A gentle morning breeze swirled along the Market Square of picturesque Kiltimagh. The sun was just beginning to slip over the rooftops of the rows of 19th century themed shop fronts. The street was barren with the exception of a navy blue 2001 Volkswagen. It was parked in front of a deep maroon colored shop whose placard read in slender gold letters “Andersen’s Mandolins-serving Kiltimagh since 1922”. At present, a man in a worn jean jacket was unlocking the front door. He fiddled with the key, his shaggy light brown hair fluttering into his sightline until he finally heard the click of the lock. He pulled the door open and stepped inside, the sign still reading ‘closed’. The shop was small, the walls lined floor to ceiling with shelves of hand-crafted mandolins of various sizes and colors.

“Time to get to work Reed,” the man muttered to himself in the silence of the shop.

After hanging his jacket on a peg on the wall behind the front counter, Reed made his way to the back of the store. The back room was relatively unfurnished except for a stool, large work table, tools and tuners. In the middle of the table sat a brown and white mandolin held together by two large clamps. Reed loosened the metal restraints and tenderly picked up the instrument. Seating himself on the stool, he began to restring the instrument. With care he wound the steel strings through the brass frets. The young man grabbed a tuner and began to play each string until it matched the pitch on the tuner perfectly. A serene smile graced his young features as he began to play a calming melody. He concluded the song and placed it in its case. Glancing at his watch he got up, letting out a contented sigh. He flipped the sign on the door and sat behind the counter.

The mandolin shop had been in the Andersen family for almost a century. It had been started by Reed’s great grandfather, Seamus. Business had boomed in the early years of the shop’s existence. However, as the decades flew by, so did the interest in mandolins. Kiltimagh was a small town of just over one thousand residents. Andersen’s Mandolins served about a quarter of the population. Every now and then Reed would get some tourists coming through on a tour of Western Ireland. He enjoyed the tourists. New faces were always welcome in his store. He’d taken over for his father just over a year ago when he and his mother retired to London.

The bell above the door jingled, bringing the store owner back to the present. A portly woman wearing a floor-length skirt and lavender blouse walked in followed by a young boy of about age 8.

“Morning Mr. Andersen,” the woman greeted.

“Morning to you too Mrs. Finn and to you Michael,” Reed replied, giving the boy a smile.

He reached behind the counter and picked up the black leather mandolin case with the restrung instrument inside. He heaved it over the divide and moved to write up a price for the work. The buttons on the calculator clicked away and Mrs. Finn held onto the case firmly.

“That will be 90 euro,” Reed said, his grey-blue gaze looking up from the adding machine.

She fished into her purse and pulled out the payment. Once the transaction had finished and he’d written out a receipt for her, mother and son began to head out the door.

“Oh thank you again Mr. Andersen. Michael is going to be very careful this time, aren’t you” Mrs. Finn said, turning around.

“Yes sir,” Michael piped.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Reed answered with a chuckle.

“Have a great day now,” he called as the door shut, the bell jingling once more.

The shop grew quiet once more as Reed settled himself back in his chair. He enjoyed the silence in the early mornings. He pulled out an entertainment magazine and began to read through it. The twenty-three-year-old quickly grew bored with gloss-covered pages. He began to let his mind wander. He thought back a year ago when he had first taken over the store from his dad. It had not gone smoothly. He recalled it like it was yesterday.

They were sitting in his parents’ kitchen drinking pints of Guinness. Reed’s wife, Erin, sat beside him, hands resting on her pregnant form. She was due any day with their first child.

“Son you know you don’t have to take over the business,” Patrick was saying between sips of his drink.

“I know that Dad, but I want to. I grew up in that store,” Reed countered.

“We can sell it to someone outside the family. I know you’d always wanted to go to medical school,” his father continued.

“I was seven when I said that!” Reed shot back.

“Reed…all your father’s trying to say is that you don’t have to feel obligated to take over,” Cara insisted.

“Ma, please! Why are you two so damn opposed to me taking over?” he questioned heatedly.

“Just because Granddad made you take over for him doesn’t mean you have to force me. The store is my second home. I could never see anyone else running it now,” the twenty-two-year-old grumbled.

“Don’t drag him into this,” Patrick shot.

“The both of you calm down. It’s Reed’s decision,” Cara ordered sternly.

The whole time Erin said nothing, just sat at her husband’s side sipping her glass of seltzer. Patrick sighed after he finished his pint and looked at his son, bearing the same stormy eyes as his mother.

