The large windows in the front of Pierre’s newest acquired piece of property acted as perfect portraits to frame the soft haze of that rainy, midsummer day. He could not think of better weather for the opening of his new storefront. Whatever this would become, he had always found his bookshops the most comfortable of small universes. Sturdy dark oak book cases lined two walls, with upright spines displaying mostly recognizable tales, canon works, with some unique books in German and French. In the center of the room sat an expensive brown leather sofa, a love seat to the side, with a stout apothecary table just in front to hold an expensive china tea set and a thick brown binder full of authentication receipts. Just beyond that were were two more brown tables full of Pierre’s favorite antiques, and finally, his vintage 1890s desk, full of papers, books, and pens. Pierre sat behind the desk, writing to his London office to send back his favorite portrait of the young boy. Behind him, in the back room, sat a modestly sized gallery of framed works. His own paradise. The golden bell above the heavy wood door chimed for Pierre’s attention. He peered up from his desk. “Welcome to Attaway’s, anything I can help you to find?”
