Stories
The Shoemaker’s Raincoat
Emmie Acton Cooper
First Kindle Original Edition, 2011
©2010 by Emmie Acton Cooper
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters or incidents are the product of the authors
Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
“Ow!” I said angrily. Shocked as I realized my heel had broken. The wind and drizzle was hitting my face with more intensity, the storm was getting stronger by the second. I glanced around and saw a small sign outside one of the shops on Main Street.
Alan Cooper, Shoemaker and Repair Shop I read.
I glowered at the sign for a few moments, debating whether to run inside and have my boot fixed or keep going to catch my train home.
I decided to get it fixed.
“Mr. Cooper?” I inquired from outside the door.
The man behind the counter cleared his throat and adjusted the light as I entered the shoe repair shop.
“Yes…” He answered in a monotonous voice. “Fill out the slip on the counter and place your shoes on the box.” His tone was indifferent and oddly impatient.
“I’d rather you look at my shoe now to see if you can glue my heel in place. I’m in sort of a hurry.”
“You have to wait your turn, Madame. You are not the only one in a hurry.” His voice was dry and unsympathetic.
“I don’t think it would take you long,” I pressed. He turned around to look at me with a pair of piercing, irate gray eyes.
“You might need something stronger than glue.”
“Can you nail it down? I’m in a hurry.”
“I know, you keep telling me so,” he said sardonically. “Place your shoe on the box and take a seat, Madame.” I nodded and wordlessly did as I was told, removing my boot and placing it in the box. Evidently, I would miss my train home…
Glancing around the poorly lit shop, I noticed an exquisite black velour rain coat on the old davenport across from me. Everything in the shop was old and rustic. It reminded me of an antique shop. The wooden floors creaked and the shoemaker’s tools were as rustic as the rest of the shop, except for the velveteen coat.
I glanced at Mr. Cooper. His clothes were hidden under a leathery apron. They didn’t look old or new. I wondered if someone might have forgotten the luxurious coat. Mr. Cooper didn’t look like the type that would wear or could afford such an extravagant coat. A small battery operated radio was playing the news in the background. I could hardly hear it. I cleared my throat.
“Would you mind turning the volume up?” I asked.
“What?” He said, his gray eyes meeting mine, defiant and annoyed.
“The radio, it’s hard to hear!” I said loudly pointing to my ear.
“Well, it’s raining.” He said scornfully. A roll of thunder followed interrupting him for a moment.
“I know. It makes it hard to hear.” I protested. He went to the back of the small room, reached for the small black radio, cranked the volume up and returned to hammer on a shoe.
Even though there wasn’t much light in the room, it didn’t stop me from staring at the expensive coat. I was truly intrigued. I wondered to whom it belonged. The long, elegant, plush pile of cloth sprawled on the sofa, inviting me to touch it, to smell it. My romantic mind imagined that the coat belonged to a young, handsome, aristocratic, rich gentleman from a foreign country who happened to stumble upon Mr. Cooper’s repair shop. I wondered how such a fancy garment would smell. Was it warm and spicy like cinnamon and vanilla, or citrusy and tangy like orange blossoms?
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The Case of the Missing Cupcakes
Emmie Acton Cooper
First Kindle Original Edition, 2011
©2010 by Emmie Acton Cooper
emmieactoncooper.blogspot.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters or incidents are the product of the authors
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
“I can assure you,” said Mrs. Margaret Willems “it’s not a ghost. It is a very corporeal tangible body that’s taking my cupcakes!” She stood up from my old leather covered chair raising her hands over her head. Mrs. Willems owned a bakery just outside the rural town of Pessex, Vermont. I had just returned from a visit to my parents in a nearby town when my troubled solitary neighbor knocked on my door requesting my help on finding out who was stealing her cupcakes. I’d just moved to this town a month ago and in that short time my heart hadn’t warmed up towards her. Every day I passed in front of her shop I contemplated as her icy blue eyes withdrew suspiciously under her thick, bushy brows and grabbing her broom with a jealous resolution she would go inside her shop ignoring me for the most part.
“Mrs. Willems,” I said, “I’m not suggesting it’s a ghost, just that maybe you didn’t count the cupcakes properly.” She stiffed, handing me over the glass of water I’d given her.
“Mr. Lockwood, for thirty years I have made my one of a kind cupcakes. They are a work of art for me. My designs are so unique, no two cupcakes are alike. There is no possibility I could have miss one!” Mrs. Willems said, her withered hands trembling.
The old woman sat again, staring hard into my eyes, her skin pale and her cloudy blue eyes wide open.
“Ay! It’s a thief I’m telling you…” she swayed her head from side to side, “I’m afraid of the ones that are alive! Those are the ones that terrified me; those are the ones we are supposed to be afraid of, not spectral terrors Mr. Lockwood. I’d never suspected smart, young people as you Mr. Lockwood believe in ghosts.” I reached for her empty glass and placed it on the table giving her a soft smile, dismissing her remark.
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~E.A Cooper