“If it’s what you really want then go ahead. I’m just saying that we’ve got other options,” he commented.

“Thank you Dad. We have to get going,” Reed replied, getting up, shaking his father’s hand and kissing his mother on the cheek.

Reed was jolted from his reminisces by his watch beeping. He looked down at the time and jumped. Had he really been sitting there day dreaming for three hours? With a shake of his shaggy head he pulled on his coat. He moved to the door, changing it to say “out to lunch. Back in 1 hour” and left. He walked down the street a few blocks until he reached “O’Hara’s Sandwiches”. He pushed the door open and sat down at the counter. There were several other diners seated around him and they greeted him with a kind smile and a “hello”.

“Well look what the wind blew in!” exclaimed the store owner, Ronan O’Hara.

“How you been Ronan?” Reed asked as he was handed the day’s lunch menu.

“I’ve been doing fair. And yourself? How’s the lassie?” O’Hara inquired, leaning on his elbows.

“Dana’s up and walking around. Gives Erin a hell of a time. How about Abbie and Ryan?” Reed responded, turning the laminated page over.

“Right well. He’s a talker now-a-days,” Ronan chuckled proudly of his son.

“So what can I do you for today?”

“I’ll have the usual I think,” the patron replied.

“One double roast combo coming right up.”

Reed enjoyed his sandwich and the other diners company. Checking his watch, he realized he needed to get back to the shop. He paid the brunette as the cash register and sprinted back to his own place of employment.

The early afternoon was as uneventful as the morning. However around 3:30, the bell above the door jingled and a couple walked in. The woman, a redhead with delicate freckles and vibrant blue eyes led her companion over to one particular area on the wall. The man, who appeared to be around Reed’s age, had short reddish-brown hair and light brown eyes. Reed didn’t recognize the pair.

“May I help you?” Reed questioned, walking over to them.

“We’re just looking,” the young woman answered in a distinctly Dublin accent.

“Looking for anything in particular?” the owner inquired.

The redhead looked at her male companion who pointed to a mandolin on a shelf several above their heads. It was dark brown with white strings.

“Can he try that one?” she asked, indicating the desired instrument.

“Certainly,” Reed answered. He went and got a ladder.

The man took the instrument from Reed and gazed at it. He propped a leg on the ladder and began to play. It was a haunting melody a first but it soon blossomed into a soaring song. His fingers slid over the strings like wildfire. He finished with a return to the introduction. Reed stood there, staring in awe.

“That was amazing!” Reed exclaimed.

The young man smiled and se the mandolin gently against the leg of the ladder. His hands began moving in rapid succession, his female acquaintance’s eyes following every movement. She nodded at him and turned to address Reed.

“My brother says thank you and he would like to purchase the mandolin,” she translated.

Reed took a moment to respond. The other man was deaf. It was sign language he’d been using. Reed knew that much. He realized he was gawking like a fish caught on a hook and closed his mouth.

“Wonderful!” Reed said cheerfully and moved to determine the price.

“Your total comes 150 euro,” Reed told the woman.

“D’you take credit?” she asked.

“Yes we do.”

She handed him the piece of plastic.

“I’m Breanna O’Rourke,” she introduced herself.

“It’s nice to meet you Ms. O’Rourke,” Reed said with a smile.

“Oh there’s no need to be so formal. Breanna will do,” she corrected.

“Alright then Breanna, here is your receipt. There is a lifetime warranty. You just bring it back if you need anything done with it. I do all the work myself,” Reed explained.

“Thank you…” she trailed off, lacking his name.

“Reed.”

“Thank you Reed,” she concluded.

“I’m sure Devlin will be stopping by quite often. He loved to just play them. Always has,” she mused.

“Well he’s welcome in my store anytime,” the youngest Andersen heir stated.

Breanna and Devlin left the shop just as the phone rang. He picked up.

“Good afternoon. Andersen’s Mandolins, how may I help you?” he spoke into the receiver.

“Yes I’d like to know when I can expect Mr. Andersen home for dinner?” came the mirthful voice of his wife.

“Soon. I’ve got close up,” he answered.

He hung up the phone and moved about the small store, straightening instruments on their holders. He locked the back room and grabbed his coat. With a satisfied smile he locked the front door and climbed into his car. Ten minutes later he pulled into the small drive of his and Erin’s modest home.

