Vonderlust

Vonderlust By R.W. Clinger October 30, 2021. Saturday afternoon shone in shards of ice and snow. Winds of various strengths battered and pelted our little lakeside town of Harker, Ohio. Winter had mysteriously come early, sweeping a bitter coldness down from Canada, slicing through the streets and keeping residents inside, cozy and warm next to churning fires. I’d sat across from Mina Carpathia, my boss and best friend, and listened to her ramble for the last fifteen minutes about her current boyfriend, a much-older executive who cared more about numbers and financial investments than her raven hair, leprechaun-colored eyes, and voluptuous breasts. The woman was a beauty from toes to head, intelligent, and quite powerful when she needed to be. How many times had I told her to dump Renoir and find a dumb jock interested more in s*x than money? So many fish swam in the sea of life. Mina deserved better, particularly a man who desired her dynamic curves over money and work. Again and again she kept saying, “He’s just not into me.” My bored gaze studied her shadowy office. Eclectic came to mind: too many orb-shaped and glass paperweights that reminded me of her past boyfriends, clunky Chippendale furniture, and a suit of armor in one corner that she had purchased somewhere in Wales on her travels. “Liam? Liam Dumar, are you listening to me?” She clapped her hands, gaining my attention. So feisty. Ambitious. Caught. Shame on me. I saved myself with a frequently used comeback, “Renoir Fresco is a d**k. He likes his cash more than your succulent thighs. It’s time to move on, darling. He’s not a real man. He’d rather f**k his money. I’ve told you this before, and I will tell you again. He’s shit.” She blew me a kiss across the expanse of her desk and its piles of organized paperwork. Her smile was part wicked and part tame, very attractive, almost sensual. “I love you. You’re my sanity and balance. If you weren’t queer as Tinkerbell, I’d marry you. Shame on God for causing you to like cock.” We both chuckled and moved on with our meeting. Icy snow ticked against the windows. The aggressive wind knocked on every wall, wanting inside. The storm increased by the seconds. It didn’t stop her from reviewing my next task. I had been cordially invited to Hyde Manor by none other than its aged owner himself, Lord Harkford Mason Hyde. In a shaky hand, he’d jotted down the kindest note, writing in Vladimir Script that looked almost illegible. His communication was short, to the point, and in a deep crimson hue. It stated clearly that I had permission to retrieve the oil painting Lust Between Two Men, and delicately convey it by vehicle from Mount Castelul, specifically Hyde Manor, Lord Harkford Hyde’s home for the last decade, and kindly deliver it back to Harker and to my employer, Mina Carpathia Antiques. She, in turn, would sell the exquisite piece to its fresh buyers, Lawrence Deaver and George McGlintock. Thereafter, on November 2, the new owners and wealthy lovers, were to pick up the rare art piece at Mina’s office, happy with their painting. A done deal. Task completed. Everyone would win. Mina was paying me quite the sum of money to make the sixty-mile round trip from our small antique village of Harker, a unique northeastern Ohio town, to Hyde Manor by Lake Erie, and back. Truth said, I felt somewhat embarrassed to receive the hefty sum of cash from her, but she exclaimed, “You’re worth the green, Liam. The storm is brutal today and the job must be done. And we both know that Hyde Manor is creepy and holds dark secrets and I don’t want any part of it. So, you’re doing me a favor, which I’m grateful for.” As her assistant for the last dozen years, and best friend for what felt like forever, I understood her, and said, “Thank you for this opportunity. I’ll get the job done. You have nothing to worry about.” The plan was simple: I’d pack an overnight Gucci bag and leave Harker in an hour. Then I’d go east, into Pennsylvania, and end up on Mount Castelul, and Lord Hyde’s manor. I intended to humor the wealthy Romanov gentleman, enjoy a refined brandy with him, chatter with him for few hours, and admire the rare painting. Thereafter, I would spend the night in the manor, rest contentedly within one of its large and airy bedrooms, and, the next morning, make the drive back to Harker with the expensive painting, handing it over to Mina. Looking back now…if only it were that easy, of course. If only. * * * * Mina Elizabeth Carpathia had started her antiques business some fifteen years before by accident. I believe we were twenty at the time. While traveling with me through Amish country in eastern Pennsylvania, both of us having left Temple University for the summer after a hectic semester, we stopped at a gas station in the middle of nowhere to take a pee and to grab something to drink. Near the rear of the Ma and Pa shop was a small table of trinkets for sale: pens, watches, pins, shells, metal toy cars, and other small whatnots that could catch passing eyes. What caught her most was a Nixon pin: oval-shaped, black-and-white, with Richard and Pat Nixon headshots. She bought it for a buck and…two years later—Mina with a bachelor’s degree from Temple in business administration—someone asked to buy the pin from her for one hundred and twenty-five dollars, which she accepted. Such a transaction plus her obsessive liking for rare antiques had her diving into the buying and selling of antiques; something that had changed her world forever. Within weeks after the pin transaction, she was working for Harold Berger Antiques and learned the ropes of the business for the next eight years, until she branched off on her own, creating MCA, Mina Carpathia Antiques…I will go to the ends of the earth to find your perfect trinket.