Read Between The Lines: Business of Love 6

by Parker, Ali

  “It’s pretty here,” Nora said as she peered down the length of the street. It rose over a slight hill, and the rest of it, which made its way presumably down to the Hudson River, vanished from sight.

  “Where should we start?” I asked. “This is your distraction. How would you approach a new town if you were traveling?”

  Nora slowed to a stop in front of a shop window. The antique store display was a bit chaotic but there were little odds and ends that drew her eye, like a women’s indigo-colored coat, a matching hat, an old typewriter, several books, and a carved wooden trunk.

  “I’d go in here,” she breathed.

  I moved to the door and tugged it open. A bell chimed softly overhead. “After you.”

  Nora grinned, brushed past me, and tapped snow from the soles of her red boots before moving deeper into the store.

  A man in his early seventies sat behind the sales counter. He wore an Irish cap and a plaid vest over a cream button-up shirt. His eyebrows were bushy and stuck up every which way over the rim of his glasses. He looked up from the book open in his lap and gave us a friendly smile.

  “Hello,” Nora said politely.

  “Afternoon.” The shop owner inclined his head forward in a greeting. “Anything I can help you find?”

  “No thank you,” Nora said as she stepped past a dresser with a collection of buttons on top as well as some incense holders, sewing thimbles, and what I assumed were leftover Christmas items from the season. “We’re just going to look around.”

  “Take your time,” he said, and his gray eyes flicked back to his book.

  I followed Nora into the depths of the store. Within fifteen feet or so, the light from outside was all but gone and we were left sorting through items in the dimness of the belly of the shop. Old-school lamps with stained-glass shades cast warm but indecent light over back shelves stacked high with books and little odds and ends. Nora’s eyes flicked to every corner and crevice, and every couple of minutes, she’d reach out to touch something or pull it free from where it sat, leaving behind an imprint in the dust.

  “There are always so many treasures in a place like this,” she said. “You just have to have the patience to look.”

  I felt like the shop was closing in on me. One step to the left put me into a rack of winter coats. A step to the right and I’d be devoured by shelving units filled with hundreds of different types of dishes, most of them boasting floral patterns and gold trim.

  Nora smiled and ran her finger along the edge of a saucer under one of said cups. “My mother has so many of these. She never uses them, of course. Only when important company comes to visit.”

  “Maybe you should buy her one to use for her evening tea,” I said.

  Nora looked over her shoulder at me. “You don’t understand my mother at all.”

  I chuckled. Apparently, I did not. There was no sense in owning a thing if you hardly used it—or if you only used it for others.

  Nora moved deeper into the store and we came to things of value: old maps like the ones in my cartography room, oil paintings, seventy-five-year-old wood frames, chess boards, free-standing globes, designer handbags, dining tables, and so many more treasures. Nora was impressed by it all and told me she wasn’t used to seeing all these kinds of things in one shop. Usually, she had to explore several to get the full antique shopping experience.

  We paused when she happened upon a jewelry stand. It was shaped like a leafless tree, and from each decrepit-looking, almost eerie branch hung a necklace. None were the same. Some had black chains and gothic pendants. Some were gold and rosy and new. Others were silver and plain. Nora took several, laid the chains over her palm, and kept walking.

  “Who are those for?” I asked.

  “Strangers.” She shrugged as we kept walking.

  “What do you mean?”

  She giggled and turned around to walk backward through the maze of the store. “You’ll see.”

  We continued shopping. Nora put on silly hats and coats that were far too big for her. She draped a silk scarf over my shoulders and pulled me toward her, shimmying it like it was a feather boa, and kissing me when I got close enough.

  Her giggle filled the store, and as we made our way back up to the front through more aisles of random things, I caught the shop owner chuckling to himself behind the counter.

  Her energy was contagious and she had no idea the effect she had on people.

  By the time she’d seen everything and we went to the sales counter, she had ten necklaces, a pair of cat-eye sunglasses with gold and orange trim on the frames, and a clip for her hair in the shape of a moon with tiny gold beads dangling from it.

  The shop owner gave us a discount.

  Nora put up a fight when I insisted I pay for her things, but it was a fight she inevitably lost.

  The shop owner wished us a good day. Nora called goodbye over her shoulder before we stepped out into the cold. We crammed our hands into our pockets and tucked our chins into our collars as we made our slow procession down Warren Street toward the river.

  People smiled and waved on the streets as we passed old homes tucked in between small businesses like more antique shops, cafés, and salons in the front rooms of people’s houses. Nora revelled in it all and I revelled in her.

  It was impossible not to.

  About halfway down the street toward the river, we ducked into a soup and sandwich place. We tucked ourselves into a table near the window so we could watch the goings on in the street—which to be fair wasn’t all that much. Hudson felt like a quiet town. At least it was this Friday afternoon. It was too early for there to be kids roaming around and most of the adults we saw walked with purpose. They had places to be and things to do.

