Zelinda’s Tids & Bits
The bells above the radiant violet front door of the Tids and Bits Antique Shop chimed as an elderly woman with a cane entered the store. Zelinda, her bohemian dress flowing about her ankles as she moved, welcomed her newest customer with a smile.
“Good afternoon, I’m Zelinda, and welcome to my shop.”
“This is a lovely store,” the elderly woman said, trailing a crooked finger over a porcelain statue of a pair of lovebirds on the display table. “Have you been here long?”
“Not long, only about a month.”
The woman nodded. Her spectacled eyes scanned the store’s inventory.
“It reminds me of Oliver’s. When I was a little girl, Mr. Oliver had a store much like this in this exact location. I loved coming in here on Saturday afternoons with my Gran. The entire neighborhood was sad when his son, Owen, closed it shortly after his father’s death and sold the building.” She sighed and shook her head. “It would’ve broken Mr. Oliver’s heart if he knew what Owen had done. But…” Her bony shoulders shrugged, “even as a little girl, I always knew Owen Oliver was a greedy, lazy man.”
“Children often are the most perceptive judges of character,” Zelinda said.
The elderly woman nodded and leaned on her cane as she examined a rosewood jewelry box. “It used to bother me so to walk past and peer into the empty, dusty space. I’m happy to see that you’ve brought it back to life.”
“Is there anything special that you are shopping for, ma’am?” Zelinda asked as she glided across the store, stopping behind a large glass display case; her movements as graceful and enchanting as a prima ballerina. “I have many beautiful antiques and special oddities.”
“So I see. I’m Mrs. Peterson, by the way,” the woman said, hobbling over to the jewelry display case that Zelinda was standing behind. She peered down through the glass at the inventory and nodded. “You’re right. You do have some incredibly unique jewelry.” Mrs. Peterson stopped. “Oh my, I can’t believe it…”
The woman’s hand shook as she pointed an arthritic finger at a gold brooch shaped like a pair of sewing shears with two large rubies embedded into the handles.
“Ah, the ruby-sheared pin. It’s a beautiful piece, isn’t it?” Zelinda said, removing the antique brooch from the case. Quite old. One of a kind, too.”
“It’s stunning. It reminds me of a brooch that my Gran wore when I was a child.”
“Does it indeed? Why don’t you take a closer look?” Zelinda placed the golden pin into Mrs. Peterson’s unsteady palm.
“Remarkable. Yes, it looks exactly like Grans.” Mrs. Peterson stroked the brooch’s cool, smooth surface with her fingertip. “My grandfather gave my Gran her brooch as a wedding gift in 1890. She was a talented seamstress.”
“Is that so? My, how interesting,” Zelinda said.
Mrs. Peterson nodded, her eyes fixed on the brooch in her hand.
A Gift of Love
“When I was a little girl, my grandfather told me the story of Gran’s brooch. In the weeks leading up to their wedding day, he searched all the shops around the countryside looking for the perfect gift for his new bride. Something as beautiful and unique as her. The moment he saw the brooch, he swore that he knew that a more perfect gift did not exist in all the world. Cost him all his wages that he’d saved up. Said has no pricetag.”
She peered up at Zelinda and smiled. “He was right about the gift. Gran adored it. The pretty pin was her prized possession. She wore it every day. Didn’t matter if she was dressed up all spiffy for church or wearing a faded smock and apron to do the housework. It was always pinned right over Gran’s heart,” Mrs. Peterson said, tears welling up in her clouded blue eyes.
“Why did she stop wearing it?” Zelinda asked.
“One day, it vanished.” Her thin shoulders quivered. “I must’ve been about eight, maybe nine years old, the last time I saw it on her. Gran lost it somewhere. I asked her about it once. But she didn’t want to talk about it. I think losing her brooch broke her heart, because she died not long after it disappeared.”
Zelinda pointed to the jewelry in Mrs. Peterson’s hand. “Perhaps this is hers?”
“I wish it were, but I’m not foolish enough to believe that, after all these years, this could be hers.” Mrs. Peterson shook her head. “No, I’m afraid her brooch is gone forever. After she died, Mother and I searched my grandmother’s jewelry box. We turned the entire house upside down, but we never found it. Gran’s beautiful brooch was truly gone without a trace. That was seventy-five, no, eighty years ago.”
