All Sales Final

By Reida S. Sarah

What price would you pay for everything you've ever wanted? 

11-year-old Anna has always wanted to be extraordinary, but she feels as ordinary as her sleepy Midwestern town of Longford. Ten a secondhand shop opens in Longford – a shop full of magic that only Anna can see. When the shop’s owner, Ruth, offers Anna a job

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Reida
• Release date: Apr 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734817027

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Anna always passed the shops on Main Street on her way home from school. They were so ordinary and common they could have been anywhere, not necessarily in Longford, Illinois.

A lot of things in Longford were ordinary and common. It was a town like so many others—with people who were born there and never left, and nothing that made it special or stand out.

Longford was so boring, in fact, that Anna and her best friend Carrie still played pretend even though they were eleven now. It was the only way they’d ever get to New York City.

On a cold November day as Anna scuttled home, the election posters had been replaced by gingerbread houses in the storefront windows, fake snow dusting the display bottoms. A lone poster—Vote Stevenson—was taped against the candy store’s window, the lettering large enough to read from across the street. Mr. Griffin still had not accepted the re-election of President Eisenhower, whom he referred to as that golf-playing lump. 1956 is a sad year, he’d grumbled.

Anna cradled her poster board against her chest, trying not to let it bend in the wind. Because Halloween was over, her art teacher had sent all the entries in the holiday contest home with their respective owners. Anna had labored for hours over hers, discarding three pieces of poster board before drawing a purple-cloaked witch just right. She’d thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d finally win at something. Her sister and brother always did.

Jared Teal won. He won everything that had to do with art. He probably hadn’t even tried, that turkey. In class, he drew whole cartoon strips in the space of an hour, the images flowing from his pencil like magic. It was so unfair.

A gust of wind blew down Anna’s neck, making her squeal and loosen her hold on the poster board. She scrabbled for it, but it slipped through her fingers.

Oh, no! Anna stooped to snatch it from the gutter. At least only the top corner had gotten wet.

As she studied her drawing, Anna saw she’d been silly to hope she’d win. She could see the pencil outline of her witch beneath her paint strokes. And the candy corn she’d glued on looked like a six-year-old’s macaroni art. Jared Teal didn’t need candy corn. He had real talent.

Anna went to the nearest trash can and stuffed her project inside. Some of the candy corn fell off, clattering on the sidewalk like broken teeth. Anna swiped it aside with her shoe, drawing her coat tighter around her.

Anna’s nose was running and she sniffled, resolving not to get sick like Carrie, who normally walked home with her but today was home with the flu. She couldn’t miss the first snowfall. Snow forts, sledding, snow angels . . .

Outside the movie theater, Anna breathed in the smell of popcorn as she studied the marquee. Jailhouse Rock, starring Elvis Presley, was playing. Anna’s sister Frances had already seen it twice, but she hadn’t invited Anna even though she’d gone all by herself.

At the bookstore, Anna reached for the door handle with a frozen hand. She’d stay just long enough to warm up and see if the latest Mrs. Piggle Wiggle book had arrived. The store’s owners, the Colemans, always set them aside for her.

Nothing happened when she tugged. She peered through the fogged windows. There was no one behind the counter, and the overhead light was shut off. Dim shadows played over the shelves.

Then Anna noticed the door to the left of the bookstore. It looked the same as ever—brown, with scuff marks at the bottom and the chipped numbers 3-2-0 to the right of the frame. Only now, it had a sign:

Shop.

What kind of shop? For all she knew, it could be another hardware shop to compete with Mr. Edgecombe’s on the corner. Anna’s father could spend forever examining the nails and screws on the long back wall, ignoring her when she faked death from boredom, sprawling on the floor and letting customers step over her. No store served less of a purpose.

Still, the sign made her curious. Also, her feet were turning into blocks of ice. Anna twisted the doorknob, and the door creaked open to a long, dark hallway.

Anna’s heart beat faster. She imagined following the hallway—deeper, deeper into the blackness—until she stepped into empty air and plummeted to her doom. Or into an alternate universe, like in Alice in Wonderland.

