Christmas Gifts (Champagne Challenge #144) Rated G
Posted: Fri Dec 07, 2012 7:43 pm
Christmas Gifts (Champagne Challenge #144) Rated G
By Moonshadow
As always, I own nothing but the memory of a great show.
This is for the Champagne Challenge, Naughty or Nice
The brass chimes on the door jamb rang as he pushed open the heavy glass door. Their melodious shimmer bounced and danced for several seconds as the sparkling jingle intruded on the otherwise dusty silence. He glanced upwards slightly annoyed at the obvious announcement of his arrival. From the back of the shop a slight rustle of fabric caught his ear; Mick watched a shower of dust motes that floated through a sunbeam and landed on the colorful Oriental rug. The shop was a warm and quiet invitation to holiday shoppers seeking a peaceful respite from the blaring jangle of malls.
“What can I do for you?” the voice asked from behind rows of shelving that muffled the clarity of her question. He stood unmoving patiently waiting, the unnatural stillness of his kind lending to his calm. Slowly, a tastefully coifed head wobbled to its full upright position from behind the wall of bric brac. Her motion had been accompanied with the involuntary creaking and groaning of age. Despite the heavy pull of times’ unkind hands on her body the blue eyes that appraised the tall black shadow standing in her doorway were sharp and alert.
The faintest of smiles whispered across Mick’s lips at the sight of her. Watching her approach he couldn’t help but notice that the frost of white had overtaken the grey in her hair. She lost weight since he’d last seen her. Time was washing away this lovely lady; she was becoming a pale echo of the woman he’d known.
Mick turned and glanced about the cases and shelves that filled the small shop, his eyes skimmed over the jumble of American culture. Antiques held no appeal to him, they were little more than painful reminders of a cruel joke. Time is endless, he thought bitterly, barring any miscalculations on my part. As he swiveled back around the next thought followed the first. Time might be endless for me but for them, it’s as fleeting as leaves before the winter wind.
Fully engaged now, the crystal sharp eyes watched carefully, “How may I help you?” she repeated her initial query now formal.
Mick drew a breath and characteristically shrugged deeper into his black leather jacket. “I’m looking for an old stocking” he replied, stepping around the ray of bright sunlight. He crossed the space between them walking deeper into the shop and the softer light began filling in his somber face.
A furrow creased deeper into her brow, “well, what type of stocking you are referring to?” she asked raising her hand to rub away the wrinkle. “We have some ladies stocking from the fifties over in clothing,” she added walking as she talked, “I think we might have a silk set from the forties.”
“Uh no,” he interrupted, “I uh, I meant a Christmas stocking. The kind you fill, with candy and stuff.”
A smile warmed her face at the obvious discomfort in his voice. Suddenly, an uninvited rush of distant memories flooded over her. The silky sensation of stockings, the scent of crisp and fresh petticoats, stylish dresses, warm strong hands holding her close, murmurings sweet and husky. The aching pain of love lost in the great war.
Glancing up at his embarrassed and handsome face she found her own face answering back with a pink flush. Her thoughts jumped and scattered as she realized this young man was staring at her.
Great way to get robbed, she thought ironically. However, if he had the good graces to be embarrassed about ladies lingerie I doubt he’s here for your cash box. “Well, we don’t get many old ones,” she gracefully ignored their faux pas and walked over to a half hidden cabinet. “What era were you hoping to find? Sixties,? Seventies?”
Mick watched as she slipped behind the corner, smiling at the smoothness of her voice she still had the same elegance he remembered. She focused over the tops of the heavy glasses, selected the appropriate key and unlocked the cabinet. “What’s the oldest one you have?” he asked.
“These over here,” she indicated with a nod towards the worn and limp felt stockings lying on white tissue paper. “I can’t give you an exact age, but from the size and shape I believe these are from the late thirties or early forties.” She watched his handsome face with the finesse of a seasoned merchant, “commercially made stockings can date back to the late 1800’s.”
“I’m not looking for one quite that old,” Mick smiled at her comment.
Lovely sapphire eyes combed his face, “You look familiar; did you grow up in L.A?”
