On a small counter just inside the door, there’s a small tattered paper sign. S. Reid & Co. Custom Tack. Is this where I’m supposed to be? I’m getting a little dizzy staring into the cavernous shop, then suddenly a man strides in from between two heavily laden work tables. Has he been here all along? He’s an older man in his fifties, perhaps, with a mass of unruly salt and pepper grey hair that, at first glance, gives him the look of a mad scientist, a hermit, a backwoods recluse with sanity issues. However, when I finally look into his grey eyes he appears perfectly sane.
“You must be Mrs. Lucci?” he greets me as if he’s been expecting me all day. His thick brogue is quite elegant and very charming.
“Yes, yes, I am.”
He glances at the antique clock hung against a pillar between two fan