  We ordered bowls of chili served with fresh-baked buns which we dipped into our bowls and crammed into our mouths. The cold in our bones seeped away as the food warmed us up.

  “This was such a good idea,” Nora said. “Just the distraction I needed. Maybe we should just stay indefinitely.”

  I chuckled. “I doubt many people here would care much for my art.”

  “You never know.”

  “I have a sneaking suspicion.”

  She smiled. “What do you want to do next?”

  We found ourselves entering Promenade Hill Park on the river after lunch, where we walked the salted path that wove along the river’s edge and offered scenic but frigid views. Every time we passed a tree, Nora stopped, pulled a necklace from her pocket, and hung it on a snowy branch.

  “What is that for?” I asked the first time she did it.

  “For people to find,” she said, like that summed it all up.

  Puzzled, I frowned. “For who to find?”

  “Anyone.”

  “I’ve never heard of this kind of thing before.”

  Nora joined me back on the path and we kept walking. “I hadn’t either until a young woman I met in Edinburgh took me out one afternoon and started hanging trinkets of all sorts on a walking path for strangers to find. She said it brought good luck to the giver and the receiver and shared good energy. It’s kind of like the concept of paying it forward except the exchange isn’t done by acts of service. It’s just leaving little things for the right person who comes along and sees it.”

  “Have you ever found something someone else left?”

  She nodded. “Only one time when I was in Dublin.”

  “Only once? And how many times have you done this?”

  “That’s not the point,” she said with a slight eye roll. “I like thinking about who might find my trinkets a lot more than actually finding one myself. It makes me feel good. I know it’s silly and small, but it’s fun too.”

  “I don’t think it’s silly.”

  “Good,” Nora said, slapping two necklaces into my hand. “You can hang some, too.”

  So I did.

  As we continued our walk, we searched for perfect branches to hang our little gifts on. Nora liked to find places w
here she thought the sun might hit them if the sun was actually shining. She crafted these ideas in her head of who might find the necklaces and what it might mean to them.

  She told me I had no idea how much a mystery gift from a stranger could change someone’s day.

  I hung back and watched as she hung the last necklace on a branch just out of her reach. She jumped, hooked the chain on the branch, and squealed as snow shook loose and rained down on her. I rocked back on my heels and laughed as she shook it out of the collar of her jacket.

  When she looked up at me, smiling but obviously cold, time seemed to slow down. The necklace swayed back and forth on the branch above her like a pendulum. The sun peeked through a passing cloud and caught the pendant for a brief second, casting a flash of silver light over her smiling face.

  It was in that moment that I realized something.

  I was falling for this girl.

  Nora stepped out of the snow patch and back onto the salted path. Her boots crunched and she shivered, still clearing snow out of her collar.

  She caught me smiling at her.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  I wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close as we started walking back toward town. “The future.”

  Chapter 23

  Nora

  The day with Walker flew by. One minute, we were buying cappuccinos for the road trip, and the next, the sun had gone down and we were cruising the streets looking for a good place to pop in and have dinner. We’d done a bit more shopping after our stroll through the park and I’d purchased a new jacket that was much classier than my denim one. It had a waist sash and an A-line cut. It flared out and ended at my knees. The royal blue fabric didn’t go that well with my red boots but I didn’t really care. I wanted to wear my new jacket to dinner.

  We ended up back on Warren Street, where we parked in front of a bustling little restaurant with a glass-enclosed heated patio. Open-flame tables were surrounded by low sofas filled with families out for the night. The ambiance was warm and inviting, the staff friendly, and it smelled like a gourmet kitchen.

  We were seen to our own table near the fireplace on the outdoor patio. The warmth of the flames helped dispel the cold that still lingered in my muscles and bones. By the time our first glass of red wine was brought to the table, I’d removed my coat and hung it over the back of my chair.

  Walker lifted his glass. “To our first trip away together.”

  “To travel.”

  “To your big writing break,” he added.

  I grinned and we sipped our wine. It went down dangerously easy.

  We pored over the menu and bantered back and forth about what we wanted to order. The seared salmon with a mango chutney sounded fabulous, but I was also attracted to the roast turkey and mashed potato meal with gravy.

  I opted for the salmon, deciding I wanted something a bit lighter in my stomach just in case things got intimate tonight, which I hoped they would.

  Walker ordered pork tenderloin in a demi-glace sauce with garlic mashed potatoes and Brussel sprouts.

  “Do you think anyone has found the necklaces yet?” Walker asked as he swirled his wine in his glass to let it breathe.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. They’d be hard to spot in the snow.”

  “One more toast then, to hopefully putting a smile on a stranger’s face.”

  We toasted again, sipped our wine, and settled deeper into our seats.

  The restaurant offered plenty to see all around us. Young children leaned over coloring sheets provided by the restaurant. Cups of crayons sat within reach and siblings bickered over who could use which color and when. A brother stole a red crayon from a sister, who scolded him like she was far older than her mere four or five years, and both children were promptly reprimanded by their father, who was also coloring his own sheet.

