“Welcome to Outlook. It’s a great little town, and a good place to raise a family.” A subtle wink followed her grin. “Do you have a wife and kids?”
He shook his head. “It’s only me.”
The lady’s eyes lit with delight. “Perhaps you’ll find that special gal in Outlook.”
Sure, he would. A relationship was exactly what he didn’t need while building a business from the ground up. His manners kept his response civil. “I’ll be too busy to think about that for a while.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Tis the season for miracles.”
“So, I hear.” He chuckled and swept an arm over the store. “Nice place you have.”
“Oh, it’s not mine. My friend, Cora, owns the mercantile.”
Cora. He committed the name to memory. “These displays are fantastic. It seems a lot of work to set them up for a few months.”
“Thank you.” Pride reflected in her smile. “Most of the displays stay up year-round, but we do vary a handful.”
His stomach twisted. “Year round?”
Her head tilted subtly to the right. “We’re open all year. Tourists love Christmas-themed stores.”
At a loss for words, he choked out something he hoped conveyed he’d browse around.
“If you need anything, give me a holler. My name’s Marie.” She pointed to the front left corner of the shop. “Help yourself to a cup of apple cider. It’s made locally at an orchard five miles out of town.”
“Thanks.” He walked the aisles of the store, but he didn’t take in much. Under different circumstances, he’d find the Mistletoe Mercantile charming, but worry preoccupied his mind.
Its presence on his property didn’t make sense. Marie unwittingly shattered any hope he’d had of the store being on a seasonal lease. Worse yet, the way Marie spoke, neither she nor Cora, the proprietor, knew that ownership had changed hands.
He couldn’t throw them out.
But neither could he let them stay if he were to open his studio.
Which was the entire reason he’d moved to Outlook.
He maintained his composure until he returned to his car. Raking his hands through his thick brown hair, he contemplated his next steps. Before he could make any decisions, he had to speak with the lawyer who took care of the estate. Reaching into his wallet, he pulled out the business card that had come with the paperwork.
The address showed the attorney’s office as one street away, and Gabe drove over on the chance that Mr. Winston would be there. A small wooden sign hung from a wrought iron post, announcing the law office of Harold S. Winston.
Gabe walked slowly toward the door, still trying to process the information. He grasped the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed it open. The door opened to a reception area empty of anyone. Papers in uneven piles covered a desk. A computer monitor showed no sign of activity in the office.
“Hello?”
“Be right there,” a weary voice called from a side room.
Shrugging to himself, Gabe stood with his hands in his pockets. He busied himself reading the multiple diplomas hanging on the wall, stating where Mr. Winston had earned his degrees.
Several minutes later, an older man with snow white hair sticking out in all directions hobbled from the other room. His thin frame leaned heavily on a cane. “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Winston.”
“You’ve found him.” The old man extended his free hand. “I know your voice. Mr. Newton, correct?”
“Yes.” Considering the state of the office, the man’s perception surprised Gabe. “I’m sorry for dropping in unannounced, but I’ve just arrived in town and ran into a predicament.”
“Come into my office. It’s nice to put a face with the name.”
Gabe followed Mr. Winston into an office that was in further disarray than the reception area. Every attorney’s office he’d ever been in—albeit not many—had been meticulously kept. The condition of Mr. Winston’s area cast doubt in Gabe’s mind of his competency, but he kept an open mind. He had a habit of giving everyone and everything the benefit of the doubt—oftentimes much to his own annoyance.
