DECEMBER 1951
Pete Richards was the loneliest man in town on the day Jean Grace opened his door. You may have seen something in the newspapers about the incident at the time it happened, although neither his name nor hers was published, nor was the full story told as I tell it here.
Pete's shop had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things: bracelets and lockets worn a century ago, gold rings and silver boxes, images of jade and ivory, porcelain figurines.
On this winter's afternoon a child was standing there, her forehead against the glass, earnest and enormous eyes studying each discarded treasure, as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.
The shadowy interior of Pete Richards' establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets, duelling pistols, clocks and lamps and the floor was heaped with andirons and mandolins and things hard to find a name for.
Behind the counter stood Pete himself, a man not more than 30, but with hair already turning grey. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.
“Mister," she began, “would you please let me look at that string of blue beads in the window?" Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her.
“They're just perfect," said the child, entirely to herself. “Will you wrap them up pretty for me, please?"
Pete studied her with a stony air. “Are you buying these for someone?"
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