Also available from Philip William Stover
and Carina Press
The Hideaway Inn
Also available from Philip William Stover
There Galapagos My Heart
The Beautiful Things Shoppe
Philip William Stover
For my great romance, my husband, WBC.
Dear Reader,
If this is your first time in New Hope, please be aware that something happens when you cross the Delaware River into this quirky river town halfway between New York City and Philadelphia. New Hope has a way of making people feel comfortable in their own skin and helping them find their heart’s desire. At least it does in the stories I write. I wanted to create a community where everyone is welcome and everyone feels seen.
The very real town of New Hope, Pennsylvania, has been a haven for inclusivity for the better part of a century. In the late ’60s, Joseph “Josie” Cavallucci, who had previously served in the US Army, hosted mock gay weddings alongside the canal. “Mother Cavalucci’s” elaborate events often attracted mainstream media and became the cause célèbre of the town.
I never met Mother Cavalucci but I sometimes wonder what she would think about Obergefell v. Hodges and the advent of marriage equality across the country. I remember the first time I called my partner of twenty years my husband. It seemed so strange and foreign. I felt like maybe I was just playing a part in one of Cavalucci’s fantasy nuptials. It took some time for it to feel real. Now I use the term husband the way it has been used for centuries—to name the man I love and have chosen to spend my life with.
I’m thrilled that I’m able to write romances that not only feature LGBTQ characters but also the unique stories that make up our HEAs. I’m so honored that you have chosen to read this story and I’m proud to be featured as one of the #ownvoices in the Carina Adores line. Please find me on Instagram or at my website, www.philipwilliamstover.com. I’d love to hear from you.
Welcome to New Hope. I’m so glad you made it across the bridge.
Philip William Stover
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Excerpt from Teddy Spenser Isn’t Looking for Love by Kim Fielding
Chapter One
Prescott
“What is that hideous object doing in the window of my store?” I turn my head away from the large section of plate glass to avoid looking at the horrible tchotchke. The tiny mounds of dirty snow on the sidewalk offer more visual appeal than whatever that thing is. Bravely I push through the cerulean blue–trimmed door and enter the shop. A man is standing behind the counter wearing a hoodie the color of a traffic cone and a T-shirt with some sort of bear in a polka-dot tie and tiny hat.
I need my move-in to go smoothly today so I can be ready to reopen the shop for business at the Winter Festival next week. This is my opportunity to become a serious antiques dealer and I don’t need a detour through the Island of Misfit Toys. “Who are you and why are you putting such vile merchandise in the window of my store?”
“Excuse me. Did you say vile merchandise?” the man asks, walking over to the window and grabbing the offensive object. He holds it in his hands like a newborn infant. “I’ll have you know this is a genuine Muppet Show lunchbox with the Kermit the Frog thermos in mint condition.” He inspects the object for a moment. “Somebody will fall in love with this and cherish it as much as I do.”
I’m about to move in some of the finest antiques from the nineteenth century and this confused man is putting a lunch box in the window of my new retail space. There must be some mistake. I take out my phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“I should be calling the police to let them know a deranged criminal with horrible taste has broken into my shop but I’m calling the man who leased it, Arthur.” This was his shop for years but he invited me to take over so he could finally retire.
The confused man goes back to unpacking a parade of items from a grade-school show-and-tell in hell. Somewhere in this quaint town on the river there must be an empty store waiting for his horrible toys. Does he have the wrong address or wrong town? A quick glance at the things he’s unpacking makes me think he might be on the wrong planet. I begin to dial when the vintage brass bell above the door rings and Arthur, the man himself, walks in carrying his cane.
“Uncle Arthur, I’m so glad you’re here,” the man with bad taste says.
“Uncle?” A sinking feeling descends. “Arthur, you know this man? You’re related?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s an honorific. Many young people in the queer community call me Uncle Arthur. Frankly, it makes me feel old.” He smooths his white beard.
That man walks over to Arthur and kisses him on the forehead. “You aren’t old. You’re cherished.”
I’ve known Arthur only a few years. We’d seen each other at estate sales and auctions and he’d always been very kind to me as a fellow lover of antiques. Eventually he noticed I keep to myself at these events and made gentle, repeated attempts to coax me out of my shell. I eventually felt comfortable enough with him that I looked forward to our exchanges. Knowing he was going to be at big events made tackling the social aspects of them much easier. When he asked me to take over the shop I was thrilled. I had always wanted a shop of my own so I could establish myself as a serious collector. I left the entry-level position at Fisher Fine Arts Library that I’d had since finishing graduate school, gathered my growing collection of antiques and moved to this charming town on the banks of the Delaware River—not far from the spot depicted in the Emanuel Leutze painting of Washington’s crossing.
