Over the weekend, Fiona had spent pretty much all of her waking moments in the shop—doing last minute cleaning and rearranging, sorting files, and other preparations—but never alone.
No, she’d refused to be in there alone. And she hadn’t told anyone—even Ethan—why.
Perhaps after the reopening, after people began to rediscover the store, whatever it was that made those odd things happen would stop, and she wouldn’t feel such eeriness when alone in the shop.
Thank goodness for Carl. He was one of her old friends from school and had remained a perpetual student. Now in grad school at the University of Michigan, he was working on an improbable dissertation concerning early 20th-century households.
He’d worked for an estate sales company all through high school and college, and knew far more than she did about antique furnishings. She’d had pounced on the opportunity to snag him for a part-time job Thursdays through Sundays—especially since his charm and good looks matched his knowledge of antiques.
For the next hour and a half, she fussed and fretted, rearranging the displays, trying not to think about how much money she’d spent on the catering (even though she’d used Winona’s company and got a discount), welcoming Carl when he arrived in his suit as promised (and with extra plates), and just generally driving herself crazy.
Now, she flicked a dust rag over the top of a grandfather clock for the umpteenth time and glanced nervously at its face.
It was already eleven-thirty.
Just then, Carl wandered from the back of the shop, which had been put into order in the last week. “Win’s caterers are here. Do you want them to put the food in the back, or out in front?”
“Out here is fine—I thought we could put the wine on that table over there and the cheese and fruit on that—er—what did you call it?”
Carl had a pained look on his handsome, tanned face as he replied, “A Hepplewhite lowboy, circa 1793, in near-mint condition, and…is it possible you’d reconsider? I don’t think…you really wouldn’t want to…uh…take a chance on having an accident on it.”
“Fine with me,” she replied, gesturing widely through the shop. “Knock yourself out and find somewhere safe to put the food. I’m going to turn on some music.” She’d wanted to have a live harpist for the day, but it hadn’t fit in her budget, so the customers would have to settle for excellent hors d’oeuvres, decent wine, and canned music.
By the time the new-age instrumentals of Enya were filtering through the shop, and Fiona had checked her image in the spotty bathroom mirror in the back then breezed to the front of the store, the chimes had tickled three times and guests—customers—were strolling about.
Her nervousness faded as she became busy welcoming people, offering them sparkling water, wine, coffee, or tea, and half-listening to Carl as he chatted about various pieces of furnishings throughout the store. He always seemed to have at least two women, if not more, clustered around him, daintily holding their wineglasses and looking up at him from under their lashes. Fiona suspected it wouldn’t matter what the conversation was about—as long as he was standing there—for Carl Pelham had been blessed with incredible good looks, an unassuming personality, and the ability to listen.
In fact, she thought idly, he looked like a living, breathing Ken doll, with his perfect blond hair, startling blue eyes, golden tan and swimmer’s body, and a gentle, calm nature that caused him to appear as if he had no idea the effect he had on women. Most women anyway.
Fiona knew that, objectively, he was very attractive, but he didn’t do a thing—never had—for her hormones. She preferred dark-haired men with a sense of humor. Who weren’t lawyers.
The afternoon passed quickly, as there was a steady stream of clientele coming in, out, and through the shop—and most of them leaving with small bags, larger bundles, and other receipts. Fiona greeted and chatted with customers, skillfully turning them over to Carl whenever they began to sound as though they might be interested in making a purchase or wished to haggle over a price.
It was early in the evening, just an hour or so before closing. Fiona turned, a glass of wine in her hand for one of the patrons, and she came face to face with Bradley Forth.
“Looking for someone?” he asked, smiling down at her. “Me, perhaps?”
Apparently her brush-off last weekend hadn’t cooled his jets enough, if the expression in his eyes as they slipped down her figure was any indication. But, now he was a customer—not a date—so Fiona decided to cut him some slack.
“How did you know?” she smiled back, looking at him from under her eyelashes and thinking of Carl’s court of flirtatious ladies as she did so. “I wanted to give you this.”
She handed him her untouched wine, gave him another very warm smile that made his eyelids flicker, and patted his arm as she turned away. “I’ll catch up with you in a minute, but I need to say hello to that couple over there.”
Before Brad could respond, Fiona slipped off to greet a silver-haired pair who’d just entered the shop. The man was tall and distinguished-looking, and his companion neat as a pin and charmingly enthusiastic.
“Welcome,” she smiled at them. “I’m Fiona, the new owner. Thank you for stopping by. Please feel free to help yourself to refreshments over there, and if you have any questions, or would like to know more about the shop, let me know.”
The woman rewarded her with a warm smile that curved her apple cheeks, and the man with her—possibly her husband—gave Fiona a nod and an appraising glance.
“Now, Hollis, why don’t you dash over there and get a glass of wine for me—white would be perfect. And, I’m sure I won’t be able to wait until our reservations at Trib’s, so a nip of cheese and fruit—and those mini crabcakes look fantastic—would just tide me over.” The lady gave her directives in a well-modulated tone, with just the slightest air of helplessness to it, even though Fiona could see the sparkle of determination in her bright blue eyes. “I’ll just chat with this young lady here for a moment.”
The man—Hollis—seemed to hesitate, but one look from the woman prodded him on and he sifted into the small crowd of people around the food.
“Well, now, this is very nice,” the woman said. She looked as though she was a young-at-heart mid-sixty, with silvery-white hair in a short, fashionable cut and round, rosy cheeks. Glancing toward Brad, she leaned closer as though to share a confidence. “Is that your young man over there, that I saw you speaking with as we walked in? I wouldn’t want to take you away from him…”
“No, no,” Fiona shook her head vehemently. How kind of the old lady to be so considerate. “He is just an acquaintance, but it’s very nice of you to be so concerned.”
“Ah. I see.” Fiona thought she saw a crafty look slip into the woman’s eyes as she slid her frail hand—one that had surprising strength—into the crook of Fiona’s arm and led her over to examine a table.
