The Shoppe of Spells (The Gatekeeper Series)

by Grey, Shanon

He saw her brow furrow. “It’s an original sign,” he said, “probably a hundred and fifty years or more.” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears. Mel and Thom would never have treated anyone like that, especially not her. As he watched her move around the room, he offered up his own silent plea. Hey guys, give me a break. I didn’t expect her to look like this. I’m doing the best I can. Seeing Melissa in his head, her hands on her hips, one brow raised, he added. Okay, I’ll try harder.

  “Excuse me?” Morgan stopped and faced him.

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. Had he said that out loud?

  ****

  She wandered over to the counter with the oils and soaps. This was not what she’d expected, given the sign out front. She looked around. The inside was airy and inviting. Bottles of lotions, perfumes, and soaps rested neatly on glass shelves. Interspersed between the bottles were rocks and crystals. The effect was dazzling. On the other side were herbs and jars of—whatever—all neatly lined up. It looked like an organic gift shop. And, it smelled so good. Scents she knew. She sighed in relief.

  He wasn’t what she expected either. Hell, she didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t Mr. tall, dark and handsome with ice-blue eyes that seemed to cut right through her…and looked as though he was hoping to hit the jugular. Then, she saw the sadness in his eyes before he covered it with a glare. Up until now, all she’d felt were anger and confusion. It hit her. This man had just lost his parents—her parents. No. She still had her parents.

  He followed her across the room and stepped behind the counter, pulling several bottles from the shelves. He put drops on a small white ceramic disk. “Basil, vanilla, and a light citrus.” He closed his eyes and inhaled. “Yeah, that’s about right.” He held the flask under her nose. She sniffed.

  “How did you…?” It was her scent. The one she made for herself.

  He smiled at her for the first time. The smile didn’t quite reach his stormy blue eyes. Still, Morgan had the strange urge to reach out and push back the wave of hair that fell over his brow. She felt her stomach tighten. She grabbed the counter. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “This has evolved into an herbal apothecary, with gifts,” he said and waved his arm, encompassing the shop. “We don’t specialize in spells much anymore. Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he chided, “there was a time.”

  He moved around the counter. “Tea?”

  “Uh…sure.” She followed him toward the back.

  He led her down a small hallway, past a restroom and an office. A door to some sort of closet, she presumed, was tucked under the stairs. They entered a large kitchen.

  “My workroom. Have a seat.” He pointed to a table by a six-paned window. She looked around. Commercial appliances surrounded by lots of stainless steel. Nestled among beakers, flasks, and mortars and pestles were stones and crystals, softening the effect. She thought of the cramped galley kitchen she used to do her crafts. What she wouldn’t give— She stopped the thought.

  A sharp, single bark caught her attention. Dorian stepped to the screen door and opened it. “Meesha,” he said to the dog, “this is Morgan. Go greet our guest.” Tail wagging, the small Border Collie walked over and sat in front of Morgan. Ears raised and head tilted, she let out a soft woof.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” Morgan reached over and stroked the dog’s soft fur. The dog inched forward slightly, positioning herself for a better stroke. Morgan laughed.

  She watched as Dorian deftly poured hot water into a china pot, added a tea ball, and slipped it under a cozy to steep. He came and sat opposite her. She looked up and his eyes caught hers and held. She felt that tingle again. She looked out the window. Trellises lined the brick fencing. Roses and other flowers climbed and bloomed. Morgan leaned toward the window. Farther down, an espaliered peach tree ran along the brick wall in candelabra fashion.

  “I will show you the back in a little while,” he interrupted her musings, causing her to jump back, unsettling the teapot. Adroitly, he reached over and caught it with large, beautiful hands. Her gaze followed the sinewy arms to where they stretched out from rolled up sleeves and beyond, to well-formed biceps and broad shoulders. When she got to his face, she saw he was watching her.

  The blood rushed to her face and she looked down. She hadn’t been this awkward since junior high.

