The Chair (2 page)

He stepped forward and rubbed his finger along its back. Again a tingling sensation ran through his fingers, lighter this time as if he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket with a minimal current flowing through it. But the feeling wasn’t painful. It was almost warm and tinged with energy. An instant later he felt . . . refreshed. As if he’d just taken a twenty-minute power nap.

He pulled his hand back and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Strange.” He turned to the woman.

“Did you feel something when you touched the chair?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Like electricity. And energy.”

She nodded as if she expected his answer and wanted him to continue speaking.

“What did I feel?”

“It’s a very special chair.”

“Why is it special? Why did it do that to me?”

“I hope you find out, but that will, of course, be your choice.” She eased over to it and placed both her hands on top of its back and slowly slid them down the sides as she knelt. The woman sighed and again bowed her head.

“Where did it come from? Who made it?”

She stood. “I told you. A craftsman.”

“His name?”

She kept speaking as if she hadn’t heard him. “Who lived long ago.”

“What was his name?”

She looked up. “It’s not important right now. In time it will be. So give this the time it needs.”

She smiled, Julia Roberts wide, then turned and walked toward the front door of his store.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m sorry, Corin. I must.”

“I’d like to ask you a few more questions about this chair.”

“I would like that.”

“Great.” Corin pulled out his cell phone and punched up his calendar. “When can we set a time to—?”

“I am sorry; I have to go now.” The lady put her hand on the doorknob.

Corin walked toward her. “Do you have a card?”

“No.”

“And if I want to reach you?”

“Don’t worry, my dear Corin. I will be in touch. I am very curious to see how this whole drama turns out.”

“How do you know my name?”

“You are sharp, aren’t you?” She laughed. “There isn’t much you miss I imagine.”

“You aren’t going to tell me.”

“No, not right now.” She opened the door and stepped through it, then turned. “Oh, and Corin?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t worry about sitting in the chair till you’re ready.” She strolled away and faded into the late-afternoon sun.

Corin closed his front door and stared at it till the bells on it went silent.

This one deserved a page in the manuscript of his book
Strange Antiques, Stranger Customers.
Maybe a whole chapter.

He shook his head and sighed. When he was her age, he hoped his eccentricity would be more self-contained than what he’d just witnessed.

Corin spun on his heel and eased back to the chair. Had he really felt something?

No question. And it wasn’t a buildup of electricity on his carpet since his floors were made of ash hardwood.

He reached out, like he was sneaking up on a butterfly, and stopped with only centimeters between the tip of his forefinger and the chair.

After sucking in a deep breath and holding it for ten seconds, he let it out slowly as he leaned slightly forward and touched the chair.

Nothing.

He ran his fingers up and down the sides and along the edges of the seat.

This time there was no sensation. Did he imagine it? He’d been positive a moment ago.

Corin trudged back toward his six-by-six-foot office, past the sales counter, which had been sleepy for far too long, and slumped into one of the nineteenth-century black harvest stenciled Hitchcock chairs he’d restored four months back.

Two years ago the chair would have brought him a fifteen-hundred-dollar profit on a bad day. Now it seemed to be nothing more than a conversation piece for the curious window-shoppers who wanted to dream of older, better days when the world wasn’t filled with chaos but who didn’t feel a need to sacrifice any coin of the realm to acquire it for their homes.

Better days.

A distant memory professionally.

An ancient memory personally.

Corin opened his desk drawer and stared at the framed eight-by-ten picture resting on top of a thick stack of photos. Two men in their mid-twenties on street luges screamed around a corner at seventy miles an hour in matching black-and-red leather coats, inches from the ground, one thumb up and grins beneath their helmets. At least he thought Shasta had been smiling. Corin had been.

His brother had signed the shot, just like they signed all of their photos documenting their abundant adventures, and they’d added the caption, “To insanity and beyond!”

That had been their catchphrase, inspired by seeing
Toy Story
when they were teenagers. Buzz might go to infinity and beyond; their taste for extreme sports had taken them farther.

Too far.

Corin closed his eyes, tossed the photo back into the drawer, and slammed it shut.

Never again.

No more riding the thermals up to seventeen thousand feet on their hang gliders. No more flinging themselves thirty feet into the air on their dirt bikes. No more repelling into caves they might never climb out of.

All thanks to Corin Carter Roscoe.

His cell phone shattered the moment and he pushed the pain from his mind. Good. Time to get back to the present. “Hello?”

“Cor? It’s Robin.”

“Hey, how are you?” Corin shook his head. Speak of the devil and Shasta’s strawberry blond wife ends up on the phone a few seconds later.

“Good. You?”

“Fine.”

“Can I ask a favor, Cor?”

“Anything. You know that.”

“I know, but only if it won’t cut into any other plans you might have.”

“What do you need?”

“I have buyers who have been looking at one of my listings who are willing to sign right now, and I don’t want to lose this one. And I need someone to pick up—”

“My favorite nephew.”

“Yes.”

“That means I’d have to drop him off at your house.” Corin opened the drawer and stared at the photo again.

“Yes.” Robin sighed.

“Which means I would probably have to go inside to make sure—”

“Don’t go inside. He’s been working on a big case, and he’s due in court next week and—”

“I know. You don’t have to make excuses.” Corin pushed the drawer with his pinky finger and watched it slide shut with a soft click. “It was only an idea.”

“Not a good one.”

When would it ever be good? Corin tried to swallow the regret, but it stuck in his throat. “I’ll leave right now.”

“Thanks.” She took a long breath. “And Cor?”

