The Art of the Kiss by Holly Schindler

Author:Holly Schindler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: InToto Books
Published: 2019-11-19T16:00:00+00:00

~Heather~

You’ll never believe what just happened, Sharon. I was in Charles Liu’s office building. And as soon as I walked in, I swear all I could think was, Oh, my.

His building—you know, the new one off Commercial Street—it’s not a high-rise, exactly. Maybe more like medium-rise. But I’m a ground-floor kind of girl. This place has all kinds of businesses in it—lawyers, architects, even one of those financial adviser places.

Liu’s agency was way up on the fifth floor, and it had this giant plaque above the reception desk: Liu Marketing and Advertising. Or maybe it was Liu Marketing Inc. No. Liu Strategies...

I can’t even remember now, I’m so flummoxed. Anyway. You get the idea.

Liu’s receptionist was busy—flicking her manicured fingers across her phone, moving swiftly from one call straight to another, ignoring me the whole time.

I was getting the feeling that I was the least important person ever to dare to step inside the place. I was also getting the urge to run, to tell you the truth. So I tried to distract myself by staring at the plaque that hung above the receptionist’s head. Really memorizing the thing, like I’d once memorized European geography of the Middle Ages in school. There was plenty to go over, let me tell you. The thing had to measure at least three feet long and was made to look like a giant chunk of antique ivory. Then again, maybe it didn’t resemble at all. Maybe Liu’s was the kind of high-end place that could afford ivory signs. It seemed to me that there was some kind of law against importing the stuff, but maybe this chunk had been in the family forever, passed down from one Liu to another.

I started to gnaw my bottom lip as I stared at the pretentious monstrosity. For some reason—probably because I was craving a little slice of comfort—the longer I stared, the more it reminded me of another piece of ivory: a carved piece of scrimshaw I’d inherited when Mom died. A pipe, which I put away in a safe deposit box. I didn’t know what else to do with it. Anyway, remembering its history—and the pipe’s original owner—seemed to temporarily tamp down my nerves.

My great-grandfather had been the original owner of the pipe. I think he said it was walrus tusk. The bowl had been carved into a pirate head. Where he’d picked it up had been a mystery. He’d used it every day, even after it got old enough to be valuable. He was ancient by the time I’d known him, a squiggle of a man, the same shape as the curl of smoke twirling out the pipe.

The smoke itself smelled kind of pleasant and toasty, but the carved pirate head had scared me, made even my weary, age-weakened great-grandfather seem formidable, tough, intimidating. He’d been a sailor for a time—that was what Mom had always told me. Probably one of those family stories that exaggerated the details of the past, growing like a fish tale with each retelling over the course of three generations.

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