Читать книгу A Year of Second Chances - Buffy Andrews - Страница 15

Chapter 7

I stood in the locker room in my cream-colored granny panties and black sports bra as Renee measured my biceps, waist, hips, bust and thigh areas.

“This will help us track your progress,” she said. “We’ll take photos, too. I usually recommend we use the client’s cell phone so they’re able to access the photos any time. It helps to see how far you’ve come when you’re struggling to continue.”

“Great idea!” I dug my cell phone out of my gym bag and handed it to her.

I stood still while Renee took several photos from different angles. “Remember, we start slow. In my experience, between weeks three and four you’ll feel like quitting. That’s when motivation usually wanes. Be aware of this so you can get through that tough time.”

“How’d you get through it?”

“I decided to reward myself by getting a mani-pedi after the sixth week. Believe me, there’ll be times when you don’t feel like exercising and you’ll have to remind yourself how good it makes you feel. If you can associate exercise with feeling good as a result of it, you’ll have a better chance of sticking with it. Habit is seventy-five percent of the challenge.”

I pulled on my gray workout tee and sweat pants. I knew Renee was right. I’d been down this road a time or two and always dropped out. I’d miss a day, then two, and suddenly a month would pass and I’d just give up. “I’ve never been so determined to succeed,” I told her.

Renee pumped her fist. “That’s the spirit. And if you slip once, don’t let it become an excuse not to exercise at all.”

“I made a promise to myself this time.”

Renee nodded. “The funny thing about promises we make to ourselves is that we somehow always negotiate. Think about it. If you made a promise to your daughter or son, you’d stick to it. But because it’s you it’s somehow different. You wouldn’t let important people counting on you down, so why do it to yourself?”

“Man, you’re tough.”

Renee patted my shoulder. “No, I’ve just been where you are lots of times and I’m trying to pass on my wisdom.”

Renee asked me what activity I enjoyed, explaining that if I chose something I liked I’d be more likely to stick with it.

“Back in the day I did aerobics and I used to like biking and running. But it’s been a while since I’ve done any of that.”

“How about starting out on the treadmill?” Renee said. I nodded and followed her up the stairs to the second floor. As I walked between rows of machines, treadmills on one side and elliptical trainers on the other, I felt out of place. Everyone seemed fit and I worried I’d stick out. I kept hearing that song Tory used to sing in preschool: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

I felt a dull ache in my stomach and it reminded me of the stomach pangs I used to get in grade school. Our gym teacher, Mr. Williams, would pick two people to be captains and they’d take turns picking who they wanted on their kickball team. I was always one of the last to be picked.

“You’ll be fine,” Renee said. “Believe me, no one is watching. They’re focused on their own workout.”

I sucked in a huge breath and exhaled. I knew she was right. I’d just had to keep telling myself that.

I stepped up onto the treadmill and Renee explained the controls. An hour later, I walked out of the gym feeling pretty good about myself. I knew I had a long way to go before I was capable of running a marathon, but I’d taken the first step.

On my way home, I passed by a skin-care clinic that was advertising twenty percent off of injectables. I ran my fingers over my lips. I’ve always hated my lips. They were too thin. I made a mental note to call the clinic and check out its prices. Maybe I’d treat myself to some filler as a reward for making it past the red-flag period, just as Renee rewarded herself with a mani-pedi.

When I got home, Muffin was at the door. I let her out and then showered. I had two hours before I had to meet the real-estate salesman downtown. I was meeting Ed at the property, but I wanted to get there ahead of time to check out the neighborhood. Walking a couple blocks in each direction would give me an idea of what the neighborhood was like.

I stood in front of the wooden storefront and imagined looking through a sepia-tinted lens, watching those who had shopped at what was once a TV store. The chestnut door with transom sash was sandwiched between two large display windows with wood bulkheads beneath. I gazed up, noticing the stone window hoods and decorative cornice molding at the top, below the roof.

“You must be Scarlett.”

I turned to see a handsome middle-aged man with dark hair wearing a black suit. “And you must be Ed.”

We shook hands and I waited for him to retrieve the key from the lockbox.

He opened the door. “She’s a beauty, that’s for sure. There aren’t many storefronts that look as nice as this one.”

“Has it been on the market long?”

“About five months,” Ed said.