“Yeah?”

“Have faith. This life isn’t over yet. Shasta could still come around.”

Corin hung up, glanced at his calendar, then his watch and swore. Tori’s class would start in twenty minutes. There was no way he could pick up Sawyer from his Pee-Wee football practice, drop him off at his brother’s house, and get to Tori’s class on time.

This would be the third time this month he showed up after she’d started. Tori rarely complained about it, even though he often saw the frustration in her eyes. She always said don’t worry about it, that she had her faults too, but he did worry about it. Women like her were as rare as the 1876 Winchester Deluxe rifle sitting inside the locked vault hidden at the back of his store.

After dropping off Sawyer and waiting till he stepped inside his brother’s six-thousand-square-foot home, Corin glanced at his watch and mashed his gas pedal. No problem. He didn’t have to be late for Tori’s class. If he could average ninety-five mph across town, he’d make it just in time.

C
orin caught Tori’s piercing eyes the moment he stepped inside the dojo. She didn’t look mad. Not much. She glanced at her class, then back to him. Jet black hair. Almond-shaped eyes. Beautiful skin. There was something about Asian women that turned him into a moth, and Tori was Queen of the Flame.

“Hang on,” she said to her students and jogged over to Corin. She cinched up the belt surrounding her gi and grinned. “You’re late.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tori stood on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “On the other hand, because of it I’m going to kick your hind quarters tonight.”

“I am worried about it. It’s my second time this month.”

“Nah, I only kicked your caboose once in the past thirty days.”

“I’m talking about being late.”

“I know, and it’s been four times so far this month.”

“Really? I’m sorry.”

“We’ve already started.” Tori nodded, then jerked her head toward the mat filled with ten students ranging in age from mid-teens to mid-forties. “You better get changed.”

“Right.”

He’d agreed to take the class with Tori for three reasons: to learn self-defense. To be around Tori more. And to be around Tori more. He really didn’t care about the first reason.

And not only because she was the polar opposite of his ex-wife in every way.

They’d met three months ago, but it was tough keeping his brain from imagining at least three decades together.

At five-three she was almost a foot shorter than him and weighed almost a hundred pounds less, but she’d proven the old adage about size not mattering when it came to martial arts. And she didn’t think his obsession with BASE jumping, hang gliding, and other insane outdoor activities was, well, obsessive. She even joined him on many of his leaps into the rarefied air of courting Lady Death through extreme sports.

After fifteen minutes Tori had the class pair up to practice sparring.

“Faster!” she called out. “Strike then retreat with focus. With speed. All the time considering your next counterattack.”

Corin’s partner, an African American kid who couldn’t be over fourteen, said, “Aren’t you kind of old to be learning this stuff?”

“Thirty-four isn’t old.”

“Yeah it is.”

Corin laughed. “Remind me in twenty years to ask if you still feel the same way.”

After ten minutes Tori called the class together. “Are you ready to learn a new move?” She paced back and forth, her dark black ponytail bouncing in rhythm to her steps.

Most of the students nodded. Corin shook his head no. He knew what learning a new move meant. Pain. And humiliation.

“Do we have a volunteer? I need someone big and strong. An athlete. Someone who might have rowed on a crew team in college.” She meandered her way back and forth till she stood directly in front of Corin. “Someone who’s still in pretty decent shape. Someone who likes living on the edge.”

Tori pretended to glance around the room before her eyes settled on Corin. She leaned forward, hands on hips, staring at him. “Anyone? Is there anyone here who fits that description? Come on, show me that hand.”

“Sure,” Corin said. “How ’bout me?”

“You?” Tori leaned back and frowned at him. “I didn’t even see you there.” The class laughed.

She led him to the front of the class and they squared off, their profiles to the students. “I want you to come at me. Hard. No holding back, okay?”

It still felt strange attacking a woman, especially one he was growing so fond of, but past experience told him he’d feel a greater degree of soreness the next day if he didn’t and there was little danger of hurting her.

He lunged forward and launched his fist toward her stomach.

Wham!

An instant later he stared up at her dark brown eyes, the back of his head pounding like a bass drum.

“You okay?” She winked at him.

“Super. This is better than bungee jumping any day.”

AFTER A QUICK shower, Corin strolled out of the dojo with Tori and headed down the street to find a reward for their physical exertion.

“You need a haircut.” She reached up and ruffled his dark brown hair.

Corin rubbed his head where she’d messed his hair. “A little long is okay. I’m a fashion pioneer. Longer hair will be coming back.”

“At least you know how to shave your whole face.”

He picked up a Gambel oak leaf from the sidewalk and held it up to her. “For you.”

She took it and slid it under her Tech
⁴
0 sports watch. “I’ll treasure it always.”

Corin reached over and rubbed the back of her neck as they walked. “Are you thinking about stopping by Jamba Juice for a Blackberry Bliss, or does an Oreo cookie milkshake at Dairy Bar sound better?”

“Jamba. You need something healthy after a workout like that.”

“Oreos are healthy.”

“This ought to be good.” Tori smirked.

“Emotionally healthy. They make me feel happy.”

“And your gut big.”

Corin patted his stomach. “What have you got against my one-pack?”

“Nothing. It’s stunning.”

“Hang on, I’ll be right back.” Corin glanced both ways before jogging across the street to Dairy Bar where he ordered a large Oreo cookie shake.

Tori poked her finger at him as he jogged back and joined her on the sidewalk. “You can’t take that into Jamba Juice.”

“Sure I can. Watch.” He opened the door for her, and she scowled at him as she walked in.