“Beth!”
“And then some gorgeous hunk arrives and just happens to have a secret weapon that can zap even a ghost and reduce it to—to a shredded sheet….”
Lauren sat back in her chair, helpless to contain the beginnings of a grin. “Are you done?”
“Oh, no. The best part comes after the ghost is shredded and you and the gorgeous hunk fall madly in love and live happily ever after.”
“Why aren’t you working?”
“Because Jamie’s working.”
“I thinkyoushould be working.” Lauren pushed herself out of her seat. “I thinkIshould be working.” With a fond squeeze to Beth’s arm as she passed, she returned to the front of the shop.
Several days later, Lauren knew that she had to do something about starting the renovation work on her house. The garage door had unexpectedly slammed to the ground when she’d been within mere inches of it. Ironically, if the garage had been nearly as old as the farmhouse itself, its doors would have swung open from the center to the sides, and she would never have been in danger of a skull fracture. But the garage had been added twenty-five years before. Apparently, she mused in frustration, it had been as neglected by recent owners as the house.
She made several calls, setting up appointments to discuss repairs with the men whose names she’d been given. None of them had impressed her on the phone, though she reasoned that there was no harm in meeting with them before she sought out additional contacts. She wanted her home to be perfect, and she was willing to pay to make it so.
With that settled in her mind, she sat down on the living room floor, using the low coffee table as a desk, to write up orders for the framer. But she was distracted. Repeatedly her pen grew still and her gaze wandered to the window. It was dark as pitch outside. She was alone. Anyone could see in, watch her, study her.
Cursing both Beth for her fanciful imaginings and herself for her own surprising susceptibility, she returned to her work. But that night, to her chagrin, she fell asleep wondering if one-hundred-year-old ghosts were capable of sabotaging twenty-five-year-old garage doors.
Shortly after noon on the following day, Lauren saw him for the first time. She was working in the front window of the shop, replacing a framed picture that had been bought that morning, when she happened to glance toward the bench just outside. He was sitting there, quietly and intently. And he was staring at her.
With a tight smile, she looked quickly away, finished hanging the new print, then took refuge in the inner sanctum of the shop.
Fifteen minutes later, during a brief lull in business, she glanced out to find that he hadn’t moved. One arm slung over the back of the bench, one knee crossed casually over the other, he appeared to be innocently people-watching—until his gaze penetrated the front window once more.
Again Lauren looked away, this time wondering why she had. There was nothing unusual about a man sitting on a bench in the Marketplace; people did it all the time. And this man, wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt, jeans and sneakers, looked like a typical passerby. Though he wasn’t munching on fried dough or licking an ice cream cone, as so many of the others did, she assumed he was enjoying the pleasant atmosphere. Or waiting for someone. Or simply resting his legs. The fact that he kept looking into the shop was understandable, since it was smack in front of him.
A telephone call came through from one of the printmakers she’d been trying to reach; then customers occupied her time for the next hour and a half. She’d nearly forgotten about the man outside until she left the shop to buy stamps, and even then she was perplexed that she should think of him at all.
He was nowhere to be seen.
At home that night, Lauren was strangely on edge. She didn’t know why, and for lack of anything better, she blamed it on the two cups of coffee she’d had that afternoon.
With a critical eye, she looked around the kitchen as she waited for the bouillabaisse she’d bought at a gourmet take-out shop to heat. She intended to do this room in white—white cabinets with white ash trim, white stove and refrigerator, white ceramic tile on the floor. The accent would be pale blue, as in enamel cookware, patterned wallpaper, prints on the wall. Perhaps she’d order a pale blue pleated miniblind—not that she’d originally planned to put anything on the windows, but it occurred to her that she might like the option of privacy for moments like these when the night seemed mysterious.
She was edgy. Too much coffee. That was all.
The following morning, the man was back. Wearing a crisp white polo shirt with his jeans, he was sitting on the bench again, this time with his legs sprawled before him.
“Remarkable, isn’t he?” Beth quipped, coming up beside Lauren.
“Who?”
“That guy you’re looking at. Have you ever seen such gorgeous hair?” It was light brown with a sun-streaked sheen and was neatly brushed, but thick and on the long side.
“No.”
“Or such long legs?”
“No.”
“Wonder who he is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Probably just another tourist. Why is it the good ones are here today, gone tomorrow?”