The wood floor creaked as we walked inside and I felt as if I’d been transported back in time. Advertisements for vacuum tubes, record-player needles and TV antennas covered the walls. An old display case stood along the right wall.

Ed looked around. “Back in the day this was a busy place. I remember coming here with my dad to buy my mom sewing-machine needles. The owner, Gene Smith, opened the shop in the early fifties. He was a character.”

I smiled. “How so?”

“He was a bombardier on a B-29 Superfortress during World War II. Flew nearly twenty combat missions, including bombing Tokyo in 1945. He was a tough cookie but a softie when it came to kids.”

Ed saw an old red tin sitting on top of the glass counter and walked over. He picked up the dented tin and pried open the lid. “Old Gene always kept this tin filled with lollipops just for the kids. Even when times got tough and business slowed, he still kept the tin filled – just in case.”

I loved listening to Ed’s stories as he showed me the property. Turned out the owner had lived upstairs and never married.

“Do you think over-the-air TV will ever come back?”

Ed shook his head. “Not like it once was, that’s for sure. Most people watch shows over the Internet. But who knows? Vinyl records are becoming popular again. And there’s been a lot of cord cutting, people canceling their cable and satellite service because it’s so expensive.”

As I wandered from room to room, I saw potential, but also a boatload of work. And yet, it felt like home. The store, about a half block north of the square, was in the thick of the downtown revitalization, and I had a chance to be part of that. On one side was a renovated store that had once been a camera shop but now sold vintage clothing. On the other was a used book store that specialized in first editions.

I tried to visualize what my store would look like. I definitely wanted to keep its vintage charm, but perhaps I’d integrate some bright modern pieces to make it a place where past and present met. Whenever I thought about history, I felt sad I’d never known how it would turn out. I wondered if that was what Gene, who’d recently passed away, had felt. I liked the idea that I would write the next part of this store’s history, and I couldn’t help thinking Gene would be proud.

“So, what do you think?” Ed asked. “It’s a pretty cool place, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Yes, it’s beautiful. But it would take a lot of work and money to fix it up.”

“What are you thinking about putting in here?”

To be honest, I’ve always wanted to open a gift boutique, but I think there’s enough space that I could incorporate a coffee bar as well.”

Ed scanned the room one more time. “I could see that in this space. Do you have any investors?”

I shook my head. “I’d have to sell my home to be able to buy this. But I’m ready for some changes in my life.”

I could tell from the puzzled look on Ed’s face he was probably wondering what I meant, but I’d said more than I’d intended and bit my lower lip to keep myself from saying more.

I followed Ed outside and watched as he locked the door and put the key back in the lockbox. He handed me his card. “Call me if you want to chat. Obviously, I can sell your other property and have you in this one, hopefully by the fall.”

I nodded. “Thanks for showing it to me, Ed. And I’ll definitely be in touch. I have a lot to think about.”

A bell jingled as I opened the paneled door and walked inside the used book store adjacent to the property. A young twentysomething with a wisp of pink hair framing her heart-shaped face glanced up from behind the counter. “Hi. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

I shook my head. “Just browsing.” I walked through the store, crowded with wooden tables piled high with books. Shelves hugged every inch of wall space. A black book about two inches thick caught my attention. I walked over and picked it up. It felt like it weighed five pounds. I traced my finger over the title, written in gold ink: Eugenics.

I opened it and saw a 1904 copyright by the S. A. Mullikin Co. and started reading the introduction by Bishop Samuel Fallows. “Know thyself” were his first two words. Thumbing through the book I couldn’t help but smile. It’d been written more than a hundred years ago and contained advice on everything from how to be beautiful, to sensible courting, to diseases peculiar to men.

It was almost surreal, standing in the middle of this bookshop, filled with thousands of old books I’d never have time to read even if I wanted to. Just like the one I held in my hand, each book was locked in its own era. Bound and dated, tombs long-since forgotten.

And that’s when it hit me like one of David’s fastballs in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I’d come to the realization that the plot of my life didn’t make sense to me anymore. I wanted to rewrite it, to care less about things and live life a little more playfully. Like a beach ball that bobs about during a game of volleyball with brief encounters, I wanted a life that was buoyant and unexpected but always in play.

I wanted that store, and I bought the book as a reminder that, while I couldn’t know how history would turn out, I did have the power to write my own.