“I’m home,” he called as he shut the front door behind him.

“Dinner’s on the table,” Erin called back to him.

He walked in and kissed his wife on the cheek. Their year old daughter, Dana sat in her high chair, gurgling happily at her father’s entrance. She has short curly light brown hair and sparkling olive-green eyes. He kissed her soft curls and sat down across from Erin. A plate of bangers and mash awaited him.

“How was your day?” Erin queried.

“It was alright. Had some new business,” he replied around a bite of sausage.

“Oh tourists or locals?”

“Not really sure. I think they may be new arrivals,” Reed replied, wiping Dan’s chubby cheeks with his napkin.

“It was amazing. It was a brother and sister. And he played beautifully. He’s really in love with the art. And he’s deaf. I don’t know how he does it,” Reed expounded excitedly.

Erin didn’t say anything for a moment.

“That’s interesting,” she said softly.

“I think on my break tomorrow I’m going to go to the library and pick up some books on sign language. Got to be able to communicate. I have a feeling he’s going to be a regular,” her husband commented as he finished the last of his sausage.

“That’s great sweetheart,” Erin confirmed with a smile as Dana became fussy.

By the time Devlin returned to Andersen’s Mandolins, Reed was fairly proficient in sign. Reed looked up from the bills he was paying when he heard the ever-welcome jingle.

“Good afternoon,” Reed signed fluidly.

Devlin smiled, his eyes scrunching slightly around the edges.

“Good afternoon,” he replied.

“I didn’t know you knew sign,” he commented.

“I didn’t…until a few weeks ago,” Reed admitted.

“You learned it because of me,” the deaf man signed with a grin.

“Yes. And for anyone else who uses it.”

“How can I help you today?”

“I’m looking for polish and tuners,” Devlin answered.

“Right over here,” Reed motioned to a rack near the back wall.

Devlin picked out several brands of polish and a very pricey tuner. As Reed rung up Devlin’s purchases, he caught the other man looking around the shop.

“Has this store been in your family since 1922?” he signed.

“Yes. My great grandfather started it. It’s been passed down from father to son since,” Reed answered as he handed Devlin his change and receipt.

“Have a great day now,” Reed signed.

“Thank you. You too.”

Devlin’s hand was on the handle of the door and he turned around.

“I’m playing this weekend at an open mic night. You’re welcome to come,” he said with a smile.

“I’ll be there.”

That Sunday Reed, Erin and Dana dove the short distance to the social center. The sun was just beginning to set as they took their seats in the rows of metal chairs that had been set up. Several other acts performed before Devlin took the stage. Dana let out a frustrated whine as the stage hands readjusted the microphone and placed a chair in the center of the stage.

“I’ll take her out,” Erin whispered in Reed’s ear.

“Hurry back. Devlin’s up next,” Reed whispered back.

The stage hands finally left the stage and the lights centered on the chair. Devlin walked out; carrying the mandolin he’d bought from Reed’s store carefully. He sat down and surveyed the audience. It was a small crowd but then again it was a small town. He began to play just as Erin came back in with a now quiet Dana. Devlin’s fingers flew over the steel strings. Two songs later Breanna joined him the stage. He accompanied her on a couple of songs. He ended with the song he’d played when he’d originally tried the instrument. The pair received raucous applause. There was one more act after Devlin. As people began filing out of the main hall, reed and Erin caught up with Breanna and Devlin.

“You both were amazing,” Reed signed and spoke.

“Thank you,” they replied.

“This is my wife Erin and our daughter Dana,” he introduced.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Erin spoke, shaking their hands while keeping a firm grip on Dana.

“Care to go out for drinks?” Breanna inquired.

“You go darling. I’ve got to get her to bed,” Erin said, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek.

The trio headed to the bar just down the road. They met there every Sunday evening, Erin with them most times. The quartet grew close over the next few months. It seemed to Reed that Devlin was always stopping by to visit and test out the newest inventory. So it was on one particular Sunday, Reed made a proposal.

“Dev, I have a proposal,” Reed said over their first round of pints.

“I’m listening,” he signed. Everyone at the table laughed.

“If you’re interested…I’d love to take you on a business partner. It’s pretty lonely in there most of the time and you’ve really brought more business,” Reed said, looking expectant.

He tapped his chin for a few moments and then a broad grin spread across his face.

“I’d be honored to enter into business with you,” he signed back. They all clinked mugs and celebrated.