The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1)

by Colleen Gleason

  The Shop of Shades and Secrets

  by

  Colleen Gleason

  The Shop of Shades and Secrets

  Colleen Gleason

  Kindle Edition

  © 2011 Colleen Gleason

  All Rights Reserved.

  Excerpt from The Cards of Life and Death © 2011 Colleen Gleason

  The Shop of Shades and Secrets

  (Note to reader regarding included bonus material:

  Please note that bonus material appears at the end of this book. That bonus material will make this book appear several pages longer than it actually is. Bear that in mind as you approach the end and are anxiously trying to judge how much story is left!)

  Prologue

  The sky opened as if unzipped, letting loose a torrent of pelting rain.

  From inside his shop, Nevio Valente peered through the dusty window and saw steam rising from a sidewalk and street that only moments before had been broiling under the hot Philadelphia sun.

  Suddenly, in a flurry of movement, a woman burst into the shop, closed the old wooden door, and then stilled…turning to look up in wonder at the array of light.

  Valente knew what the effect was on a newcomer to the shop. A dazzling array of lights: lamps, torchieres, sconces, lanterns, chandeliers…the soft glow of antique lights everywhere. It looked the same today as it had fifty years ago when he’d walked in.

  The woman took a step further, still looking around her. He saw the way she took in the detail of the shop. Every piece of furniture displayed lamps. Chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot ceiling only feet above her head and a multitude of floor tochieres lined the narrow walkway through the shop like street lamps.

  With all of the lamps, one would expect to be overwhelmed by a harsh brightness…but it wasn’t bright at all. The room, the shop, was cozy and well-lit with a mellowness that bespoke of the antiques located therein. Along with the metallic glint, the rosy glow of mahogany and smooth sheen of maple or walnut only added texture and interest to the eye.

  “May I help you?” Valente closed his gnarled, arthritic fingers—ones that had done unspeakable damage over his century of life—tightly over his walking stick. He felt the grit in his voice and the angst along his spine as he shuffled forward.

  Then he caught his first full look at her face. He froze, his old heart squeezing painfully. Gretchen?

  “I just came in to get out of the rain,” the young woman—much younger than Gretchen would be—admitted with a smile, pushing a mass of dripping curls away from her face. “I never imagined what a beautiful place you had here. It’s so…peaceful, and…elegant.”

  He couldn’t speak. He just stood there, clutching his stick. The inside of his mouth dried tighter than the folds of skin that hung from his emaciated body.

  It wasn’t Gretchen, no, of course it couldn’t be…but oh, she could be the twin of the woman he’d once loved. Her face, her demeanor, down to the narrow hands clutching the handles of a monstrous leather bag…all except for the thick curls that sprang from her head…

  It was Gretchen, and yet it was not.

  His time of reckoning was at hand.

  Chapter One

  “Fiona, there’s a call for you on line three.”

  Fiona Murphy looked down at the mass of papers on her desk, her overflowing in-box, and then turned a glare onto the telephone. This was exactly the reason she hated office jobs—other than the eight-to-five, sit-at-a-desk part.

  She flung the springy hair out of her eyes and over her shoulder and reached for the slim, black receiver. “This is Fiona Murphy,” she said, pushing her reading glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. It was vanity that made her squint most of the time when she looked at menus or the newspaper—whoever heard of a thirty-year-old needing reading glasses?—but when she was at work, and actually needed to see, she had no choice but to wear them.

  “Ms. Murphy, this is Gideon Nath,” came a smooth, professional male voice. “Legal counsel for the late Nevio Valente.”

  “The late Nevio Valente?” Fiona put down the sheaf of papers she’d been perusing and gave the caller her full attention.

  “I’m sorry if his death is a shock to you,” the voice went on crisply, “but—”

  “I probably would be shocked if I knew who Nevio Valente is—was,” Fiona admitted wryly, pushing her slipping glasses back up again. “But since I don’t—”

  “You don’t know him?” For the first time, the inflection of the voice changed from unruffled professionalism to show a hint of surprise.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Never even heard his name?”

  “N-no…well, the name sounds vaguely familiar. But he’s certainly not anyone I know. Knew.”

  “This is Fiona Murphy, of 4520 West Pine, Manayunk?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, this is Fiona Murphy and that is my address. You did call me,” she reminded him with levity in her voice, looking back down at her desk just as an advertising exec dropped a stack of bulging manila files into her in-box. Ugh.

  More reviews, more purchase approvals, more filing. Yet another reason she hated office jobs—that and the fact that she had to play office politics and actually smile at the woman who heaped more work on her desk.

  Mr. Nath continued. “Yes, well, it’s odd that you don’t know one of the wealthiest men in Philadelphia, who happened to name you in his will.” The voice sounded clipped, perhaps even offended, at her humor.

