Sincerely yours,
Remington
PO Box 143
Malibu, California
It all started with a typewriter.
My grandmother’s typewriter, to be exact, when I sold it at my neighborhood antique store.
I typed that first letter on a whim and left it in the typewriter for the new owner to find. Then, the unexpected happened.
The new owner wrote back, which somehow sparked a five-year friendship I could never have imagined. For the first year, my mysterious pen pal sent me letters to Mr. Jensen’s antique store. I hoarded every one, rereading them over and over. And I wrote him, as well. Our words filled my lonely days.
Back then, I only had to walk into this antique store and hear the jingle of the bell to make my heart full of anticipation and hope, as if it were tethered to a helium balloon, wondering if there would be another letter from him waiting. The rising thrill when there was. The deflating disappointment when there wasn’t.
But today, five years later, there’s no buoyant rush when I walk into the shop. There are no letters anymore, at least not the typewritten kind. We’d switched to texts long ago.
So much has changed since that first letter. Yet the shop remains the same. The familiar cluttered surfaces of antiques and artifacts passed down through time. The fine layer of dust in the air that never quite dissipates, giving the afternoon light filtering through smudged windows an otherworldly character. As a child visiting the store with my grandmother, I’d twirl in that light-filled mist on our frequent visits, making up stories about the past lives of the furniture and jewelry, tchotchkes and treasures.
Now, Mr. Jensen sits at his long mahogany desk in the front of the shop as he always does, a welcoming smile on his weathered face.
“Olivia! I’ve missed you, my girl.”
“I was just here three weeks ago,” I remind him with a grin. I set a cardboard box on his desk with a loud thump and brush the bangs back from my eyes.
“Exactly. It’s been almost a month. You used to visit every day. But that was so you could collect correspondence from your beau, not chat with an old man.”
I shake my head, smiling at his grumping and choice of words. Beau. Correspondence. I’ve had this conversation with Mr. Jensen countless times. At almost eighty, his mind is like a record player stuck in a groove. But I play my part in our dialogue, as frayed and familiar as the items in his shop.
“He’s not my beau.” I wish. “He’s just a pen pal.” And I don’t even know his name.
“You two still writing?”
I blush. “We text now.”
He shakes his head in disapproval. “Texts. Bah. They don’t last. Now, letters are forever.” He turns his attention to the large box. His frown deepens the lines of his brow.
“More from home?”
I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. “Some of Nanna’s jewelry. A few first edition books. And this.” I hold up a framed black-and-white print.
“Your grandmother’s Adam Reynolds!” He reaches for the photograph, his hands shaking with age and eagerness. I will myself to let go of the photo that has been in the landscape of my life for so long. A picture of a naked woman lying amid sweeping sand dunes. Light and shadows stark, flowing curves sensual. The woman is my grandmother, taken when she was in her twenties. She had an affinity for photography, bohemian artists, and getting naked back in the day. It was her kind of luck that she modeled—and possibly more—for Adam Reynolds, one of the most celebrated American photographers. He gave her a few prints over the years, but this was the first and most famous of the photographs from their collaboration.
“How much do you think it’s worth?” I swallow.
“This is way out of my league, my dear. But I do have a friend who might be able to appraise it and find a buyer if that’s what you truly want. He owns one of the best galleries in San Francisco.”
“Thank you. That would be great.” I smile, pretending not to care that I’m talking about selling my legacy. Bartering the last tangible threads that connect me to my family piece by piece.
While I busy myself by carefully stacking the jewelry and the books on the counter, Mr. Jensen evaluates each item for consignment and makes notes in a leather-bound ledger.
She would have wanted this, I remind myself. My grandmother would have wanted me to keep our home in our beloved neighborhood, even if it means selling a few things. She left the house for me, and it’s my job to make sure I keep it up and don’t lose it. The photograph could pay to fix the leaking roof. Or the iffy plumbing. Or make a dent in the taxes. If I’m really lucky, maybe all three.