“Well, since you’re here, and this pin is so lovely, why don’t you try it on?” Zelinda replied, placing a mirror on the display counter in front of Mrs. Peterson.
Mrs. Peterson’s face lit up at the suggestion. Her gnarled hands, crippled from arthritis, wrestled with the long T-bar on the back of the brooch.
“I can’t seem to get my fingers to work. Zelinda, would you be a dear and help me?”
“Of course.” Zelinda took the brooch and pinned it onto the lapel of Mrs. Peterson’s coat. “There. It looks beautiful on you…take a look in the mirror.”
Zelinda stepped back, allowing Mrs. Peterson room to view her reflection. The woman brushed the golden pin with her fingers. It began to hum softly.
“Oh, my word, I look just like my Gran,” she whispered at her reflection. “Only with a few more wrinkles and a lot grayer hair. Gran was only in her sixties when she died.”
Mrs. Peterson staggered, gripping her cane to steady herself as the brooch hummed louder.
“Mrs. Peterson, are you okay?”
“I’m fine; I just feel a bit woozy.”
“Please, sit down.” Zelinda led Mrs. Peterson to a plush chair near the display case. “Mrs. Peterson, you rest here as long as you need.”
“Th-thank you. Maybe if I close my eyes for a moment—to get my bearings.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Zelinda smiled down at the woman. “You rest and I’ll go and pour you a nice cup of tea.”
Mrs. Peterson nodded but did not respond to the shopkeeper’s words, her thoughts distracted by memories of her past and the gentle buzzing pulsing from the pin.
A Dream of Yesterday
The humming from the brooch grew louder, filling her ears and invading her mind. Ms. Norma Peterson leaned back into the comfy chair and closed her eyes for a moment. The rhythmic vibrations emanating from the brooch eased her nerves. A few moments later, Norma opened her eyes and all that she could think was; I’ve gone mad or died.
Norma looked to her left and then to her right. She was no longer seated in the comfortable chair inside the quaint antique shop. Where am I? She was standing at the sidewalk’s edge across the street from the little shop. Now, how in the heavens did I end up here?
She stepped off the sidewalk and onto the road. A Ford Model A Sedan rumbled by, almost hitting her. Norma jumped back onto the sidewalk, her right hand instinctively reaching for her cane to steady herself, and discovered only empty air.
“Where’s my cane? What’s going on?” she said, holding her hand out in front of her face. “My hand,” she gasped.
Norma tilted her head as she turned her small hand in front of her, first palm up and then palm down, her narrowed eyes examining every inch of the soft, silken young skin that had replaced her wrinkles and brown age spots. “It’s so small. So perfect.” Norma muttered, wiggling her straight fingers. “What in the world?” No pain, not even a hint of the arthritis that had plagued her eighty-nine-year-old body for years, remained. “Well, Norma, it looks like you’ve finally lost your mind,” she said.
Across the street, Norma spotted a woman who looked remarkably like her long-dead grandmother, strolling down the sidewalk.
“Gran?” she whispered, her eyes widening, soaking up every familiar feature of the woman’s face as she got closer. It is Gran. I don’t know how, but it is. “Gran,” Norma called out.
The high-pitched, childlike voice that emerged from Norma’s mouth instead of her mature warble caught Norma off guard. Her tiny hands flew to her mouth. “Ooh, what’s happening to me?”
The woman who looked like Gran did not look in Norma’s direction; instead, she pulled open the door to the antique shop and disappeared inside. Norma ran across the street on short, but strong and steady, legs. A face in the shop window made her stop short. She stared at the reflection—her reflection.
“Oh, my,” Norma gasped, touching her cheeks. “Why is this happening to me?”
A pair of bright blue eyes stared back at her—no thick bifocals, no cataracts—on the face of a young girl with freckles instead of wrinkles. Thick auburn braids, the ends secured with blue, satin ribbon, hung from either side of her head; not a single speck of gray nor any sign of the horrid permanent she had gotten at Flo’s Beauty Salon last week. The girl looking back at Norma in the store window wore a simple, smocked sailor dress and a stunned expression that matched the confusion presently flooding Norma’s mind.
“Oh, Lord, I knew it.” She nodded, the girlish reflection twinning the motion. “I’ve died and become eight years old again,” Norma said, the childlike tone of her voice startling her once more.