  I smiled as I watched them.

  Even though my parents had been the main stressor in my teenage years and young adulthood, they’d given me a wonderful childhood. I remembered coloring in restaurants while my favorite doll sat in the empty seat beside me. I’d sip sweet tea and participate in all dinner conversations. My father always wanted to include me. As an only child, they knew that they were the ones who would most impact my communication skills and they didn’t take that responsibility lightly.

  We talked about school, food, family, friends, and travel.

  Dad always wanted to show me pictures of the world. He’d buy magazines in grocery store lines just to show me spreads of Machu Picchu in Peru or the Great Wall of China. My amazement had stemmed from those moments—moments I wondered if he even remembered sharing with me.

  My mother had always been more concerned with making sure I fit in amongst my peers. She fussed over my clothes, shoes, and hair, while Dad fussed over my pronunciation of words and the importance of being kind. Mom taught me how to bake cookies and fold laundry and Dad taught me how to ride a bike and check the oil on a car.

  Somewhere along the way, it all got confused. Dentistry became the be all and end all. Money got tight. Expectations became standards and those standards continued to get higher the older I got.

  Now it was safe to say their expectations were lower than ever.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” Walker asked, watching me over the rim of his wine glass. He took a sip. “You look like you’re replaying a movie in your head in excruciating detail.”

  I shook off the weight of the memories. “Just thinking about my folks.”

  “Are you nervous about seeing them tomorrow?”

  I swallowed, nodded, and polished off my wine. “It never goes the way I want or think it will. Mom always has some backhanded remark. Dad always stands there with his hands in his pockets thinking who knows what. And there I am, always wishing things were different. Or wishing I wasn’t there.”

  Walker frowned. “I wish I could make it easier for you.”

  I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You already have.”

  Dinner was still a ways off, so we each ordered another glass of wine, which turned into a bottle for the table, which was nearly gone by the time we finished our meals. It was around nine thirty at night that we realized we were both drunk as skunks and there was no way we’d be heading back to the city in this state.

  We needed a room for the night.

  Walker asked our server if she knew of any places that might be easy for us to get into last minute.

  “What kind of accommodation are you looking for?” the server asked in her polite customer-service voice. “There’s the Tiger House, which is probably the most popular B&B in town, although it’s admittedly pricey. Well worth it in my opinion to stay in a mansion that used to be a hunting lodge back in 1906.”

  I blinked. “How do we get there?”

  She gave us directions and confirmed our car would be fine parked on the street overnight. Walker paid the bill and we put our jackets back on before braving the night. We walked huddled together down the sidewalk, following our directions, until we happened upon the old mansion.

  A long snow-cleared path led to triple arches over the front door. The whole building was made of red brick and trimmed in white concrete, and it looked like it had come straight out of a gothic magazine. Warm light poured out of the windows and silhouettes moved around on the second level.

  We stepped into the lobby and were greeted by warmth and a smiling woman behind the check-in desk.

  Lucky for us, they had a room.

  We were given keys and were invited up to the second level, where we let ourselves into the fourth door on the right.

  The room was exquisite. White walls created a flow between the winter wonderland outside. A wood-burning fireplace dared us to light it, and Walker did, crouching on the balls of his feet as he got it going and I walked around. A four-poster bed with plush blankets beckoned to be slept in. Turkish rugs covered old hardwood floors and led from one room to another and eventu
ally to a bathroom with a massive clawfoot bathtub and rain shower.

  I shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it on the bed beside Walker’s. “I feel like I’ve been transported back in time.”

  Walker straightened from his crouch by the fire as flames began to lick at the logs. He turned to me and he looked dangerously handsome cast into shadow as the orange reflection of the fire danced across his features. “I wonder how many people have stayed here before us, and who they used to be.”

  “The waitress said this place used to be a hunting lodge.”

  Walker pushed off the mantel, swayed a bit, chuckled, and braced himself again.

  How much wine had we actually had? Two bottles?

  He gave his head a shake. “History can be found right under our noses if we look in the right places.”

  “I had no idea something like this would be so close to home,” I breathed. “Every minute of today has felt so special, Walker. Thank you. For all of it.”

  He moved toward me, steadier on his feet now. “I have an idea of how we can make it even better.”

  “Oh?”

  He tilted his head toward the bathroom. “I want to see you in that bathtub.”

  I bit my bottom lip. “That can be arranged.”

  “Should I call down for a bottle of champagne?”

  “Can you handle champagne?” I teased.

  “The only thing I need to worry about handling tonight is you,” he said, his voice low and needy. “I want to take my time.”

  My breathing quickened as he rested his hands on my waist. “Then champagne doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

  “I’ll call. You run the bath.”

  I did as he said and hurried into the bathroom to turn on the water and explore the options of bubble bath we had. There was lavender, rose petal, peony, or lemon. I opted for rose petal. It seemed the most romantic of the four. I added two pumps to the bath and watched as powdery pink bubbles formed on the surface.