“Why do you ask?” Mick chose his words carefully; this was the part he hated, the point where things always got tricky. A closed and polite smile carefully calculated for putting distance between them settled on his face.
“Oh, I taught school here in L.A. and retired out, I have over 40 years of students,” she added “sometimes I think I see some student or another from my past.” She smiled broadly to set him at ease. Mick couldn’t help but smile back, a faint dimple played in the right corner of his smile as he removed his sunglasses to examine the items in the display case. “But then,” she continued, “toss in another 10 years of old age and well, I’m a bit foggy on memories.” Mick sincerely doubted that and foggy was never a word he would have used to describe her.
“I’ll take that one,” he indicated the oldest of the orangey red stockings. “Please.”
“Of course,” she gathered up the tissue cradling the memento of Christmases’ past. “Do you have a collection?”
“Uh, no,” Mick mumbled as he dug for his wallet. “It’s for a gift exchange.”
“Oh, it’s for someone special then,” she replied. “It’s a bit delicate, but it’s in lovely condition for its age. I’ll just wrap it up for you.”
Mick watched as she walked to the front counter, you’re just as lovely as I remember, regardless of age. He pulled the bills from his wallet and handed them over, replaced his dark sunglasses, and accepted the tissue wrapped bundle. “Thank you,” he added his smile quirky and warm.
“Oh no thank you,” the brassy jingle of the bell announced another customer as he stepped backwards towards the door. As he turned to step around the new comer she smiled warmly the retreating back, “thank you and please come again,” she added before addressing her next guest. Standing in the warm sunbeam her arms crossed against her chest, she watched as he walked down the street to an elegant older Mercedes Benz. Pulling the heavy glasses from her face she stared thoughtfully, searching, trying to place the familiar grey eyes.
Mick smiled as he sat in the comfortable security of his car, looked over at the white tissue paper crisp against the supple leather of the passenger seat. She was watching him as he turned the key and listened to the rumble of the engine. He’d enjoyed the chance to see her again and he knew that she didn’t remember his gawky shy gift from so many Christmases ago.
The remembered image of a child’s Christmas stocking stuffed full of apples for a first love played itself out as he pulled away from the curb. Mick snorted dismissing the quiet memory; I’m such a sap this time of year.
finis
By Moonshadow
As always, I own nothing but the memory of a great show.
This is for the Champagne Challenge, Naughty or Nice
The brass chimes on the door jamb rang as he pushed open the heavy glass door. Their melodious shimmer bounced and danced for several seconds as the sparkling jingle intruded on the otherwise dusty silence. He glanced upwards slightly annoyed at the obvious announcement of his arrival. From the back of the shop a slight rustle of fabric caught his ear; Mick watched a shower of dust motes that floated through a sunbeam and landed on the colorful Oriental rug. The shop was a warm and quiet invitation to holiday shoppers seeking a peaceful respite from the blaring jangle of malls.
“What can I do for you?” the voice asked from behind rows of shelving that muffled the clarity of her question. He stood unmoving patiently waiting, the unnatural stillness of his kind lending to his calm. Slowly, a tastefully coifed head wobbled to its full upright position from behind the wall of bric brac. Her motion had been accompanied with the involuntary creaking and groaning of age. Despite the heavy pull of times’ unkind hands on her body the blue eyes that appraised the tall black shadow standing in her doorway were sharp and alert.
The faintest of smiles whispered across Mick’s lips at the sight of her. Watching her approach he couldn’t help but notice that the frost of white had overtaken the grey in her hair. She lost weight since he’d last seen her. Time was washing away this lovely lady; she was becoming a pale echo of the woman he’d known.
Mick turned and glanced about the cases and shelves that filled the small shop, his eyes skimmed over the jumble of American culture. Antiques held no appeal to him, they were little more than painful reminders of a cruel joke. Time is endless, he thought bitterly, barring any miscalculations on my part. As he swiveled back around the next thought followed the first. Time might be endless for me but for them, it’s as fleeting as leaves before the winter wind.
Fully engaged now, the crystal sharp eyes watched carefully, “How may I help you?” she repeated her initial query now formal.
Mick drew a breath and characteristically shrugged deeper into his black leather jacket. “I’m looking for an old stocking” he replied, stepping around the ray of bright sunlight. He crossed the space between them walking deeper into the shop and the softer light began filling in his somber face.
