Free Secondhand Spirits by Juliet Blackwell

watched her closely, but for all her flightiness she was surprisingly difficult to read. Sandra was my neighbor on Haight Street, and I wanted to maintain a good relationship. But I had a hard time liking her.
    â€œI have to get back to my store,” I said.
    â€œCould I come over with you and look through your new inventory?”
    â€œYou were just in yesterday morning. We don’t have anything new up—”
    â€œMaya mentioned you were getting some new clothes last night.”
    â€œWe did just acquire a bunch of stuff, but we haven’t prepped it yet. We still need to sort through it, wash everything, and make some repairs.”
    â€œI don’t mind,” she said, moving out from behind the counter to join me.
    â€œReally, Sandra, it’s not ready—”
    â€œDon’t be silly—I can wash clothes just as easily as you can. It’s no problem.”
    â€œ No , Sandra,” I said as firmly as I could. “I have a process I like to follow.”
    Just then two college-age girls came into the store, wearing the uniform of the Haight Street youth: tie-dyed T-shirts over long skirts, faded zippered hoodies, their long hair tied in loose knots at the backs of their heads, worn backpacks slung over thin shoulders.
    â€œOh, okay,” Sandra relented, peeved. “If it’s like that.”
    â€œI’ll let you know as soon as we put the new stuff out. I promise,” I said as I slipped out of Peaceful Things, breathing a sigh of relief.
    Making friends wasn’t as easy as it looked.
    * * *
    I returned to find Aunt Cora’s Closet blessedly free of customers. Weekday mornings are typically slow, which I enjoy. It gives me a chance to catch up on processing the clothes, and I had several Hefty bags full of new inventory awaiting my attention in the back room. I needed to sort through them carefully, making notes of the sewing repairs needed and setting them aside to send with Maya to her mother, Lucille, who did piece-work for me at home. The rest I separated by laundering need: Some could be washed in the delicate cycle of my jumbo clothes washer in the back room; others needed to be sent out for “green” dry cleaning—our bill was terrible—and still others had to be washed by hand. Happily, I had a magical leg up when it came to stains: I could usually figure out what the offending article was, and therefore was better suited to deal with it.
    But first things first. Determined to get to know my adopted city, I tried to make time to read the local paper every day. I grabbed the San Francisco Chronicle from the stoop, laid my bagel out on my horseshoe-shaped counter, and took a big bite. Staying up half the night casting spells and hunting demons gave a girl an appetite.
    The bell on the front door rang, and for the second time in as many days I looked up to see a man stride through the front door of Aunt Cora’s Closet. We get our share of transvestites wandering into the store—they love the old prom dresses—but since we carry only women’s clothing, by and large ours is a female clientele. Men are noticed. Especially this one.
    He was tall and broad shouldered, with shaggy dark hair, olive skin, and a five-o’clock shadow. He wasn’t pretty like yesterday’s male witch; quite the contrary. He reminded me of a painting I had once seen in the Louvre of a battle-weary medieval knight who had just removed his armor. I studied him as he stood inside the doorway and glanced around the shop, his piercing gaze taking in Bronwyn’s herbal corner, the diaphanous lingerie on display along the back wall, and the hat stand full of feathers, bows, and net veils. He couldn’t have been older than his late thirties, but his face displayed the lines and scars of an interesting life. His light gray eyes, startling in such a dark complexion, held a deep trace of sadness.
    I tried to smile around the huge bite of bagel