The Antique Dealer's Arrangement
"Constance specializes in Black antiques—items the mainstream market overlooks. When a collector walks in looking for his grandmother's lost belongings, she finds something she didn't know was missing."
Ancestral Treasures is the only Black antique shop in the Quarter.
I deal in things other dealers ignore—quilts, photographs, furniture from homes that history forgot. I'm Constance—fifty-eight, curator of the overlooked.
"I'm looking for something specific."
The man is well-dressed, clearly not local. Something about his presence fills my small shop.
"What kind of specific?"
"My grandmother's rocking chair. Sold in an estate sale after she passed. Someone said it might have come through here."
I know the chair.
Purchased it six months ago from an estate in Tremé. Hand-carved, beautiful, clearly made with love.
"I have it," I say. "But it's not for sale."
"Everything has a price."
"Not this." I show him the chair. "Look at the carvings. Someone made this for someone they loved. I don't sell that kind of thing."
"Then what do you do with it?"
"Wait for the right person to find it." I run my hands over the wood. "Sometimes that's a family member. Sometimes it's someone who needs what it carries."
"You believe furniture carries things?"
"I believe everything carries history." I meet his eyes. "That's why I do this."
His name is Marcus.
Lawyer from Chicago, here to settle his grandmother's remaining affairs. The chair was her prized possession—her husband made it for her sixty years ago.
"I'll pay whatever you want," he says.
"I already told you—"
"Then let me earn it." He sits in the chair, properly. "Tell me what I need to do."
He stays.
Days, then weeks. Helps me inventory new acquisitions, learns the stories behind each piece.
"You're very devoted to antiques," I note.
"I'm devoted to understanding." He holds a jazz photograph. "My grandmother was devoted to history. I never understood why until now."
"Why?"
"Because you showed me." His eyes find mine. "The value of things most people ignore."
"Marcus—"
"I know." He sets down the photograph. "I'm your customer. You're the dealer. But I've been finding excuses to stay for three weeks now."
"The chair—"
"Isn't why I'm still here." He moves toward me. "You are."
The kiss happens among the antiques.
Surrounded by other people's histories, making our own.
"This is inappropriate," I whisper.
"This is authentic." He pulls me closer. "The most authentic thing in this shop."
My apartment above the store is full of treasures.
He sees them all, appreciates them all, then focuses on me.
"You're the best thing here," he says.
"I'm just a dealer—"
"You're a historian. A protector." He undresses me slowly. "Let me appreciate the collection."
His mouth explores me like I'm precious.
Every curve catalogued, every softness valued.
"Beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm old—"
"You're vintage." He kisses my belly. "The finest quality."
When he enters me, I feel found.
Like something lost that finally returned to the right hands.
"Constance—"
"Don't stop." I pull him deeper. "Some things are worth taking time with."
Afterward, among my antiques, he holds me.
"Come to Chicago," he says.
"My shop—"
"Can be here. Can be there. Can be anywhere." He strokes my hair. "I just want you in my collection."
"That's not how this works—"
"Then let's make new rules."
The chair goes to Chicago.
So do I, eventually. We split time between cities—his practice, my shop, our life together.
"My grandmother would have liked you," he says one night.
"Why?"
"You value the same things she did." He pulls me close. "Things other people overlook."
The wedding is in the antique shop.
Surrounded by history, witnessed by objects that waited for the right people.
"To found treasures," Marcus toasts.
"To being found," I counter.
We kiss among the artifacts.
Some things are meant to be sold.
Some are meant to be kept.
And some antique dealers find that the most valuable treasures aren't the ones on the shelves.
They're the ones that walk through the door.
And decide to stay.