I was more than ready to leave Philadelphia after half a dozen years as a student and almost as many at the library. The Georgian stone farmhouses with painted wooden shutters and stunning view of the river made moving to New Hope an easy decision, but clearly I should have pressed for more details about how the lease would work.
“Arthur, would you mind helping me understand what’s going on here?” I try to smile and remain as pleasant as possible. This can’t be Arthur’s fault. But then he gives me a look that says I’m not going to like what comes next.
He takes off his vintage bowler and puts it over the silver Labrador head that tops his cane. “Prescott, I would like to introduce you to Danny Roman. He has been running an online shop for a few years, selling all sorts of fun collectibles from midcentury to kitsch.”
“I have a large inventory of Beanie Babies if you have any holes in your private collection,” this Danny say
s. If the situation is making him nervous he isn’t showing it.
“What on earth is a Beanie Baby?” I ask.
“Sure, play it coy like you don’t have a Dinky the Dodo you sleep with every night,” he says, that confident grin returning.
“Dinky the...” I start but Arthur cuts me off.
“Gentlemen, please,” Arthur says. His warm voice is kind yet firm. “Now I apologize that I didn’t have the opportunity to explain the arrangement in greater detail but I was quite busy moving my things out and getting the shop ready so the two of you could move your collections in. I want nothing more than for you to put your own marks on this place.” Arthur looks around the mostly empty store. The freshly painted white walls and barren space must be difficult for him to take in, considering the decades he spent operating one of the finest shops in the region.
“Arthur, I don’t understand,” I say. How could comic-book-in-a hoodie fit into his plan?
“The Beautiful Things Shoppe has enough space to accommodate you both. You each signed a lease that allows you half.”
“You’re telling me that I have to share the shop with him?” I say, scanning Danny from head to toe.
Danny looks back at me, unfazed by my dig. He looks at Arthur. “Where did you find this one? He’s wound more tightly than the corset on Lady Footlocker at gay bingo.” He then turns to me and says, “Look, you uptight snob, I’ll have you know that my collectibles are some of the hardest to find items anywhere.”
“Maybe your things need to stay hidden.” I’ve raised my voice just enough to make my point but this guy takes it as an attack. He raises his finger and is about to jab back when Arthur interrupts.
“Gentleman, please. Both of you. I just came by to make sure you were settling in nicely and make a formal introduction but I see that isn’t needed. I realize this is a bit unconventional, but Prescott, you are one of the sharpest antique appraisers I’ve ever met and Danny, no one understands how objects can bring people joy more than you. How you two divide the shop is entirely your decision. I do suggest you be ready for Winter Festival next week. The streets will be filled with winter shoppers.” Arthur puts on his hat and grabs his cane. “After decades in this business I can tell you both one thing. People come in this shop thinking they’re looking for one thing and walk out loving something different entirely.”
He leaves and I am alone with Danny.
We stare at each other in silence, each of us sizing up the other. This guy barely looks like he has the maturity to run a paper route let alone half of an established antique store. He’s my age or maybe a few years older than me. I’d guess at least thirty-five but he’s dressed like he’s late for homeroom and forgot his homework. In addition to the weird T-shirt and hoodie, his jeans are too big in the waist and too short in length. He has a thick brown scruff and even thicker hair sticks out from the collar of his T-shirt above his chest.
My eyes linger there a moment longer than they should before I realize this person is going to destroy my chances of being taken seriously in the fine art world. I will not let that happen. I stare him down and smile with a sense of determination.
Danny
Just keep smiling, I tell myself. Ignore his blue eyes and the flecks of gray-green sparks that circle his pupils. Just pretend they don’t exist. I move my gaze up to the severe side part in his perfectly combed blond hair. He looks like he’s about to start his first day of prep school in his blue blazer and khaki pants. I begin to wonder what his body is like under his crisp white button-down when I gather my senses. This man had the audacity to insult my Muppets lunch box. Is Miss Piggy not a sacred diva? Still, Uncle Arthur seems to have given him his stamp of approval. How bad can he be? Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.
“Let’s start over,” I say and extend my hand. He looks like he expects my palm to have a gag buzzer lurking. Slowly he extends his arm and we shake.
Big mistake.
His hand is thinner and more delicate than mine but just as strong. I look down and see my hairy knuckles against his golden smooth fingers and suddenly I’m wondering what mysteries might be lurking under those perfectly ironed khakis. You know what they say, the firmer the crease...
I pull my hand away as quickly as possible so I can refocus.
“I’m Danny Roman,” I say gathering as much formality as I can—which for me is not very much.
“I’m Prescott J. Henderson,” he says. His voice reminds me of Fred Astaire dancing lightly across the silver screen—smooth elegance and refined precision.
I chuckle, glad that he has made a small joke to lighten the mood. “No, what’s your real name?”