But . . . the hallway was warm. Also, Anna smelled something delicious and sweet, with the slightest tang of lemon. The door banged behind her, and that settled the matter.

The hallway led to another door, with a buzzer next to the doorframe. When Anna pressed it, a gong-like sound pierced the air—bing-bong, bing-bong. Come in! Come in! someone called, so Anna did.

An elderly woman was cleaning a glass counter. She was sturdy, with gray hair pulled into a messy bun. She belonged on the front of a package of pie crust mix—Just Like Grandmother Used to Make!

A fire crackled in a stone fireplace. Ugly sofas were shoved into a circle around it, crowding the small space. They bore bright paper price tags, the kind Anna’s mother studied at yard sales.

Oh! Anna exclaimed. I had no idea this was all here.

The shop occupied the back of the building, behind the other stores. Like a secret room or a hidden compartment. Everywhere, shelves and tables were crammed with items: old cuckoo clocks, and vacuum cleaners, and lamps, and china figurines.

Treasure! Anna imagined sifting through the items to find something priceless—an emerald necklace tucked into a jewelry box drawer; or a famous artist’s first painting, his telltale initials scrawled in the bottom corner.

Anna wished Carrie were there. They shared every adventure. In fact, they’d even learned to walk on the exact same day. Or so their mothers claimed.

Then Anna gazed upward and saw the most amazing thing of all. The high ceiling was painted with a bright blue sky dotted with lazy white clouds. Although a corner loft partially obscured a bright yellow sun, the effect was the same as standing under an open sky.

I noticed your sign, Anna said as she approached the woman. The cash register was clunky and black, a piece of cardboard leaning against it. It had writing in block lettering: TOUTES LES VENTES FINALES. AUCUN RETOUR. Have you been open long? she asked, preoccupied with the sign. Was it in French?

The woman waved her hand. Two days at this location. You’re only our first visitor. Her perfect enunciation did not hide her slight accent. Something European.

One visitor in two days? Anna asked, noting that the woman had not said customer. Customers had money in their pockets, not pieces of lint and a lozenge stuck to its wrapper.

Yes. We’re hard to find, you see.

You could fix that, Anna suggested, gazing through the countertop. Tiny crystal ducks and swans cluttered the top shelf. With a big sign. Or a green awning like Lulu’s. That was the clothing and tailoring shop down the street.

Those are good suggestions.

Also, you could take out an ad in the newspaper. And hire a boy to ride a bicycle around with an advertisement on his basket.

Do—?

Ooh, or a sidewalk sale! Put out some of your items and tell people they have to come inside to see more.

The woman’s lips twitched. You’re quite the chatterbox, aren’t you?

I have a lot of good ideas, that’s all, Anna said.

Before the woman could answer, a sound like wind chimes came from the back of the store. Ruth! a male voice growled. Come here!

The woman slid off the stool, grunting. Excuse me. Then she noticed Anna’s wide, curious eyes sweeping over the shop. Look around, if you like, she added as she lumbered away.

Anna ventured down an aisle, squeezing to fit between two cluttered tables. One contained old kitchen appliances including a Hoover cleaner and a waffle maker, as well as sewing machines with rusted parts. Anna wrinkled her nose at those. Who would want one? You’d need a tetanus shot if you pricked your finger.

Another table had nothing but dolls. Some were cloth, with floppy arms and legs and string for hair. Others had china faces and velvet dresses, their tiny feet pinched into patent leather shoes. Their eyes stared sightlessly at Anna. She hurried by, feeling silly for averting her gaze from them.

At the back of the store, a dusty display case stood out from the clutter. Anna rubbed at the glass, cupping her hands around her face to peer inside. She saw nothing but dim, circular shapes.

Below the case, a crystal knob jutted out to indicate a drawer. It didn’t budge when Anna tugged on it. Locked, or only stuck. The case looked a million years old.

From the back room, Anna heard the murmured voices of Ruth and the man from before. His voice raised, Ruth’s soothed, and a doorknob rattled.