  He poured the tea and sat back, studying her. Embarrassed, she concentrated on the tea. The aroma hugged her senses. It was heaven. She took a sip. It was strong, but very smooth and with a hint of spice.

  “This is fabulous.”

  “Thank you. It’s my own special blend.” His voice was velvet.

  Morgan set down her cup. “I know this is hard for you.” Something flashed across his eyes and was gone. She rushed on. “I had no idea,” she explained. “Until a few days ago, I thought I was the biological daughter of Rebecca and Talbot Briscoe. I’m not here to take your inheritance,” she added.

  “It’s not really my inheritance,” he muttered and stood, taking their cups to the sink.

  “Let me show you around,” he said, not giving her time to question. “I live upstairs,” he nodded toward the stairs between them and the shop, but headed toward the back door. Meesha jumped up and followed, happy to join them. He held the door as both she and the dog moved past him. At her gasp, he smiled.

  “Oh—God,” she breathed. The late afternoon sun bathed the garden’s colors in soft light. A large tree filtered more strokes of light into shadows that caressed a cottage and gazebo nestled in the back. A backdrop of ivy and flowering vines covered most of the high brick fence encircling the property. A warm breeze whirled floral scents, combined with those of herbs, making Morgan close her eyes and inhale.

  He was watching her, as if he awaited her reaction. She didn’t disappoint him. A smile played across her lips. “It’s magnificent.” She could tell he was proud of the gardens, cottage, and gazebo. The lushness told her it had been a particularly good year for the gardens. He led her down a path of bricks laid haphazardly in dirt.

  “The gardens are arranged by type.” He pointed to the left. “Culinary and beverage. On the right medicinal and fragrance. Floral interspersed. The sides of the shop harbor more shade loving plants while the fence walls have vines or espaliers, depending on the light and, mostly, on the determination of the plant.”

  She walked slowly. Thyme. Marjoram. Sage. Fennel. She smelled peppermint, rose, lavender, and bay. Somewhere there was patchouli. She thought of Jenn. Wisteria worked its way up the gazebo. It was her dream garden. All around her. She stopped, squinted into the setting sun. “Is that a Neem tree?” She turned her full attention to Dorian.

  He nodded. A smile broke across his face. This time even his eyes smiled. “Yes. A beauty, isn’t it.”

  “I didn’t know they could grow here.”

  He shrugged. He took her elbow, “Let me show you the cottage.”

  The current ran lightly from him to her. She fought an urge to pull away—or move closer—not sure which she wanted more. “You are indeed self-sufficient here.” Her voice sounded breathy. She stepped away from his touch.

  “We’re a true herbal apothecary. However, we also offer soaps, perfumes, and gifts, among other things. Meesha, let’s show Morgan the cottage.” Meesha barked and bounded to the side porch of the Tudor-style cottage. The sunlight touched the leaded glass panes, sparkling like gems.

  He opened the door and held it as Morgan stepped inside. She thought she heard a hum, very faint, for just a second. She listened. She heard Meesha’s nails tapping on hardwood. He closed the half door, unlatched the top and left it open.

  “I’ve never seen one of those.”

  “A Dutch door? This will let some air in.”

  She walked over and let her fingers run over the leading between the panes of the front window, overlooking the garden. She could look across the gardens to the back of the shop, have tea in the morning and watch the birds. What was she thinking? She turned back to the inte
rior of the room. A side window framed the gazebo. A stove, sink, and refrigerator snugged along the wall. On the opposite wall was a small fireplace. More stones and crystals adorned the windows and mantel. A comfortable sofa faced the fireplace. She took a step toward the open French doors in the back, saw the quilt-covered bed, turned and moved quickly back into the living area.

  “There’s a small bedroom and bath in the back,” Dorian said.

  “It’s bigger than it looks.”

  “We use it as a guest house. I stayed here for a while—before I moved upstairs.” She heard the sadness in his voice.

  Meesha stood next to the sofa, whining. Morgan turned. The dog was staring at the space between the sofa and the bedroom. “What is it, girl?”

  “Meesha,” Dorian called. “She just wants to go out.” He walked over to the door, pulled it open, and stepped outside.

