ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

16. the jewelry dealer (part ii)

THE STAIRS CREAK under our weight as we begin to ascend, hands brushing against thin metal that could probably give out at any second before we're stepping out onto the landing of what looks like a fortune teller's secret lair.

It's darker up here, velvet spreads trending into deep shades of purple and blue, silver crystals dangling from the ceiling and cloaks hung up against side walls.

The ray of sunshine I'm following is still ignoring me, squeak of his sneakers against wood an insult to the hard thuds of my stompers trailing him. It takes everything in me to keep from pinching his arm, from kicking his shin to get a reaction.

As we pass through racks of clothes, I squint at the changing inventory, interest suddenly piqued. Hazza's Hall of Antiques is starting to look more like a Spencer's than tasteful costuming if we're being honest here.

Chained belts and harnesses dangle to the ground, metal links clanking against each other as my shoe accidently hits the base of one of the racks.

The farther we move, suspicious inventory morphs into straight up lingerie, barely-there lace pieces, various corsets, slips, and ribbons. Some tiaras similar to the ones downstairs rest on velvet heads, the occasional cloth mannequin dolled up in swaths of jeweled, flowing fabric, capes, veils, and trains.

My fingers brush against a crystal ball on a little table we pass, rings emitting a little ding as they brush the surface, amethyst and jade arranged around it in a little semi-circle.

"Where the hell are we?"

I (expectedly) don't get a response from Dane, realizing he's ten steps ahead of me by the time I look up, pouring over a wooden tray set atop the following table.

My feet take me over at the pace of a snail, and I stand on my tippy toes to peer over his shoulder. "Whatcha lookin at?"

No response.

"Hey, that one's cute." My arm winds around him to point at a golden cat broach at the top of the tray. It has its paw to its mouth, one little glass eye opened, metal whiskers sideways on its face.

Still nothing.

"You think so?"

Silence.

Growing frustrated with his lack of a response, I turn away to wander back in the direction we came from, falling deeper into the racks, stumbling a little, blaming it on the alcohol.

Eventually, I find myself in a completely new section of the store, surrounded by capes and hand-sewed costumes, marveling over how delicately sewn everything is, transporting back to memories of my childhood.

I can remember one Halloween fourth grade when I decided it would be a great idea to sew my own costume after binging way too many episodes of Project Runway with my mom. When I'd shown up at home with a bag full of fabric and two thick tubes of cloth glue after the needle proved to be too violent, she'd just shaken her head, already able to tell what was about to come.

In the end, she'd gotten tasked with most of the work while I binged more Project Runway, choosing to randomly pop back into the living room during commercial breaks to share my 'artistic vision.' And because Ma was no more skilled with craft glue than I was with a needle, I'd gone out that year looking like a (semi-fashionable) trash bag.

Hazza's dresses are nothing like my PR days, obviously hand-crafted by professionals. I cant help but wonder how long ago they were made, who made them, why?

I'm not sure how long I stand there staring at the gowns, but by the time I've started moving back to the other side of the store, Dane has only moved about an inch, gaze trained intently on the face of some pendant in his hands.