CHAPTER 6

Marcus waited unseen. In the shadows he watched Mr. Owens bag each record meticulously, a care that only came from genuine feeling. It wasn’t that Marcus had any issues with taking Mr. Owens then and there in front of all the store visitors, but the separation was always harder when the soul had to deal with sudden gasps and screams of those viewing their lifeless body. While he waited, he studied Mr. Owens. He was a good man. Marcus could tell. And he protected Abigail. Abby as he’d called her. Marcus chuckled. She didn’t look like an Abby. Somewhere beneath the misery that was Abigail, there was an Abby. Marcus wanted to know Abby.

The light jingle of doorbells jarred Marcus from his thoughts. A resonating, “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” told him his time had come. Silent clicks shattered his hesitation as Mr. Owens locked the door and turned. Instantly, the elderly man froze. His face whitened with shock, pale as untouched snow. Marcus stood squarely in front of him with his hands in his pockets.

“Good evening, Mr. Cornelius Owens,” he announced formally and inclined his head.

Mr. Owens took a step back and held his hands up in surrender. “Listen, son, I don’t want any trouble. There’s barely any money in the register, but it’s yours if you want it.”

Retort edged on Marcus’ lips, but he bit back his words. Dressed in all black and appearing out of thin air, he couldn’t blame Mr. Owens’ deduction, however offensive he thought it to be.

    “I’m not here for your money,” he said. “I’m here to talk.”

“To talk?” Mr. Owens regarded Marcus with an arched brow. “What business do you have that’s so important it couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”

Marcus walked to a nearby shelf, running a hand absently over the ledge. It was cool, but not enough. He lowered his hand and turned. “I came here in part to talk to you about Miss Arch—about Abigail,” he admitted.

Mr. Owens’ brow furrowed further as if gauging Marcus’s sincerity to which Marcus added, “Please, I just want…I need to know more about her and I didn’t know where else to go.”

Mr. Owens studied him for a long moment. Finally, he tilted his head toward the back of the store where a battered sofa and armchair comprised a seating area.

Though worn and age-beaten, Marcus found it to be quite comforting. Smoothing his hand over the worn leather of the sofa, he let out a breath. The coolness was slight, but a relief to his blistering hands.

Mr. Owens sat opposite Marcus. “So you want to know about Abigail?” he said, speaking first. “She’s a good girl. Maybe you should know that first. She’s a nice girl who doesn’t need any more trouble brought her way. You’re a rather good-looking man and should have no problem finding another girl for a good time.”

“I don’t want another girl—any girl for a good time,” Marcus said curtly.

“Then what is it that you want? Abby’s been through enough. Leave her alone so she can live her life.”

“If what she has is a life,” Marcus complained, more to himself. He gripped the armrest and paused, realizing that for the first time the truth was the only answer that would give him peace. He lowered his eyes, ashamed. “I’m quite certain she never wants to see me again, but perhaps if I knew why she remains so…so…hidden, I can let her go. I want to understand.” He motioned around his neck. “The scarf, the big coat, and all the shields. I want to know why...” She waits for me.

Marcus lowered his eyes. He plucked at the seams of the sofa with a nervousness he didn’t understand. It unsettled him feeling so open, exposed…so honest. The weight of his confession was supposed to have lifted from his chest. After uttering the last word, Marcus felt the load multiply and a cold sweat dampen his skin. What if Mr. Owens refused to tell him anything about Abigail, leaving him with the nothing he already held in his empty hands?

“She wasn’t always that way,” Mr. Owens began carefully. Marcus’s eyes shot up to Mr. Owens who nodded with a secret understanding. “I’m not saying she was an angel either. Plenty of records and knickknacks went missing in this place before I finally apprehended her. But deep down,” Mr. Owens said, pointing a frail finger to his chest, “she was good, and she was happy. She’d always been a happy girl, since she was a child. You see, she’s been coming here since she was a baby. Her mother, Patricia, was a composer. She said she found inspiration in these walls, surrounded by the works of all the greats who had come before her. She would sit with Abby in that corner and spend hours flipping through music sheets, talking of their histories and humming their melodies. I so much as even created a little area just for them.” Emotion choked Mr. Owens, and he grew quiet, motioning his head to the oddly spaced shelves in the opposite back corner. Marcus kept his silence. He didn’t need to ask to encourage the conversation. After one hundred years, he could wait a bit longer.

“Naturally over time, as Abigail grew, the distance between them widened. I could see it. But there in that corner, they came together to talk in the only language that united them, music. Regardless of whether they walked in here bickering, while here they found some happiness, a peace they didn’t have before. Their love for music was what brought them back here, to the place where all their differences were checked at the door. And of all songs, they would always end their visit listening to Chopin’s Nocturne in C sharp minor. Even if for a few moments, they were happy.”

Marcus could have closed his eyes and lost himself in Mr. Owens' words, in those recollections of a time where a scarf and black rimmed glasses didn’t exist.

