in a corner or by a couch, an annoying place to have to dust, a thorn in the side of someone who wished it could be thrown away, except for the guilt attached because it belonged to a great-grandmother who'd spent her very last pennies to acquire it, or some such story.
Yesterday he'd cut and whittled the rocker's new back pieces and today he would stain them. Clay grabbed the sandpaper and walked to the table saw where the slats waited, lined up like soldiers. As he ran the sandpaper across the wood, he could practically hear the creak of the rocker and the laughter of delighted children in another century.
He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and sanded more quickly. Sometimes he thought he'd been born in the wrong century. There was hardly a kid today who would care about sitting in a rocker on the edge of a porch and watching a spring storm blow in. The world that he once thrived in had become a noisy, clangoring, messy place. But here, in the shop, with sawdust spilling through shafts of dusty light, he found his peace.
The sandpaper soon needed replacing, so he went to the corner of the room where he kept his supplies and reached for a new package. Then he snapped his wrist back at the sudden and sharp pain in his hand. It hurt like a snake had bitten him. Blood dripped steadily from the top of his hand and he cupped his other hand beneath, trying to catch the droplets.
Clay searched the corner, trying to figure out what had snagged him.
There, on the old wooden gate he'd found in an abandoned field: barbed wire. The back side of the gate was wrapped in it when he'd found it, and he hadn't had time to cut it off yet. He looked at the wound as he walked to the sink. It was bleeding so fast that it was actually seeping through his fingers, dripping on the floor.
What a mess.
He ran it under the water. It was more of a puncture wound but mightier than it looked. The blood poured, mixing with the water. And it didn't want to stop, even for the phone.
The shrill ring cut through the still air, coming from the rotary phone he had mounted on the wall next to the sink. Keeping his wounded hand under running water, he answered it.
"Old Fashioned Antiques."
"It's me."
"Lisa. Hi. I'm kind of—"
"I know, I know. Busy. As you always are. Why don't you answer your cell? Do you even carry it with you? Don't you text? People need to get ahold of you sometimes, you know. What if it's an emergency? What about that kind aunt of yours?"
"She finds me through the postal service."
"Anyway, I need to drop off the stuff for the thing."
"Okay."
"Are you going to be there this morning? Silly question. Where else would you be?"
"The hospital."
"What?"
"I might be. You never know. Maybe I got tangled in some vicious barbed wire. I might be bleeding out even as we speak, and here you are completely oblivious."
Lisa sighed. She never got his humor. "I'm being serious. Can I bring it by?"
In the background, Clay could hear Lisa's daughter, Cosie, screaming at the top of her lungs. "She okay?"
"She's throwing a fit."
"So she's in time-out?"
"You know we don't believe in punishment."
"I know. I just keep thinking you'll change your mind about that."
"So I'm coming by later, okay? And remember, this is a total surprise. Not a single word to David about it."
"I'll make you a deal: I won't tell David if I don't have to come to the party."
"Clay, he would be crushed."
"You know I'm just there to boost your numbers, fill in the empty space."
"True. But you're still coming. And not a word. I'll see you later."
She hung up and Clay raised his hand toward the light. It had finally stopped bleeding. He put a Band-Aid on and started mopping up the blood droplets all over the floor.
It was a lesson every person learned one time or another in their lives—never cross paths with barbed wire.
* * *
"Look at that, would you? Look at it!" Amber let go of the steering wheel with both hands and put her knee underneath to keep it steady. She gestured, glancing at Mr. Joe. "Nobody gets this. I realize that. I do. But see how the road winds, and then off it goes, through the trees? You don't really know what's around the bend, see?"
Amber put her hands back on the steering wheel, then gave Mr. Joe a quick scratch behind the ears. She'd temporarily let him out of his carrier, though he tended to get carsick if left out too long. "You're unimpressed, as usual. But there's something beautiful about roads. They're so full of possibilities.... Of course, you can always die in a horrific crash, too. But mostly, it's just about going somewhere. Anywhere. It's about what's around that bend, Mr. Joe. What's there?"