  She followed him. “It’s lovely. Thank you for the tour.”

  He looked at her from beneath hooded eyes. His jaw was set, as if he wanted to say something, yet forced himself to remain silent. The discomfort between them escalated.

  She looked at her watch. “It’s been a long day. I think I better be heading out.” She hurriedly took several steps toward the shop. “I think I’ll stop at the bed and breakfast tonight. We can talk more before I go home tomorrow.”

  “No.” His voice was sharp.

  Morgan jumped.

  “I mean,” he carefully modulated his tone, “we have a lot to talk about. The cottage is freshly made. Stay here tonight. We can discuss things tomorrow morning and make some decisions.”

  “I don’t know.” She looked back at the cottage. The lights played through the windows and into the gardens. It was the most inviting little house. Plus, he would be inside the shop with a garden between them. Maybe one night.

  “If you don’t mind?” She was still unsure. He didn’t look thrilled that she was staying, although he’d just insisted. “I didn’t come prepared to stay. I don’t have any clothes.”

  “Although you are more slender, I think Melissa has some things you can wear.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. What was one more thing to feel awkward about?

  “Besides, you have to have dinner.” Dorian opened the door to the shop and waited for her. Again, the perfumes from the shop assailed her senses.

  “Let’s go down to Abbott’s,” he said. His tone sounded lighter. “They serve a wonderful dinner. Then you can come back here and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I’ll let your driver know you’re staying,” he added, finalizing the decision for her.

  She watched as Dorian walked toward the front of the shop. The yawn she’d been fighting overtook her. When she opened her eyes again, he was surrounded by spikes of colored light. She squinted, shook her head, and rubbed her eyes. A normal Dorian opened the door, stepped through and pulled it closed behind him. She took a deep breath. She must really be tired.

  In a few minutes, he was back. “I told him we’ll call when you’re ready to leave.”

  “Let me freshen up and we can go,” she started toward the back door.

  “Use the powder room here. I’ll run over to the cottage and close up. I left the upper part of the door open. I’m always forgetting that.”

  ****

  Fifteen minutes later, they walked the few blocks to Abbott’s in an awkward silence. He didn’t say anything and she was too tired to carry the conversation. A young girl, who seemed to know Dorian, smiled adoringly up at him and seated them next to a window overlooking another garden. This garden was not nearly as opulent as the one behind the shop, but it made a beautiful dinnerscape. A fountain rose out of a small pond. Water bubbled up and over, falling back into the basin. Trails meandered around the pond and disappeared behind the building.

  Dorian smiled at the young woman and proceeded to order for the both of them. The atmosphere had a calming effort on him. Once he lost the hostility, he became the perfect host. Morgan watched him as he talked about the shop and the group of people who frequented it. His eyes brightened and he leaned forward, smiling as he shared a story. His animation captivated her. It was obvious that he cared deeply for the people in this town. As he talked, she listened and tried to imagine him interacting with the people who raised him—the ones who gave her away. Suddenly, she wasn’t smiling any longer.

  Dorian stopped midsentence. “What’s wrong?” He seemed genuinely concerned and reached out as if to touch her hand, stopped, and pulled his hand back, his fist clenched.

  Feeling raw with unexplored emotions, Morgan looked down, shook her head and toyed with her napkin.

  An older woman approached, a tray balanced on her shoulder. She set the tray on a stand, set plates in front of Morgan and Dorian, then stood and stared.

  Morgan bent her head further down.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “it’s just that you’re the spitting image of Mel. But, you know that.”

  Morgan smiled faintly.

  “Morgan, this is Teresa Ruthorford.”

  Morgan extended her hand. Teresa took it in both of hers. Tears threatened to spill from the woman’s eyes. “I am so glad to meet you. Mel was my best friend.” Her voice broke. She turned and rushed away.

  “Go,” Morgan said, seeing Dorian’s quandary.

  “I’ll be right back. Go ahead and start. Don’t let your dinner get cold.”

