Rob Scott - The Hickory Staff

Steven walked through the door of Meyers Antiques at 9.15 a.m., inordinately proud of himself for holding off that long. He had eaten pancakes, followed by an omelette with hash browns, two rounds of toast and about six cups of coffee as he waited for 9.00 to roll around on his geologically slow wristwatch. He laughed at himself: if the anxiety failed to kill him in the next hour, the cholesterol certainly would.

The store was already bustling with activity as two dozen customers moved items, tried out chairs, examined first-edition books and pored over china sets for cracks or imperfections. Looking towards the rear of the store, he saw his sister’s china cabinet was still there, leaning up against the far wall.

He started when he heard someone calling his name.

‘Excuse me, Mr Taylor.’ It was Jennifer Sorenson. He saw no sign of Hannah.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he answered, navigating through a mismatched bedroom set to where she stood waving.

‘I’ll help you get the Duncan Phyfe out to your truck. Hannah’s making a delivery and stopping off at the post office for me this morning, but she told me to expect you.’

‘That’s right, ma’am,’ Steven answered, furiously thinking of some way to delay his departure until Hannah returned. ‘Uh… do you know if the keys are available?’ The cabinet had two sets of double doors, and both had locks but no keys.

‘If they aren’t taped inside, you may be out of luck. There’s one place you can look if you feel like taking the time.’

‘Where is that?’ Steven felt his hope rising.

‘In the keys to the known world,’ the older woman responded, adding nostalgically, ‘my father kept a jar of keys. Most of them don’t fit anything, but he liked to let children drop keys inside and make a wish. It was a fun way to keep them occupied while their parents browsed around. Sometimes children would come in by themselves just to drop off keys.’

The idea of picking through sixty years of discarded keys did not sound very appealing, but it was a sure-fire way to ensure he’d be around when Hannah returned from her morning errands.

‘Terrific,’ he said. ‘Point me to them and I’ll get started.’

The jar was actually an enormous glass container the size of a small barrel. It took him and Jennifer working together to lift it over to where he could sit and try out possible matches in the cabinet’s locks. He estimated there were some two or three thousand keys in the container; the task would take hours – but the longer he stayed at Meyers Antiques, the more courage he would summon to ask Hannah to dinner that evening.

By 11.00 a.m. Steven’s four-course breakfast was sitting in his stomach like a bag of wet cement, and he was now certain these were the keys to the known world. He had seen every imaginable size and style: skeleton keys, house keys, boat keys, even keys to an Edsel – he’d never seen an Edsel outside the movies, yet here he had found the keys for one. He tossed them into a pile at his feet.

He had a rough idea what he was looking for – a type of skeleton key with teeth on one side of a short barrel and a small hole in the end – which at least made searching a little easier.

Steven was both an avid hiker and a mountain cyclist, and he had memorised each turn and switchback of many of the routes in Rocky Mountain National Park. When work at the First National Bank of Idaho Springs began to feel like drudgery, he would drift off in quick, escapist daydreams, remembering fondly every detail of a great climb or a bike trip over the Continental Divide. He sometimes worried this escapist tendency was dangerous, part of his ongoing propensity to avoid living in the moment, but it helped him control stress, and reminded him there was an end to every boring task. Working through the keys, he found himself drifting back to a long climb he and Mark had completed several weeks earlier, along the Grey’s Peak trail just below Loveland Pass. He remembered the picturesque vistas and autumn aromas, and the feel of the earth beneath his boots. Before long he was immersed in his memories, absentmindedly checking the keys, but otherwise paying them little attention.

It was then he heard the voice, as if from outside, across the street, somewhere along South Broadway.

‘I said, are you having any luck?’ It was Hannah. Startled from his reverie, Steven jumped to his feet and in the process kicked a pile of rejects across the faded tile floor.

‘Oh, damnit, I’m sorry about that.’ He moved awkwardly to his hands and knees and began gathering up the scattered keys. ‘I’ll have them all together in just a second.’

‘Well, let me help you,’ she said, laughing, and joined him on the floor. ‘I take it you haven’t found any that fit the cabinet.’

‘No, not yet.’ Steven stopped and watched Hannah. In his mind, he heard himself saying over and over again, ‘ I ring the bells of Notre Dame. ’

She stopped as well and, on all fours between rows of mahogany and walnut china cabinets, said, ‘You know, you’re well over halfway through the jar. I can help you with the rest after we get these picked up.’

‘That would be nice of you.’ Steven allowed a long breath to escape his lungs. She was dressed similarly to the evening before, but this morning her hair hung loose about her face and across her shoulders.

‘Um-’ Now Hannah hesitated. ‘Are you free for lunch?’

‘Most days, yeah… unless of course Howard makes me go to Owen’s with him.’

Hannah giggled, then looked embarrassed. ‘No, silly, I meant today. Are you free for lunch today?’

Steven was stunned. She had taken him by surprise, and despite his heart bellowing a cacophonous, white-knuckle rhythm through his ears, he almost managed to control his voice when he replied, ‘I’d love to.’

As they walked to the Mexican restaurant Hannah had chosen, she did most of the talking, chatting about her grandfather and the store. Steven was happy just to listen. He had managed to put his foot in his mouth so often since meeting her that he welcomed the reprieve. The restaurant was busy with a large Saturday lunch crowd, but Hannah located a booth near the back where they could enjoy the illusion of privacy. Although Steven was far from hungry – breakfast was still sitting a little heavy – he made certain to order enough to make lunch last as long as possible. He soon discovered Hannah needed little convincing; she appeared in no rush to get back to the shop.

Hannah was a full-time law student at the University of Denver. She had originally studied political science, then took a job with a charitable organisation, but after three years there decided she could better serve those in need as a lawyer. ‘I don’t expect to make much money at it, but in the long run, I hope to have a greater impact this way,’ she explained, stuffing shredded chicken and guacamole into a fajita.

When Steven tried, delicately, to broach the topic of other men, she told him she had recently broken off a long-distance relationship with a boyfriend from college who had moved to Atlanta.

‘Was it the distance that created problems for you?’ Steven asked, feeling encouraged.

‘No, I think it was more his tendency to engage in short-distance relationships while in a long-distance relationship with me.’ She took a bite of her fajita, then, with her mouth full, asked a muffled, ‘How about you?’

‘Me? Oh, God no. I haven’t been involved with anyone for the past three years. I finished my MBA, misplayed a couple decent job offers, partly because they were risks and partly because they were… well, mostly because they were risks. I’m not much of a risk taker,’ he said, folding and unfolding a corner of his napkin.

‘I know. I could tell. I mean, how many of those keys were you really going to examine before you talked to me? And your truck was outside the store before I arrived this morning. So I thought I’d take the gamble and help you out.’ She looked at Steven, waiting for a response. ‘Was that okay?’