along with a few wooden spools. That’s what she
wanted.
With her sights set on what would be seen as garbage to
others, Chance hustled over, bumping the edge of a table with her hip. An old
glass bottle jostled and fell to the ground. She picked it up, ready to set it
on the table when a strange current flowed up her arm and tingled in her
shoulder. It didn’t hurt but it did pique her curiosity.
More focused on the pile of junk that could be made into
money, she shrugged it off, set the bottle back on the table and continued on
with her mission. Kneeling down beside the wood stack, she lifted planks and
made sure they weren’t rotted. A little worn but this old lumber could still be
used and make some beautiful furniture. Maybe a few Adirondack chairs, an end table
or two. The spools had potential as well. Put some wheels on them, some paint
and a few dowels and a person had a cool bookshelf. She even had a light
fixture she could add.
“Now why would a pretty lady like you be interested in this
pile of junk?”
Chance looked up at the old man. His silvery-gray hair
shimmered in the morning sunlight and his smile, laugh lines and all, conveyed
a friendliness that made her grin. “You see junk,” she answered, standing and
brushing her hands off. “I see a million ideas. How much for the pile?”
The man rubbed his chin and then scratched behind his ear.
“Well, I hadn’t really planned on selling it. Figured I’d have a bonfire.”
Horror speared through her at the thought of this
magnificent old wood being set ablaze. She actually made a strangled gulping
noise. “Oh please don’t do that.” His warm chuckle eased her panic slightly.
“For the life of me, I don’t know what you’d do with this
stuff, but if you want it, it’s yours. Thirty bucks for the pile?”
“That sounds fair.” Chance held out her hand and shook on
the deal. “I’ll have to come back for it with a truck. Promise you won’t cook
any marshmallows ’til I get back?”
“You have my word. Anything else you’d like while we’re at
it?” He swept his hand through the air, motioning toward all the other goods
for sale.
“I’ll have a look around.” Chance made the rounds but didn’t
find anything that struck her fancy. As she made her way back to the pile of
lumber she spotted the old bottle once again.
Wrapping her hand around the neck, she picked it up and
instantly that warm current of something zipped up her arm. Not an unpleasant
feeling, simply odd. The cloudy glass made it impossible to see clearly through
and the cork didn’t seem to want to come out. Still, she could tell it dated back
to at least the eighteen hundreds.
“You like old bottles?” an older woman asked.
Chance smiled. “I like everything old.” She turned the
bottle over, admired the way the glass swirled at the bottom and decided it
might look charming on her kitchen windowsill with a few fresh flowers in it.
“How much?”
“One dollar?”
“Sold.” She paid the woman, tucked the bottle into her
jacket pocket and made arrangements with the gentleman to pick up her lumber.
Eager to get home and borrow the neighbor’s truck, Chance rushed
to her car, tossed the bottle on the passenger’s side floor and forgot about
it. The next three hours consisted of running to the neighbor’s, undergoing
twenty questions about why she needed the truck, returning to the old farm,
dropping her lumber at her barn and then returning the truck, followed by
another twenty questions. When she pulled up in front of her shop she felt as
though she’d already put in twelve hours of work.
“Wasn’t sure you’d make it in today.”
Jenny Marshal, a seventy-eight-year-old woman who kept after
the shop for her, sat outside in the warm sun in an unsafe lawn chair. She and
Jenny had adopted each other when Chance first opened the place. Jenny would
wander in every day, look things over, chat, tell a few stories and, before Chance
knew it, had become a