“That is my real name,” he says so firmly the words almost come out as a growl.
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just... I mean... Prescott J. Henderson? It sounds like a hoity-toity character in a comic book. Like Scrooge McDuck or something.”
“You think I sound like a duck?” He’s clearly annoyed.
“Well, I didn’t say you sound like a duck, but to be fair I haven’t heard you quack yet.” This guy is so uptight that any physical charm he may or may not have is completely pointless. Arthur knows how much I hate these pretentious poseurs who think taste is reserved for the privileged. How could he do this to me?
I’ve known Arthur for years and when he told me he wanted to lease out the shop I jumped at the chance. I needed a change. A big change. After getting dumped on my birthday by a guy I thought was serious about me, I realized I needed something to help me take my focus off romance. I’ve learned I have great instincts when it comes to vintage collectibles and lousy instincts when it comes to men. I’d love to turn my collectibles into a thriving business, but having something to ground me is just as important. The whole reason I took on this lease was so that I could stand on my own two feet.
“Listen, you’re going to have to move these boxes. I have a van arriving with some of my things in just a few minutes.” Prescott is talking to me as if I work for him. I ignore the tone.
“What time?” I ask.
“Noon,” he says like I just challenged him to a duel.
“Well, I hope your van can find a place to park,” I say nonchalantly and move back to unpacking, knowing it will eat him up.
“There’s a loading zone right in front of the shop. Obviously the van will park there,” Prescott says, falling into my trap.
“I don’t think so. That’s where my truck will be.” I take a short yet dramatic pause. “At 11:45.”
Prescott blinks, slowly and steadily, then breathes in. “I have some very fragile and valuable pieces. I’ll need a clear path and don’t want the movers spoken to or otherwise distracted in any way.”
“Spoken to? You don’t want the movers spoken to? Who do you think you are, the Queen of England? Cher?”
“I just mean don’t distract them. They are serious about their work.” Prescott opens the door and a rush of cold air sweeps around the store. Arthur usually had the potbelly stove keeping the place toasty warm and without it the shop is chilly.
Prescott starts measuring the doorway. “I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to make sure the Chippendale can fit through the door.”
“Chippendale? Here I am, thinking you’re a stuffy prude. I stand corrected. I hadn’t thought of bringing in male strippers but it’s not a bad idea—and if you’re worried his piece might not fit through the door then it’s beginning to sound like a great idea,” I say in my best impersonation of Fozzi Bear, who just so happens to be on the shirt I’m wearing.
“I suppose you’re trying to make some type of vulgar joke. I’m assuming you know full well Chippendale refers to a neoclassical style of furniture from Yorkshire, England.” He rattles off the description without hesitation. He certainly knows his stuff. “Excuse me for not laughing but I am unaccustomed to such crass humor in a place of busines
s.” His tone is all serious, but I can tell there is a chip in his polished exterior from the way the corners of his mouth have to fight moving upward. This is the kind of guy that wants to belly laugh but thinks it wouldn’t be proper. Just because he looks like he should be playing the lead in a Merchant Ivory film doesn’t mean he needs to act like the Dowager Countess of New Hope.
I hear a series of screeches from the street so loud they can most likely be heard on the other side of the river. They’re followed by hissing, a jangle of chains and the grinding of gears. I look out the window and see a truck that looks like it has just competed in Thunderdome and in the driver’s seat is my old pal and current roommate, Lizard.
Chapter Two
Prescott
“No, no, no,” I say firmly as I run outside, waving my arms in a rather undignified manner. I need this sad excuse for a truck to leave the loading zone so that my van has a place to park. “You cannot park there,” I screech at a tattooed woman with green hair that’s shaved on one side.
“It’s the loading zone. Of course I can park here,” she says as she hops on the back bumper of the truck to take a seat.
“Hi, Lizard. Thanks for helping me out.” Danny comes out of the shop. He’s wrapped a white scarf with pink polka dots around his neck. It looks like an exact replica of the one the bear on his shirt is wearing. “The truck is fine there. Don’t listen to this guy. He just escaped from the prep school down the river.”
This woman’s name is Lizard. I can’t even pause to reflect on the reality of being named after a reptile. “My van will be here in less than thirty minutes. Where are they supposed to park?”
“Not exactly a problem solver are you?” Danny says needling me. “If you help us unload we can be done before your van even arrives.” Lizard tosses Danny the keys and he throws open the back door of the truck with one arm. What he lacks in charm this guy certainly makes up for in strength.
I look inside the truck and let out an uncontrollable gasp. “What is all this stuff? Are you sure you got the right truck? Maybe this one was going to the circus and got lost.” There are clear plastic bags with brightly colored stuffed animals, racks of clothes that look like they were featured in Saturday Night Fever and a box the size of a wine cask labeled Beanie Babies.
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