Anna hastened to the front of the store, perching on the fireplace and stretching her hands toward the flames. As she did, a large mirror in the front corner caught her eye. Framed with chipped wooden vines, a jagged crack ran across its top right corner, like the blade to a guillotine.

Two sets of feet clomped to the front. One belonged to Ruth, who carried an ugly lamp shaped like a flamingo; and the other to a man straining under a high stack of boxes. He was as tall and rickety as Ruth was short and sturdy.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat.

His wife could eat no lean.

And so, between them both, you see,

They licked the platter clean.

The old nursery rhyme came unbidden. Anna leapt up. I’ll help! But the man was already dropping the boxes on the counter, talking to Ruth like they were alone:

You go through these. My back hurts. He had the same slight accent as Ruth.

Don’t be so cranky. It ages you.

Very funny, the man replied, scratching his long, crooked nose.

"Let me help, Anna said again, and they both looked at her. I know I’m small, but I’m strong."

Who’s this? the man said to Ruth.

I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name, dear, Ruth said as she began sorting through a box. You can call me Ruth. My last name’s a tongue-twister. Dutch. She smiled.

Anna Elizabeth Nesbit. She smiled as a gray tabby jumped from a table, its feet thudding on the floor. It went to Anna and wound itself around her feet. Hey, your cat likes me! She scooped it up and sat back down on the sofa, the animal purring in her arms.

You must be special, the man said sarcastically, removing a metal stepladder from behind the counter. He opened it with a screech and climbed to the top. Light’s blinking again, he grumbled, reaching for the ceiling.

Now, Vernon, you could introduce yourself, Ruth said. Anna, this is Vernon. My husband. And Cat. She pointed to the animal in Anna’s lap.

He looks like a Dusty to me, Anna said, disappointed in his lack of a proper name. She stroked his soft gray fur. Or maybe—

Lazy, Vernon suggested as he unscrewed the lightbulb. Good for Nothing.

"Vernon! Ruth scolded him. He’s not usually so moody, she told Anna. She went to the base of the step ladder, hands on her hips. Why don’t you let me do that?" But Anna couldn’t imagine the portly woman scaling a ladder.

Anna cleared her throat. I could help you, she suggested yet again. Anything you need. Staying to help was better than going home. Only Frances would be there, her door closed and music blaring as she worked on her latest invention. Frances was going to be a famous scientist one day, soon probably. She was a legend at Anna’s school for being the first sixth grader to win first place at the science fair. And a girl, to boot.

Vernon squinted as he screwed in the lightbulb. No. This is a family business.

The shop can be difficult to understand, Ruth added, gesturing to its general disarray. It’s best we do everything ourselves.

The gray cat—Cat—writhed in Anna’s lap as if bored with their conversation. Anna scratched behind his ears, wondering if he was for sale as well. Christmas would be there soon, and Anna had always wanted a cat. And she’d been awfully good this year, save for one incident.

The door opened and everyone looked up to see a man, canvas bag strapped to his shoulder and cap cock-eyed over his gray hair.

Mr. Bruester! Anna exclaimed as she recognized her mailman. It felt strange to see him somewhere other than on her front porch, like seeing a zebra outside the zoo.

Anna Nesbit. Fancy seeing you here. Mr. Bruester smiled as he ran a bare hand over his chapped nose. Brr! Can’t wait ’til I retire. No snow in Florida. He pulled a flyer from his bag and handed it to Ruth.

It’s snowing? Anna squealed. How much? A lot? Is it sticking?

He made a face. "At least someone’s excited about snow. And yep, it’s sticking, all right. He sneezed, pulling out a handkerchief. Great. Maybe I’ll get pneumonia."

Vernon climbed from the ladder, eyeing the short man who had delivered their single piece of mail. I’m used to the cold, he said, seeming scornful that Mr. Bruester was not.

Anna glanced at Mr. Bruester’s reflection in the mirror. The image reflected a table heaped high with fabric, a pair of bright red mittens atop one colorful pile.

