Promise of Safekeeping : A Novel (9781101553954) by Lisa Dale Read Free Book Online

wheeled in a cigarette vending machine that, far as Arlen could tell, had no hope of being useful again except for target practice. But Will had whooped and smiled like it was Christmas day over the thing, even as flakes of rust were falling from it like snow.
    Now, Arlen stood in the shop. Will had put him in charge—walking out the door even while Arlen argued. “Back in twenty,” he’d said.
    That had been an hour ago. But luckily, nobody had come in. Arlen was alone with empty fish tanks and costume jewelry and pull-string dolls. Over the counter, Will had hung a sign: Work Is for People Who Don’t Collect Antiques.
    Arlen wondered: What did Will see in all this junk—this stuff that smelled so bad, coated in dirt and rust? He’d thought Will had meant to get all rich and upstanding when he grew up. Instead, he collected old crap.
    He noticed, for the first time, a shelf within eyesight of the office and a sign that had curled in at the edges:
    NOT FOR SALE .
AND NO, YOU CAN’T TALK ME DOWN .
    Arlen peered closer. A cast-iron dog. Tickets to a Redskins game. Keys and a replica Ford truck. Will’s old Ford. And a whistle that Arlen himself had whittled one day with his very own hands.
    He stepped back.
    These were Will’s things. His personal things. Arlen reached out, thinking of what it would be like to hold that old whistle—he could remember sitting on his mother’s porch when he’d made it, stopping now and again to watch the sky change and the robins peck at the dirt. But then something dark twisted around in his belly and stopped him from picking it up.
    “Hellooo?”
    He jumped clear out of his skin. He hadn’t heard the front door open.
    A customer.
    He pulled his shoulders back and walked slowly, slowly to the front of the store, all his senses alert and his brain screaming and telling him to just slink away before anyone knew he was there. He emerged from behind a tall bookcase, and there in the middle ofthe entryway, standing and looking befuddled, was a middle-aged white woman. Her shin-length skirt was printed with tiny green and white flowers, and her blouse was buttoned down over giant breasts. She wore an old visor over her tufts of coppery hair.
    “Oh, there you are,” she said.
    Arlen managed to nod. He couldn’t get enough air.
    The woman tipped her head and smiled. “Hot enough for you?”
    He tried to speak, but the words got stuck, so he made a sound to show he agreed.
    “Well, then,” the woman said, clasping a shiny red purse before her in two hands. “It’s my husband’s birthday next week and he collects bottles. The little blue ones. I’m wondering if you have any.”
    Arlen didn’t have to think long about the answer. He’d seen a few blue bottles on a shelf in the middle of the heap that was Will’s store. He gestured for the woman to follow him. And to his surprise, she did. No hesitating because he was leading her back into the maze of junk, away from the door. No saying,
I’ll come back another time
. She just followed him. Totally unafraid. He realized she had no idea who he was.
    At Will’s glass display—which was a few shelves of dusty vases and bowls—she stood for a moment, looking at the jewel-blue apothecary bottles. She held them up one at a time. They caught the light and shimmered like tropical fish. On the shelf, they’d been lifeless; they came alive in her hand.
    He clasped his fingers together in front of him. He missed women—boy, did he ever miss them. This woman smelled like an imitation of the lilac bushes that bloomed beside his mother’s clothesline. In the spring, his shirts and coveralls used to pick up a bit of the scent. The smell of the outside world was one of the things he’d missed most in prison; he’d spent ages breathing filtered, temperature-controlled air. But Richmond, it was a feast for the nostrils. He couldn’t help himself; he leaned toward the woman,her faint cloud of lilac so thick she almost seemed to be in a