I’d had a few rebellious moments myself as a teenager, so Avery’s style didn’t bother me. She was smart and hardworking, and even though one of the main reasons I’d hired her was because she was the granddaughter of one of my gram’s closest friends, I kept her because she did a good job. And my customers seemed to like her.
Mac, the store’s resident jack-of-all-trades, was showing a customer a tall metal postman’s desk that we’d reclaimed from the basement of a house near the harbor. We’d had to cut the desk apart to get it up the narrow, cramped steps and through the door to the kitchen. Mac had banged out all the dents, put everything back together and then painted the piece a deep sky blue, even though I’d voted for basic black. I watched him hand the customer a tape measure, then give me a knowing smile across the room.
I could see the muscles in his arms move under his long-sleeved gray T-shirt. He was tall and fit with close-cropped black hair and light brown skin. Avery had given Mac the nickname Wall Street. He’d been a financial planner but had ditched his high-powered life to come to Maine and sail. In his free time he crewed for pretty much anyone who asked. There were eight windjammer schooners based in North Harbor, along with dozens of other sailing vessels. Mac was looking for space where he could build his own boat. He worked for me because he said he liked fixing things.
Second Chance had been open for a little less than four months. The main floor was one big open area, with some storage behind the staircase to the second floor. My office was under the eaves on the second floor. There was also a minuscule staff room and one other large space that was being used for storage.
Some things we offered in the shop were vintage kitsch, like my yellow vinyl Wonder Woman lunch box—with matching thermos. Some things were like Elvis—working on a new incarnation, like the electric blue shelving unit that used to be a floor-model TV console. Everything in the store was on its second or sometimes third life.
Our stock came from lots of different places: flea markets, yard sales, people looking to downsize. Mac had even trash-picked a metal bed frame that we’d sold for a very nice profit. A couple of Dumpster divers had been stopping by fairly regularly and in the last month I’d bought items from the estates of three different people. So far, rummaging around in boxes and closets I’d found half a dozen wills, a diamond ring, a set of false teeth, a stuffed armadillo and a box of ashes that thankfully were the remains of someone’s long-ago love letters and not, well, the remains of someone.
We sold some items in the store on consignment. Others, like the post office desk, we’d buy outright and refurbish. Mac could repair just about anything, and I was pretty good at coming up with new ways to use old things. And if I ran out of ideas, I could just call my mom, who was a master at giving new life to other people’s discards.
Elvis had headed for a couple that was browsing near the guitars on the back wall. The young woman crouched down, stroking his fur and making sympathetic noises about his nose. The young man moved a couple of steps sideways to take a closer look at a Washburn mandolin from the ’70s, with a spruce top and ebony fingerboard.
Avery had finished with the customer at the counter. She walked over and lifted the mandolin down from its place on the wall and handed it to the young man. “Why don’t you give it a try?” she said. I knew as soon as he had it in his hands he’d be sold.
Avery glanced down at Elvis. He tipped his furry head to one side, leaning into the hand of the young woman who was scratching the top of his head, commanding all her attention, and it almost looked as though he winked at Avery.
A musical instrument was the reason I’d ended up with Elvis—that and his slightly devious nature. I’d taken a guitar down to Sam for a second opinion on what it was worth. Sam Newman and my dad had grown up together. I could play, and I knew a little about some of the older models, but Sam knew more about guitars than anyone I’d ever met. I’d found him sitting in one of the back booths with a cup of coffee and a pile of sheet music. The cat was on the opposite banquette, eating what looked suspiciously to me like scrambled eggs and salami.
Sam had moved his mug and the music out of the way, and I’d set the guitar case on the table. Elvis studied me for a moment and then went back to his breakfast.
“Who’s your friend?” I asked, tipping my head toward the cat.
“That’s Elvis,” Sam said, flipping open the latches on the battered Tolex case with his long fingers. He was tall and lean, his shaggy hair a mix of blond and white.
“Really?” I said. “The King of Rock and Roll was reincarnated as a cat?”
Sam looked at me over the top of his dollar-store reading glasses. “Ha, ha. You’re so funny.”
I made a face at him. Elvis was watching me again. “Move over.” I gestured with one hand. To my surprise the cat obligingly scooted around to the other side of the plate. “Thank you,” I said, sliding onto the burgundy vinyl. He dipped his head, almost as though he were saying, “You’re welcome,” and went back to his scrambled eggs. They were definitely Sam’s specialty. I could smell the salami.
“Is this the cat I’ve been hearing about?” I asked.
Sam was engrossed in examining the vintage Fender. “What? Oh yeah, it is.”
Elvis’s ears twitched, as though he knew we were talking about him.
“Why Elvis?”
Sam shrugged. “He doesn’t seem to like the Stones, so naming him Mick was kinda out of the question.” He waved a hand in the direction of the bar. “There’s coffee.”
That was Sam’s way of telling me to stop talking so he could focus his full attention on the candy apple red Stratocaster. I got up and went behind the bar for the coffee, careful to keep the mug well out of the way of the old guitar when I brought it back to the table. Elvis had finished eating and was washing his face.
“What do you think?” I asked after a couple of minutes of silence. Sam’s head was bent over the neck of the guitar, examining the fret board.
“Gimme a second,” he said.
I waited, and after another minute or so he straightened up, pulling a hand over the back of his neck. “So, tell me what you think,” he said, setting his glasses on the table.
I put my coffee cup on the floor beside my feet before I answered. “Based on what the homeowner told me it’s a 1966. It belonged to her husband. It’s not mint, but it’s in good shape. There’s some buckle wear on the back, but overall it’s been taken care of. I think it’s the real thing and I think it could bring twelve to fifteen thousand.”
Beside me Elvis gave a loud meow.
“The cat agrees,” I said.
“That makes three of us, then,” Sam said.
I grinned at him across the table. “Thanks.”
When I got up to leave, Elvis jumped down and followed me. “I think you made a friend,” Sam said. He walked me out to my truck, set the guitar carefully on the passenger’s side, and then wrapped me in a bear hug. He smelled like coffee and Old Spice. “Come by Saturday night, if you’re free,” he said. “I think you’ll like the band.”
“Old stuff?” I asked, pulling my keys out of the pocket of my jeans.
“Hey, it’s gotta be rock-and-roll music if you wanna dance with me,” he said, raising his eyebrows and giving me a sly smile. He looked down at Elvis, who had been sitting by the truck, watching us. “C’mon, you. You’re gonna get turned into roadkill if you stay here.” He reached for the cat, who jumped up onto the front seat.
“Hey, get down from there,” I said.
Elvis ignored me, made his way along the black vinyl seat and settled himself on the passenger’s side, next to the guitar case.
“No, no, no, you can’t come with me.” I leaned into the truck to grab him, but he slipped off the seat, onto the floor mat. With the guitar there I couldn’t reach him.