A December to Remember (36)

“Is there anything you’d like me to do to help?” she called as she sloshed soapy water around the sticky remnants of last night’s frivolity.

“Um, well, I suppose you could gather together any pieces you know to be collectors’ items.”

That rather stymied her offer since she really had no idea what was worth collecting; it all looked old and a bit grubby to her.

“I don’t think I’d be much help in that department,” she admitted as she dried the glasses. “But I am excellent at cleaning silver. My dad used to get us to do it when we were kids. It’s surprisingly satisfying.”

“That would be helpful. I’ll need to photograph everything for my records, and it would be better if things were clean.”

“Good.” She was pleased. “That’s good, I like a purpose.”

When she returned to the shop floor carrying a tray with the glasses on, Duncan held out a loupe hanging from a length of thin black cord toward her.

“So you can check for hallmarks,” he qualified. “Do you mind?” He gestured that he should put it over her head.

“Not at all.” She placed the tray down. Her stomach tightened.

Gently he placed the loupe around her neck, as though awarding her a medal. Their eyes met, and Star felt a frisson between them. The barest brush of his fingers on her neck thrilled her to goose bumps and she knew she was blushing. She was suddenly very aware of her own breathing. He took a step back and she pulled her long hair free of the cord.

“Thank you.” She smiled, feeling overly warm.

“If you like, I can teach you how to read hallmarks to tell the age of an item,” he ventured. “That would be really purposeful. But only if you want to.”

“Yes, please!” Realizing she was gawking, she proffered the tray toward him.

“Could these be Lalique?” The word sounded too fancy on her tongue.

Duncan studied the glasses in turn. “No. Not Lalique. This one’s rather nice. Georgian. Would probably go for about twenty pounds, a lot more if it’s part of a set. This one is handblown—pretty but not worth much, and this one looks like it was made in the eighties.”

“The 1780s?” she asked hopefully.

He cleared his throat and laid the tray on a side table. “The 1980s.” He must have seen her face fall because he added, “It’s still vintage, though. There’s a huge market for vintage.”

“The 1980s is vintage? That can’t be right, I was born in the eighties and I consider myself as only at the beginning of my voyage to female enlightenment—I can’t be vintage!”

Duncan chuckled, whether at her or with her she couldn’t be sure. He looked uncomfortable in the large chair, as though he was both too big for it and at the same time being swallowed by it. He went back to making notes about the vase, picking it up, turning it, and then resting it back on the table and making more notes.

“How long have you been an appraiser?” she asked, perching herself on the chair next to him. The chairs were still arranged as they had been last night; the smell of burning dust from the gas heater lingered.

“Well, I studied for my master’s at the Sotheby’s Institute of Art and from there I was taken on by Sotheby’s. I’ve been in this role for about ten years.”

“I can’t imagine being so qualified.”

“That’s a strange thing to say.”

“Is it?”

“Most people are qualified in something, aren’t they?” He looked up from his notes.

“I’m not. I mean, I’ve worked in lots of different jobs, but I don’t feel particularly qualified for any of them.”

“There’s a lot of training for this work, and you pretty much never stop learning, which works for me because I get bored quickly.”

“Do you?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Well, I get bored quickly too, only I look like the type of person who would get bored quickly.”

“And what do I look like?”

“Someone who enjoys concentrating.”

“So . . . boring.”

“Not necessarily.”

Duncan frowned. “I’m giving off concentration vibes. I mean, that’s not exactly setting the world alight, is it?”

“Trust me, burning your world to the ground is not as exciting as it sounds.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Maybe.” He was looking at her in the same way he had been studying the vase. She didn’t know if she liked being appraised. “You come across like someone in control of their destiny.”

“Are any of us in control of our destiny, really?” he asked.

“Maybe not, but you seem like you’d have a better chance of choosing your own fate than most.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“What happens if you get bored?” She was curious.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you go wild and tear up the town, or do you flop about like a slug?”

“I don’t know that I do either. I get restless, I suppose. That’s why I knit; it occupies me. What do you do?”

“I make unwise choices,” she said, and was rewarded with him raising a quizzical eyebrow. “But I’m trying to make changes on that front. I’m trying to be less impulsive, to stick at things rather than moving on when they get tricky. Would you teach me to knit?”