Amber's Jeep whizzed around the curve, clearing the trees as the road straightened. Her windows were down, the wind tearing through her hair so fiercely that it was going to take a good hour to comb it out, but she didn't care. She turned the music up. "Lovely Day" was on the radio, and she nudged her cat like he might sing along with her.
Then she saw it. "Whoa." She slowed and craned her neck out the window for a better view. "Mr. Joe, look at that!" Large stone buildings seemed to rise right out of the earth, sprawled across several acres. White concrete sidewalks disappeared into rolling hills and hazy light illuminated the branches of all the trees, like a scene out of some kind of fairy tale. The entrance read Bolivar University, but it looked like medieval England.
She leaned toward Mr. Joe and gave him a wink. "Apparently we've stumbled across Camelot. I told you I knew what I was doing when we hung a left back there."
Mr. Joe meowed in agreement.
As she drove on, Amber squeezed the fingers on her right hand. Her wrist was starting to throb, probably due to the cast more than the injury. It should've healed up fine by now. On the top of the cast was Misty's name, scrawled in red with little hearts.
She focused her attention back on the road. She couldn't spend emotional energy missing those friends left behind. But as she passed Camelot, she had to admit, it was always hard not to glance in the rearview mirror.
Still, she had to be resolved to press forward, find whatever was around the bend. She kissed Misty's name and left it at that.
This was beautiful country, and having spent much of her life on the road, she knew it when she saw it. Amber gazed at the trees. Some of the leaves were starting to turn that fiery-red color she loved so much. Soon, a cool wind would sift through them, lifting them into the air and then cradling them to the ground.
Ahead, a sign said, "Welcome to Tuscarawas County." How did you even pronounce that?
The speed limit indicated she should be going much slower, so she let off the gas. The last thing she needed was a ticket, and small college towns were notorious for planting police officers everywhere. It was probably how they made half their annual budget. Past the university by only a mile was the beginning of the town attached to it. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She was probably somewhere near Amish country too. She'd have to look at her map at some point, but her best guess was she was in eastern Ohio.
"Charming little place ... like old-Coca-Cola-sign charming."
The car lurched and lurched again, throwing Mr. Joe off-balance. His ears flattened. Then the engine sputtered and gurgled. Amber smiled but kept driving.
She made it through the town square, going less than twenty-five miles an hour, in ten minutes. A small gas station ahead had a flat, yellow carport extending over only two gas pumps. It looked like it had been built sometime in the 1950s and seemed to be the last stop before the road stretched ahead and turned out of sight.
She deliberately drove on by, her gas light glowing yellow.
Then the engine died. With the momentum she had left, she pulled to the side of the road and let go of the steering wheel. The gas station was a five-minute walk behind her, no more.
Mr. Joe was purring again, wrapping his body around the empty glass jar he shared the seat with. Amber took the keys out of the ignition and relaxed into her seat just a bit. The temperature was so perfect. It reminded her of Monterey in April. The sky, bright and blue, was totally cloudless.
"What do you think, Mr. Joe? Home?"
The cat blinked slowly like he was fighting a nap. Amber got out and looked around. The trees were still lush and dense, so she couldn't see far.
At the back of her Jeep, she opened the hatch, careful not to let everything spill onto the ground. Boxes of clothes, gently packed dishes, bins full of photographs. And on top of it all sat a huge bulletin board, the colorful pushpins she'd bought somewhere in Michigan still stuck into the cork. It amazed her that her whole life could fit into the trunk of a car. She grabbed her purse from under her travel bag, found her red plastic gas can, and closed the hatch.
Through the open passenger window, she picked up Mr. Joe and put him in his carrier. "All right. You know what to do. Don't be afraid to bare your fangs if you need to. Try not to look so sweet, okay? That's not going to keep anyone away."
As she walked toward the gas station, Amber tried to take it all in. She didn't see any stoplights. She liked towns that were more partial to stop signs. The buildings had character but also had an air of vacancy to them. Over the tree line, puffs of factory smoke rose like ascending, transparent jellyfish. Toward the east and across a small field was an area that looked a little more developed, with some houses and restaurants, as best she could tell.
