I passed through the storeroom for a bucket of soap solution to clean a few wood pieces in need of attention. Still on the phone, Dad caught sight of me, popped some nicotine gum, and strangled the air. Back in the showroom, I began cleaning off years of grime from an apothecary chest, only barely noticing the chime of the entry bells. Ward leaned on a Louis the XVI chair, no greeting but for a grin that curled up his lips while his eyes roamed over the way I filled out a shirt of his I’d snatched for myself. Stains from oil soap and wet dust covered the fabric, and I’d paired it with a ratty pair of jeans I kept for days when I dealt with furniture. “As much as I like the show you’re giving me, pay attention to what you’re doing, Vayda,” he said. Damn it. A piece of wood from a carved cherub snapped. Ward took the broken wing from my hand. “I’ll fix it.” “Look at you, gadjo, thinking you can repair that naked baby angel,”