  “What are you talking about?” Fiona didn’t react in time, and the glasses slipped from her nose and clunked onto the desk.

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line that implied this phone call was taking too much of his time. “Ms. Murphy, perhaps you’d better come around to my office so we can discuss this in detail. I—”

  Then it hit her. “This is a joke, isn’t it?” She started laughing. Which of her friends had engineered this one? Dylan?

  “Ms. Murphy, much as I wish it were, believe me, it is not a joke.” The voice became even chillier and more pompous—which had the opposite effect on Fiona as he no doubt intended. She tried to suppress the laughter, but the man sounded like an automaton whose program had gone awry. She could picture him, sitting at a massive oaken desk, his own wire-rimmed glasses firmly entrenched on the bridge of his nose, just beneath thick, hairy brows with a few wiry grey hairs springing out like little spider legs. His glasses wouldn’t dare slip.

  “I think it would be best for you to come to my office so that we can discuss this in a more…succinct manner. Tomorrow at eleven?”

  She almost said yes, but the imp that always got her into trouble decided to be contrary. “No, I’m sorry, that won’t work for my schedule.” She made her voice match his in coolness. Unfortunately, hers came out sounding more nasal than smooth. She choked back a giggle.

  “Does Thursday at three-thirty work for you?” His voice was uber-polite and calm, and she could almost imagine him clenching his teeth.

  “Yes, I do believe that would work for me. See you then,” she said gaily, and hung up the phone.

  ~*~

  On Thursday, Fiona parked her VW bug at her favorite lot on South Street at three-fifteen, judging that the walk to Nath, Nath & Powell would be no more than ten minutes through the tree-lined streets of Society Hill. The day was warm, as was to be expected in Philadelphia in September, but a cool breeze from the Delaware River lifted the leaves that were just turning gold and red.

  The office was in a brick rowhouse situated along a line of similar buildings, all with ornate iron gates protecting the door
ways. The gates at Nath, Nath & Powell were open, however, leading into a small alcove with a rounded-top door. Fiona rang the bell and, while she waited, took in the details of the entryway: the brick walk, the pots of brick-red impatiens that grew even in the cave-like alcove, the huge round knocker on the metal door.

  A buzz indicated that the door had been unlocked and she opened it, stepping into a narrow reception area. The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with bleached blond hair cut like Jane Lynch, looked up with a smile. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m Fiona Murphy to see Gideon Nath.”

  “Yes, one moment.” As she picked up the telephone, she looked up and asked, “Could I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Soda?”

  “No thanks…unless you have herbal tea?” Fiona took a seat on a large chair, arranging her flowing skirt neatly.

  “Ms. Murphy is here for Mr. Nath,” the receptionist was explaining into the phone. When she hung up, she rose. “I’m sorry, we don’t have any herbal tea. Sparkling water, perhaps?”

  Fiona nodded. “That would be perfect.”

  Another blond woman appeared, this one younger and taller, with an abundance of hair piled neatly at the back of her head. “Ms. Murphy, if you’ll follow me.”

  The receptionist smiled. “I’ll bring your drink back momentarily.”

  Just as Fiona had expected, Gideon Nath’s desk was indeed large, oak, and forbidding. He rose from behind it as she was gestured into the room and nodded to a chair placed in front of the desk. “Have a seat, please, Ms. Murphy.”

  She did so, inspecting him with the same frank curiosity as he was doing to her. Her mental picture couldn’t have been more far off, particularly since she hadn’t expected him to be so young. Nor was there a pair of eyeglasses or a wiry out-of-place eyebrow hair in sight.

  And though she might have pictured a young Gideon with honey-blond hair, he actually possessed a head of thick, dark waves. But his eyes were piercing grey, cool and bored, and his shoulders broad and well proportioned in his expensive suit. He held himself stiffly, as though controlling an urge to relax, and his mouth was set in a firm, business-like line.

  As she settled in a chair, shoving her bulky leather bag to the side, she noticed a nameplate on his desk: H. Gideon Nath, III. Of course she immediately wanted to know what the H stood for. Henry? Herbert?

  There were neat stacks of paper lined up to one side of the huge desktop, and three fountain pens in three ornate holders off to one corner. A powerful-looking laptop sat on a credenza behind him, along with a stack of files, two jump drives, and a charger for a cell phone.

  The young blond brought Fiona her sparkling water in a large goblet, then left her alone with the attorney.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked pleasantly after taking a sip from the bubbling water.

  H. Gideon’s eyebrows drew together in a dark line. “I believe it’s more what I can do for you, Ms. Murphy. Er—before we proceed, may I see some identification?”

  “Of course.” Fiona gave him a bright smile that seemed to surprise him and flipped out her wallet to show her driver license. “Not the greatest picture,” she said, “but it’s me.”