She placed a hand over her chest, her palm searching for a heartbeat, for a sign that she was still alive. Her heart pounded with hearty, youthful thumps against her palm.
“Phew,” Norma sighed. “My ticker’s still working, so I must be alive…” She gazed at her girlish reflection again and shook her head, sending her braids bounding against her shoulders. “I’ve lost my marbles, but at least I’m still alive.”
Norma pressed her petite eight-year-old face against the store window. Standing up on her tippy toes, she peered in, her little legs lifting her just high enough to see inside the dimly lit shop. The woman, whom Norma was now determined was her beloved Gran, stood talking to a bald, portly man with a thin mustache. Is it Mr. Oliver? It can’t be. He’s dead.
“But Gran’s dead too,” Norma whispered. They’re both dead… that means I was wrong. “I must be dead too.”
The rapid beating of her heart inside her chest loudly contradicted her assessment. “Fine,” she huffed to her heart. “I’m not dead, but I’m still nuts.”
A Sacrifice for Love
Norma’s tiny hands wrestled with the heavy shop door. She bit her bottom lip between her front teeth, planted her feet, and used all her strength to pull it open. She crept through the entrance, determined to be quiet, hoping to sneak in without Gran spotting her. The door closed behind Norma, causing the bells above the entrance to jingle and dance. Mr. Oliver and Gran turned and stared at the door, looking right through Norma.
“It must be the wind, Margaret.” Mr. Oliver shrugged.
They can’t see me. Why can’t they see me?
Gran’s fingers reached up and removed the brooch from her dress.
“Are you sure about this, Margaret?” Mr. Oliver said.
“Positive, Oscar.” Her hands trembled as she dropped the pin into his waiting hand.
“Gran, no, don’t!” Norma shouted.
Mr. Oliver and Gran did not look.
They can’t hear me either.
Mr. Oliver examined the brooch. “I remember the day Charles bought this for you, Margaret. He was so excited that he’d found a gift worthy of you. He was so proud of you. Couldn’t believe that someone as talented and beautiful as you wanted to marry him, loved him.”
“My Charles was a remarkable man. I miss him dearly every moment of every day,” Margaret replied, the heartbreak lingering in her voice. “Sometimes I feel as if he’s still here with me.” She patted her heart, tears forming in her eyes. “And other times, I struggle to breathe without him.”
“I miss him, too, Margaret. He was the best friend I ever had.”
“He counted you his friend, ‘like a brother,’ he used to say. That’s why I came to you for help. Norma needs food and a roof over her head. Charles would understand. He would’ve wanted me to do this for her.”
Oscar Oliver nodded. “The Depression’s been hard on everyone. I can give you twenty-eight dollars for it. I only wish I could do more, but…”
“No need to explain. That is more than I ever expected. It will help more than you can imagine, Oscar,” Margaret said, dabbing a tear from her cheek with her gloved hand.
“Oh, Gran, please don’t do this,” Norma said, even though she knew that her grandmother could not hear her.
“I tell you what I’m going to do, Margaret. I’ll put your brooch in my safe. Hold onto it for you until you get back on your feet. It will be here waiting for you when you get the money.”
“Thank you. You’re a good friend.” Margaret tucked the money into her small, beaded handbag. “I need to go. Norma will be home from school soon. And remember, Oscar, not a word of this to anyone.”
Without waiting for Oscar’s response, Margaret turned, brushing Norma as she rushed by, and hurried out the front door. Gran’s Shalimar perfume flooded Norma’s nostrils as the bells clanged above the door.
“Gran, wait!” Norma yelled, chasing after her. “Please,” she called out, tripping over a loose cobblestone on the sidewalk and tumbling to the ground. “Ouch!” Norma cried out in pain as the skin scraped from her left knee.
Her grandmother did not hear her pleas, nor did she stop. Norma hugged her knees to her chest, closed her eyes, and listened to the distinctive click, click, click of Gran’s heels against the cobblestone grow fainter until she no longer heard her grandmother’s steps. Tears, hot and plentiful, flowed down Norma’s freckled cheeks as the pain overwhelmed her. Not the pain of her skinned knee, but the pain of Gran’s sacrifice.
“She gave up her brooch for me.”
Reunited By a Dream
“Mrs. Peterson, are you okay? Should I call someone?” a woman’s voice said.