At the gas station's convenience store, a bell announced her arrival. It smelled like coffee and motor oil with vague hints of diesel. The man behind the counter wore a stained blue mechanic's jumpsuit with a patch that read Larry. He smiled pleasantly, setting down his newspaper. "What can I do you for, young lady?"
Amber put a five-dollar bill on the table. "Just need some gas."
"Five dollars ain't gonna get you very far," he said. "There ain't another town—gas station either, for that matter—for sixty-seven miles."
"I'm staying here for the moment."
Larry grinned. "Is that so? Well, welcome. We got a great catfish place—serves it up all you can eat—just around the corner there."
"Sounds fantastic. I'm looking to rent a small apartment."
Larry pointed to a stack of newspapers by the door. "That's our little publication round here. It's got a section for renters."
"Thank you." Amber grabbed the paper and walked outside to fill her gas can.
When she returned to her car, Mr. Joe's face was pressed up against the wires of his cage, his unblinking eyes staring her down for leaving him behind. She popped the gas tank open and stuck the gas can's nozzle in. Then she spread the newspaper across the hood of her car.
She had two criteria—cheap and furnished. "All right, boy. We're gonna go see if we've got a place to sleep tonight."
* * *
"There you go—good as new," Clay said, rocking the chair back and forth. "Well, maybe not as good, but look, you've been through a lot. I've given you a pretty good face-lift. Let's face it: you're never going to be twenty again. But ninety is the new forty."
Clay stepped back. The varnish would need twenty-four hours to dry, but it looked really nice. He checked his watch. Ten minutes until time to open. He sighed, sipped his coffee, and drew stick figures in the sawdust with a scrap piece of wood.
Sometimes he attributed it to caffeine jitters, but other times he knew it was nothing of the sort. There was a restlessness scratching him from the inside. Not even a quiet workday in the back of the shop cured it. He worked hard to be content, happy even, where he was in this world, making a simple living and being a simple man. It was, however, the slightest tickle of discontentment that edged him into unwanted thoughts about the state of his life.
The quiet of the shop that usually tamped the needling hum of his thoughts was suddenly undone by ... blaring music? That was nothing new in this town but unusual near the town square. The college kids were more likely to go down the strip, where the bars and restaurants were. At night. Clay checked his watch again. It wasn't even 9 a.m. Who would be blaring their music at this hour?
The bass rattled the more delicate items sitting around the shop. The little figurines that usually stood perfectly still, frozen in their poses, looked to be dancing ever so slightly.
Then, as if it had been blown away by a breeze, the music stopped.
Clay lifted the rocker, carefully placing his hand underneath it to avoid the new varnish. He wanted to put a few screws in the bottom to make sure it was secure, but he could do that at the front of the store, where he needed to be during store hours.
He was headed for the front counter when he saw her. She didn't notice him at first. She was browsing, her fingers delicately brushing over a lamp, a frame, and then a pile of old books. Her attention moved to the hand-crank phonograph that he'd estimated to be over ninety years old. She stood for a moment looking at its detail, and he stood for a moment noticing hers—curly brown hair, a little wild, like she'd just blown in with a tumbleweed. Bright, playful eyes. Beside the phonograph, in a square, woven basket, he kept two dozen 45 rpm EPs, sometimes more if he hit a good garage sale. Her fingers walked the tops of them, flipping them one by one, before she slipped one out of its black cover and gently guided it onto the turntable, then gave it a crank or two. It came to life, warbling and slow at first, but then a light and pretty piano solo began to play. Dave Brubeck, easy to spot for his unusual time signatures.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Old Fashioned by RENE GUTTERIDGE, Rik Swartzwelder, Sarah Mason. Copyright © 2014 Old is New, LLC. Excerpted by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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What People are Saying About This
We live in a world where adultery is rampant and lust is exalted. It’s time for a new outlook on romance! Refreshingly quirky with a compelling plot, Old Fashioned is a divinely romantic tale of two hurting souls that discover a not so new but spectacular way of pursuing love.