“After Patricia passed, I gathered every sheet of music they ever shared and bound them into that very book she refused to let you buy her, but she only ever flips to the last page, to their song. I’ve considered giving it to her. Heaven knows it’s practically hers. But it’s what keeps her coming back here, where I can keep an eye on her and see how she’s coping. She’s lost everything to this accident and this depression has robbed her of everything else—her friends, her passion, her joys. It’s selfish I know, but I’ve grown to care for her as my own. Although I can’t get through to her, past all her sadness, I will always have her music.”

Marcus stared for a moment. He was right. Mr. Owens was a good man. “And this accident you speak of?”

Mr. Owens let out a long breath, loosely clasping his hands. “All I know is what I read in the papers the next day. The car flipped over an embankment on Route 9 up north two winters ago.” Mr. Owens shook his head solemnly, a flush accompanying the sudden hoarseness in his voice. “Patricia was killed instantly. Poor Abby survived, thankfully, but the cause of the accident was never determined. They say perhaps it was the icy roads or that her mother lost control somehow. I don’t know. Abby has never spoken of it and so I’ve never asked. I just make sure her book is always there for her, that her corner is undisturbed, and that she knows whenever she needs anything, whatever it may be, that she has a friend in me. It’s the most I could do for her and for the memory of her mother.”

Marcus sat back and inhaled deeply, not having realized he had stopped breathing. Finally, he knew of Abigail’s life, yet he knew nothing at all. Would he ever understand her?

He turned then to Mr. Owens and a bitter thought afflicted his mood all the more. Marcus ran a hand the length of his face and stood with a sharp sigh. He paced to Abigail’s corner, gazing at the space between the shelves. It was truly an impossible situation. Fate and duty now demanded he take away the person who seemed to be Abigail’s only friend.

Mr. Owens remained quiet, but it was a curious silence. When Marcus turned, he saw Mr. Owens looking at him, suddenly pale.

“You called me Cornelius,” he said carefully. “I changed my name to Christopher long ago, in another country, and long before you were born.”

A sad smile curved the left side of Marcus’s lips. “I wouldn’t quite say that.”

Mr. Owens blanched all the more. “You said you only came in part to ask about Abigail. What of the other part?”

Words for Marcus would not come, and so he stared at the man. With a shuddering breath of understanding Mr. Owens' eyes widened. Marcus stiffened, having forgotten all about the dreaded look. But Mr. Owens’ look had been different. There had been surprise yes, but few regrets.

Resignedly, the man stood. “I would just like to say goodbye to my store if you don’t mind. It’s been a long time since I first opened these doors. I’d hate to just leave it without a proper farewell.”

Marcus nodded once and walked to the front of the store. He leaned back against the doors and watched on as Mr. Cornelius Owens ceremoniously flicked off each light and tucked each record back into its rightful place with a lingering touch.

Half an hour’s time spent in the company of Mr. C. Owens had Marcus’s chest in a firm knot of restrained emotion. It wasn’t just Mr. Owens losing his soul, but Marcus felt he was taking away the soul of the very store. His skin prickled with a foreign coolness, as if the vinyls spilled their silent tears from in between their jackets and onto his skin.

Section by section the store fell into darkness. All the while Marcus stood fighting off a guilt that he should not have felt, a sadness that was not his, and a weight on his chest that made it hard to breathe. He cursed. It was all her fault. Had he never saved Abigail, he wouldn’t have ever known such discomforting madness. She was his punishment indeed.

Mr. Owens stopped before Marcus, sheet music held firmly in his hands. “If anything over sixty years has captured what I wanted this store to be, it’s this song. It’s the bond between a mother and a daughter. Tell Abigail I wanted her to have it.”

Marcus hesitated. Hands dampened with indecision, he took the sheets from Mr. Owens’ grasp.

Mr. Owens was quiet for a moment, a thought visible on his face. “Are you going to take her too? Is that why she knows you?”

“I have to,” Marcus said, looking down at the clefs of Chopin’s classic marking the page entrusted to him. “I just don’t think I can.”

Mr. Owens gripped Marcus’s shoulder and looked into his eyes with an intensity Marcus saw only once before in another man’s eyes—Margaret’s father. It was a look of full confidence and trust.

“Then you need to take care of her. She doesn’t have any friends and her foster parents are terrible people. She will need you, please. Even if she refuses to speak to you again, don’t leave her. Will you do this for me?” The man’s voice broke.

Marcus tensed. His better half told him he would be a fool in agreeing to take care of Abigail. Had he not failed at the same promise before? Besides, at any moment Margaret could demand to see the Timekeeper and Abigail would be left alone, again. He had to refuse.

But Mr. Owens’ stare was open and in his eyes, Marcus knew Mr. Owens would not go in peace until knowing Abigail would be safe.

The prospect of shattering another promise hurt physically. Marcus said nothing at all, although Mr. Owens gathered his answer in the silence.

“Thank you,” he said. Peace washed over his eyes as he inclined his head. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Marcus met the man’s stare and extended his hand. “It has been an honor, Mr. Cornelius Owens.” And with a respectful handshake, he broke the bonds of life.

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