Fiona scrolled through her phone, still hiding it under the table, and was able to determine that Brad Forth was an attorney (oh joy) and was running for state senator in this district—but before she could read further, she glanced up at H. Gideon.
He was glaring at her from over the top of the sheaf of paper he held. Feeling like a student caught passing notes in school, Fiona straightened in her seat and locked her phone, endeavoring to look interested in the proceedings. That was easier than she thought—tolookinterested—because her attention was caught by H. Gideon’s beautiful hands as they held the sheaf of paper from which he was reading.
They were elegant and strong, and she fairlyitchedto know what truths they held.
But even that couldn’t keep her interested for long, and as H. Gideon droned on (how longwasthis will anyway?), Fiona’s thoughts wandered once more.
Logically, her mind drifted to the letter Mr. Valente had left for her. It was tucked away in her huge bag, but she could see the words as if the heavy stationery sat on the table in front of her.
My dearest Fiona:
I am certain this will come as a surprise to you—first, that I am dead and second that I’ve chosen you to name you as a benefactor in my will.
I’m sure you are wondering how and why I should do so. The decision was made for me the moment I saw you at the offices of Thurston & Mills.
You’d just rushed in from a blustering rainstorm—your long, auburn hair was dripping and your bright patterned skirts were billowing—and the picture you made was indelibly printed on this old man’s mind because it was an echo of one such vision—a memory—that I have held in the deepest part of my soul for many, many years.
It was as if I were catapulted back in time, sixty—no, perhaps seventy years now; I shan’t do the math—to the day I met my Gretchen.
An old, embittered and ravaged heart softened for the first time in decades as I gazed upon you, for you looked so much like my beloved Gretchen that I could barely breathe through the pain of it.
This old man has been through much hatred and ugliness in his life. Your freshness and innocence reminded me of how I once was, and how I could have been happy—how Ishouldhave been happy—had things not happened the way they did. Perhaps you will find or create the happiness that I could not.
I charge you, then, in honor of my Gretchen, to take this bequest and make something good from it.
Be assured, however, my dearest Fiona, that should you shirk your duties, I promise to haunt you for the rest of your life! Ha ha.
Looking forward to seeing what is on the other side…
Fondly,
Nevio Valente
Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes as she remembered the raw hurt and pain in the letter.
And as she’d done for nearly a week now, she mulled over the shock that because she reminded him of someone he’d once known, the elderly man had bequeathed her—what? Some old treasures? Jewelry?
He must have been senile to name a perfect stranger who reminded him of some other woman in his will. At his age, it was possible that anyone he encountered unexpectedly might look familiar.
The attorney continued to pore through the legalese while Fiona’s quirky mind was at work, darting down tunnels of possibilities as to the identity and reason for her bequest.
One thought that included forced marriages and other strings-attached bequests was so absurd that she actually had to choke back a giggle. She cast a swift glance at H. Gideon, who flashed an annoyed look her way, and then let her attention sweep over the attentive Brad Forth. Surely Mr. Valente hadn’t written a match-making clause into his will. That was for the 19thand early 20thcenturies, thank you very much.
Fiona snapped her attention back to the head of the table as she heard her name. H. Gideon (she simply couldn’t think of him by any other way) was reading as smoothly as ever, but again, those steel-grey eyes flashed a sharp look at her.
“…Miss Murphy, with whom I recently made an acquaintance, is listed last in this epistle, although she is not, by any stretch, the least of consideration. As one often says, one ought to leave the best for last—and so that is what I’ve done.
“Nonetheless, it was with great thought that I made the decision to leave to her, upon my demise, the building, contents, and all related business of my Antiques Shoppe, located on Violet Way in Wicks Hollow, Michigan.”
Fiona couldn’t control a gasp, then quickly stifled it as H. Gideon gave her alookover the top of the paper, then continued reading.
“I’m certain that she will make the languishing store into a success, and for that reason, I forbid her to sell the shop or its building for the first five years of her ownership. If in the end she makes the determination to sell before the first five years have passed, all proceeds from the sale will be added to the N. Valente Endowment Fund and she will remain with nothing.”
Fiona stared blankly at Nath, whose voice had trailed off with the end of that paragraph.
An antiques shop?
He left me his antiques shop?