A furrow creased deeper into her brow, “well, what type of stocking you are referring to?” she asked raising her hand to rub away the wrinkle. “We have some ladies stocking from the fifties over in clothing,” she added walking as she talked, “I think we might have a silk set from the forties.”
“Uh no,” he interrupted, “I uh, I meant a Christmas stocking. The kind you fill, with candy and stuff.”
A smile warmed her face at the obvious discomfort in his voice. Suddenly, an uninvited rush of distant memories flooded over her. The silky sensation of stockings, the scent of crisp and fresh petticoats, stylish dresses, warm strong hands holding her close, murmurings sweet and husky. The aching pain of love lost in the great war.
Glancing up at his embarrassed and handsome face she found her own face answering back with a pink flush. Her thoughts jumped and scattered as she realized this young man was staring at her.
Great way to get robbed, she thought ironically. However, if he had the good graces to be embarrassed about ladies lingerie I doubt he’s here for your cash box. “Well, we don’t get many old ones,” she gracefully ignored their faux pas and walked over to a half hidden cabinet. “What era were you hoping to find? Sixties,? Seventies?”
Mick watched as she slipped behind the corner, smiling at the smoothness of her voice she still had the same elegance he remembered. She focused over the tops of the heavy glasses, selected the appropriate key and unlocked the cabinet. “What’s the oldest one you have?” he asked.
“These over here,” she indicated with a nod towards the worn and limp felt stockings lying on white tissue paper. “I can’t give you an exact age, but from the size and shape I believe these are from the late thirties or early forties.” She watched his handsome face with the finesse of a seasoned merchant, “commercially made stockings can date back to the late 1800’s.”
“I’m not looking for one quite that old,” Mick smiled at her comment.
Lovely sapphire eyes combed his face, “You look familiar; did you grow up in L.A?”
“Why do you ask?” Mick chose his words carefully; this was the part he hated, the point where things always got tricky. A closed and polite smile carefully calculated for putting distance between them settled on his face.
“Oh, I taught school here in L.A. and retired out, I have over 40 years of students,” she added “sometimes I think I see some student or another from my past.” She smiled broadly to set him at ease. Mick couldn’t help but smile back, a faint dimple played in the right corner of his smile as he removed his sunglasses to examine the items in the display case. “But then,” she continued, “toss in another 10 years of old age and well, I’m a bit foggy on memories.” Mick sincerely doubted that and foggy was never a word he would have used to describe her.
“I’ll take that one,” he indicated the oldest of the orangey red stockings. “Please.”
“Of course,” she gathered up the tissue cradling the memento of Christmases’ past. “Do you have a collection?”
“Uh, no,” Mick mumbled as he dug for his wallet. “It’s for a gift exchange.”
“Oh, it’s for someone special then,” she replied. “It’s a bit delicate, but it’s in lovely condition for its age. I’ll just wrap it up for you.”
Mick watched as she walked to the front counter, you’re just as lovely as I remember, regardless of age. He pulled the bills from his wallet and handed them over, replaced his dark sunglasses, and accepted the tissue wrapped bundle. “Thank you,” he added his smile quirky and warm.
“Oh no thank you,” the brassy jingle of the bell announced another customer as he stepped backwards towards the door. As he turned to step around the new comer she smiled warmly the retreating back, “thank you and please come again,” she added before addressing her next guest. Standing in the warm sunbeam her arms crossed against her chest, she watched as he walked down the street to an elegant older Mercedes Benz. Pulling the heavy glasses from her face she stared thoughtfully, searching, trying to place the familiar grey eyes.
Mick smiled as he sat in the comfortable security of his car, looked over at the white tissue paper crisp against the supple leather of the passenger seat. She was watching him as he turned the key and listened to the rumble of the engine. He’d enjoyed the chance to see her again and he knew that she didn’t remember his gawky shy gift from so many Christmases ago.
The remembered image of a child’s Christmas stocking stuffed full of apples for a first love played itself out as he pulled away from the curb. Mick snorted dismissing the quiet memory; I’m such a sap this time of year.
finis