Norma opened her eyes and blinked twice, trying to gather herself and her bearings. The cobblestone sidewalk was gone. So were her braids. Display cases of trinkets surrounded her.
“I’m back,” Norma whispered, her fingers gripping the plush arms of the chair she was seated in.
“Are you alright, Mrs. Peterson?” Zelinda leaned over her, so close that Norma could smell the shopkeeper’s honeysuckle perfume. “Is there someone you’d like me to call?”
“No, no,” Norma shook her head. “I’m fine, dear. I must’ve nodded off for a moment.”
She glanced down at her crippled hands—her eighty-nine-year-old hands. I’m old again. I’m not crazy or dead. It was all just a dream.
“Zelinda, I know this is going to sound like the ravings of a crazy old lady, but when I closed my eyes, I had the most interesting dream. I saw my Gran. In my dream, she did not lose her brooch; she pawned it at Mr. Oliver’s shop—this shop—to take care of me.”
“That does not sound crazy at all, Mrs. Peterson. I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” Zelinda nodded. “Dreams have a magical way of revealing things to us when we least expect them. Secrets. Truths. Answers. I also believe that your Gran loved you very much,” Zelinda said, her voice soft and soothing.
Norma covered the brooch with her hand and looked up at Zelinda. It took Norma a moment to readjust to her less-than-perfect eyesight.
“I’d like to buy the brooch, Zelinda. I know it has to be Gran’s. The dream. The reason I wandered into this shop today. All of it.”
“I thought you might,” Zelinda said, extending a hand.
“How much is it?” Norma asked, placing the golden pin in Zelinda’s palm.
Zelinda’s fingertips brushed lightly over the gold, following the curved design, her touch almost reverent. The dim light of the shop reflected off the ruby-eyed shears, casting a faint crimson glow onto her fingertips. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Zelinda’s lips—a knowing smile, as if the brooch whispered something only she could hear.
“Ah,” Zelinda murmured, her gray eyes narrowing as she tilted the brooch toward the light. “This pin has seen many lifetimes… far more than most would care to know.”
Mrs. Peterson frowned. “What do you mean?”
Zelinda’s gaze flickered, her expression carefully composed. “Every antique holds a secret,” she said softly. “Some secrets… are best left for those who seek them.”
A chill ran down Norma’s spine, though she couldn’t say why. “But… my grandmother’s brooch—”
“Was cherished by her beyond words,” Zelinda finished, her voice a whisper now. “A treasure born from love… and perhaps, something more.”
For a moment, Mrs. Peterson could have sworn that the ruby eyes of the brooch gleamed brighter as if acknowledging the truth buried within its delicate form.
“Can I help you up?” Zelinda offered.
“No, no, dear,” Norma shook her head, waving her away. “I may be old and a bit slow, but I can still get myself out of a chair.”
“Then, I’ll meet you over there,” Zelinda said, pointing to the register near the front door.
Norma’s joints creaked as she rose from the chair, all of her familiar aches and pains greeting her like long-lost friends. She took her time, balancing herself with her cane before she dared take a step. With her hand gripping the cane and her legs as steady as they could get, Norma stepped forward and winced. It can’t be.
Reaching down, she lifted the hem of her dress and stared down at her knee. The skin on her left knee was scraped off; dried blood clung to the raw skin. Smiling, she released the hem of her dress and hobbled with her cane to the register.
“You never did tell me the price, Zelinda. How much do I owe you?”
Zelinda smiled. “That will be twenty-eight dollars, Norma,” she said and winked.
The bells above the front door chimed as the sweet scent of Shalimar filled the shop. Norma smiled but did not bother to look. She knew she would not see anyone.
THE END
Copyright 2018, Lisa Alfano; Revised Version Copyright 2025.
A Note from the Author and Realm Keeper of Flawed Realms
Ms. Norma Peterson is no longer in this realm. Her departure should not elicit sadness, but rather the joyous celebration of a life well-lived and filled with love. I have it on good authority that Norma has reunited with her beloved Gran, her grandfather, her parents, and many of her family members and friends who departed this realm before her.
When Norma knew her time in this realm was drawing to a close, she returned the brooch to Zelinda’s care. Its clasp is worn, its golden surface dulled—but if you hold it up close to your heart, and listen closely, you might hear a heartbeat from long ago, whispering:
“You were always worth it because there is no price tag on love.”