Hey! she exclaimed. Why don’t you buy those? Then you won’t get sick. She jumped, ignoring Cat’s indignant meow as she deposited him on the floor. She turned to the table.

Oh, she said. I thought . . .

A package of red yarn, not a pair of red mittens, teetered on the fabric pile.

I thought I saw a pair of—oh, never mind, she said, shaking her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen something she couldn’t explain. Like when Ben had come home with a huge smile and actual words—big ones like extrapolate and artifice–drifting lazily in the air about him, before announcing he’d won the class spelling bee. Or when a rosy hue, like a cloud, had surrounded Anna’s cousin the day of her wedding.

Anna could not explain them, these glimpses, and no one else saw them. She’d stopped pointing them out a long time ago.

Well. Mr. Bruester blew on his chapped hands. I’d better get going. And you, missy– he said mock-sternly to Anna. Shouldn’t you be on your way home?

I suppose. My mother comes home at four-thirty. Mrs. Nesbit was a stenographer, which meant she dressed nicely and took a bus to the courthouse, where she typed what everyone said for the record.

Ruth exchanged a look with Vernon. "It’s not too late, is it? We need to discuss your new position," she said to Anna.

Anna frowned. We do? Hadn’t Ruth just said it was better if she and Vernon did everything themselves?

Of course. We can always use a good salesgirl.

A salesgirl. Like the pretty girls who dressed up to spray perfume at Woolworth’s. Frances wanted to be one more than anything, but she wasn’t yet sixteen.

Anna would get to be a salesgirl first. She never got to do anything before Frances did.

Once Mr. Bruester was gone, Ruth turned to her husband. Vernon, fetch some tea.

But— he objected.

"Fetch some tea."

I have to do everything around here, Vernon grumbled, shuffling through the door behind the counter. As it swung inward, Anna glimpsed a cluttered kitchen with peeling yellow linoleum.

Ruth went to the mirror, running her hand along the wooden vines. She turned to Anna. What do you think of this? she asked her.

Anna didn’t know what to say. She didn’t like the mirror. It looks like an heirloom, she said finally, which was how her mother described the china left by her grandmother: Yes, the rose pattern is hideous, but I can’t get rid of it. It’s an heirloom.

Ruth smiled, exposing crooked bottom teeth. "It is an heirloom. It’s over a hundred years old."

Oh, Anna said. That’s nice.

Why were they discussing a mirror? What about Anna’s new job? As salesgirl. She smiled to think of Frances’s reaction. You said you could use me after all? she prodded.

Ruth plucked a pearl of lint from her sleeve, settling into the stool behind the counter. Yes, she said. But we can’t pay a great deal. How does a dime a day sound? You can come by after school.

A dime a day. Monday through Friday, at ten cents each. Why, that amounted to double her allowance!

That sounds fair, Anna said, keeping her face blank so Ruth wouldn’t rethink her wage. Her father had taught her the art of the poker face. He wore his every Wednesday, when his friends from work came to play cards and smoke cigars.

We’ll see how it goes, Ruth warned as the teakettle began to shriek. This might not work out.

Anna wasn’t worried. She’d be the best salesgirl they’d ever seen. As her mother liked to say, no one said no to Anna. Not with those dimples and blonde curls, she’d said once, but then never again when she saw Frances’s face fall. Poor Frances had no dimples, and her brown hair hung lank and lifeless even with the assistance of hot curlers.

Vernon appeared with a tray. Earl Grey. He poured the tea without asking Anna if she wanted cream and sugar, ignoring Ruth’s sharp look.

Anna blew on her cup, but it was still boiling hot when she put it to her lips. She took a tiny sip, then craned her neck at the cuckoo clock behind the cash register. Oh, no! Is that right?

Ruth followed her gaze. Yes, it is. Almost four-thirty.

I have to get home! Anna took another sip of tea, scalding her tongue. She waved as she darted to the door. Bye, Ruth! Bye, Vernon! Thank you for everything! See you tomorrow!

The door swung shut, and she tore down the hallway to Main Street. Outside, it