  He took it with large, interesting hands and examined the small plastic card before returning it to her. “Thank you. Now,” he said, opening a manila folder on his desk, “let’s talk about this. You’ve been named in the will of Nevio Valente, and although there will be a formal reading in short order, I thought that under the circumstances, we should meet prior to that meeting.”

  “Circumstances?” She couldn’t help looking at his hands again. They were beautiful—elegant and tanned, not too big and bulky, but still appeared masculine and powerful.

  Now she knew what her mother meant when she said there were some hands that she couldn’t resist reading.

  He cleared his throat. “Er—yes. You being the only non-family member—other than a few charities—to be named in the will, and secondly, because you claim not to know who Mr. Valente was.” His gray gaze probed her face as if to reaffirm her claim.

  “I did a little research on the Internet after you called, but I was rather hoping you might be able to clear up some more details for me. I still don’t know why he would have left me anything in his will.”

  H. Gideon cleared his throat again and turned to a different folder—this one green—and sifted through its contents. He pulled a photo from within and placed it on the desk in front of Fiona.

  It took her a minute, but then she recognized the man. After all, she’d only met him once.

  “Now I know who he is,” she exclaimed, picking up the photo as she recognized the proprietor of the beautiful, lamp-filled antiques shop. “The only pictures I found online were older ones, when he was a lot younger. So he’s one of the wealthiest men in Philadelphia? He ran a little antiques shop just down a few blocks away from here, on South Street—I don’t even know the name of it. I went in there during a thunderstorm maybe two or three months ago. Just the one time.”

  She focused on the picture, remembering the day that she’d been entranced by the wondrous store. She’d spent over two hours there, wandering through, sitting at that large desk in the back of the shop, and then finally pausing to chat with the proprietor when it became clear that she couldn’t leave. She very nearly hadn’t been able to leave even after two hours, Fiona remembered. The shop had had such a hold on her, she felt so very comfortable—as if she belonged there. And the elderly man was sharp-eyed and interesting to talk to.

  In the end, she’d bought a cherry lamp accented with dark red and clear glass, with an ornate metal base in the shape of a sinuous cheetah. The lamp sat on the coffee table in her living room and gave off a mellow glow of light like that of the shop itself.

  Fiona was drawn from her thoughts by a gentle throat clearing. She looked up into H. Gideon’s steel grey eyes and saw a flicker of impatience in them. “He was a very nice gentleman,” she told him, handing back the photo. “Kind and interesting. I’m sorry he’s passed on.”

  H. Gideon’s lips twisted into something that may have passed for a wry smile, but looked more like he was swallowing his tongue. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard Mr. Valente described in such complimentary terms,” he told her. “Even by myself.”

  Fiona cocked her head and looked at him. “Perhaps his demeanor was merely a reflection of the people around him,” she said, then settled back into her chair with her arms folded over her middle.

  The dart struck home, and his lips tightened. She couldn’t suppress a smile, seeing his smooth, arrogant facade crack. The imp had hold of her now. For some reason, it had become a personal challenge for her to get the stick out from under his behind.

  At the same moment, Gideon was wondering just what he had done to get himself saddled with such a flighty, unapologetic female in the midst of this mess Valente had left him.

  Not for the first time, he cursed his grandfather for falling so madly in love with his new wife that they’d chosen to take a three-month honeymoon on his yacht, leaving Gideon the Third as the only Nath available for the clients of Nath, Nath & Powell.

  Gideon Senior could have had no inkling that the most eccentric—and wealthiest—of his clients would finally choose to drop dead at an age just shy of a hundred and one during the attorney’s sojourn through the Caribbean. Not that his demise hadn’t been long overdue, Gideon thought ruefully, remembering his impression of the stooped, rude man he’d met only twice.

  And now here was this Fiona Murphy, who’d appeared from nowhere in the old man’s will. From their phone conversation, he’d expected someone younger—in her late teens or early twenties. And with a name like Fiona Murphy, she should have been a leprechaun-like creature with springy carrot-colored hair and thousands of freckles.

  Instead, according to her driver’s license, she was twenty-seven. And she had disconcerted him by being strikingly attractive, with fair, translucent skin, a faint dust of freckles ov
er high, well-defined cheekbones, and dark amber eyes. Somehow the character didn’t fit with the image, but no matter. He had to deal with her in whatever form she appeared, as per the last will and testament of Nevio Valente. He had no intention of making any missteps with his grandfather’s client—deceased though the client might be.

  “So,” she was asking with a faint smile that implied a joke he had missed, “do I get to find out what he left me, or do I have to wait until the public reading of the will?”

  The way she said “public reading of the will”—with a hint of condescension in her voice—made it sound like she was making fun of him, and Gideon tightened his jaw. He wished that there wasn’t going to be a formal reading, just so he could have cause to wipe that smirk off her face. And then he pulled his thoughts back, disconcerted by such a rash reaction.