  Morgan took a bite. The fish was grilled and served with a fragrant herb sauce that enhanced the flavor but didn’t overpower it. It was incredible. The fresh asparagus was also grilled and served with just a hint of lemon. Her appetite rapidly returned.

  Dorian returned and sat down. “How is it?”

  “It’s wonderful. Is she okay?”

  He nodded, took a bite of his chicken, and looked at her. Suddenly nervous, she dabbed the napkin at her lips and looked out the window.

  “Why do you do that?” he asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Look away. Or down. Or out from under your bangs.”

  Her cheeks flamed.

  “It’s your eyes, isn’t it?” He reached over and gently lifted her chin with just the tip of his finger, barely touching her, until she was looking right at him, into those glacial blue eyes. She felt a slight tingle. “You have Melissa’s eyes,” he said. “Wonderful eyes.”

  “Eyes that bring stares and starts.”

  “Hmm,” he nodded. “I forget.” He went back to eating. “Here, we are all used to her eyes. Eyes that shined with kindness and love.” He took a sip of coffee. “But, now that I think about it, she did have sunglasses she wore whenever we went anywhere else. Or, she’d wear a hat.” His eyes crinkled at the memory. “I’d forgotten.”

  “You’re sure Teresa’s okay?” She changed the subject. Talking about Melissa felt weird, as it pertained to her.

  “Yes. She’ll be all right. They grew up together.”

  “Losing a friend and then having her likeness appear before you must be devastating,” she acknowledged. Finding out you’ve lost someone you never even knew isn’t easy, either, Morgan thought and realized she, too, was experiencing a sense of loss.

  Dorian poured her a second cup of coffee and turned the conversation to herbs, soaps, and lotions. The things she knew and loved to craft. He seemed to have a real talent for concocting just the right blend. For a little while, he was warm and friendly, as though he’d forgotten to be mad at her. Morgan began to relax. They sipped coffee as candlelight flickered in the deepening dusk.

  “You don’t know how much you look like Mel. It took my breath away.” He cocked his head and looked at her. “But you are softer, gentler.”

  “I wish I had met them.”

  “They would have loved you.” He looked into the candle flame. A far away, sad expression passed over his eyes.

  Wanting to comfort him, Morgan reached over and touched his hand. Zapped, she jerked
back. “Ow! What is it with you? Every time we touch…” she let the words trail off as he looked at her, his brow furrowed. Obviously, he hadn’t felt it.

  “Shall we go?” He rose and came around to pull out her chair.

  “Don’t we need to wait for the check?”

  “No. We… I have a running tab. Plus, I provide all the herbs for them.”

  The warm night and events of the day began to wear on her. By the time they entered the shop, she was exhausted. “I think I’ll go on to bed. Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  “Wait and thank me tomorrow,” he said. He looked so serious. Then he smiled. “I’ll walk you out. Make sure you don’t need anything.” He stopped, as if pondering something. “Wait here,” he said and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  “Okay,” she responded to his retreating back.

  Turning, she saw the cottage through the back door. Like a painting, the small Tudor building cast fingers of light over the gardens. She watched flickers of color, entranced, and remembered the crystals decorating the windowsills and mantel. She moved toward the back door.

  “This ought to do it.” Dorian came up behind her.

  She turned. He handed her an armload of clothing.

  “I don’t need all this.”

  “Well, I’m a guy. I wasn’t sure what you’d need. If you want something else, just ask.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Dorian walked her over and said goodnight, leaving her alone in the cottage. She set the clothes on the bench at the foot of the bed and picked up the nightshirt. It smelled of lavender. She put it to her face and inhaled, wondering about the woman who’d worn it.

  Her cell phone rang. Her mother’s voice sounded cautious. “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Of course not, Mom,” Morgan said and rushed on, “I’m sorry I didn’t call. It’s been so busy.” She sat on the side of the bed and set the nightshirt at the foot, feeling guilty. For what? Wondering about her biological mother? She pushed the thought and guilt aside and launched into a detailed description of her day, leaving out the hotness of her new “brother.”