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

by Colleen Gleason

  “In fact,” he replied smoothly, “Mr. Valente did request that you attend the reading of the will. It won’t, however, be public, per se. Just for the family and other heirs. He also left this for you.” He slid a heavy cream-colored envelope across the table.

  She hesitated, then reached for the packet. Her fingers were long and slim, with smooth pink nails and at least one ring on almost every finger. He thought perhaps they might have been trembling a bit, and when she looked up at him with an awkward smile, his suspicions were confirmed.

  “It’s odd to get a letter from someone who is dead,” she commented.

  Gideon didn’t know how to respond, so he offered her the gold-plated letter opener from his desk. She was a curious woman: one moment, carefree and flighty, the next subdued and thoughtful.

  Fiona took the opener and slipped it under the envelope’s flap. He watched as she pulled out a single sheet of matching cream paper—Nevio Valente’s personal stationery—and looked down at the spidery writing. She stared at it for a moment, peering, squinting, and then finally, with a rueful smile, began to dig in her huge leather bag.

  Gideon found himself suppressing his own smile when she pulled a pair of brightly patterned cheaters from the depths of her bag and slipped them apologetically onto her nose. “Much better,” she murmured, looking back down at the letter.

  There was silence for a moment as she read the letter, and Gideon directed his attention to the rest of the file on Fiona Murphy. Apparently, she’d made a purchase from Valente’s antiques shop, and he’d written up the sales receipt, complete with her name, address, and telephone number, and kept it on file as he did with all customers. But why would he mention her in his will after a simple purchase from his store? Particularly since he had many more customers who made regular, more costly ones?

  Fiona looked up from the letter at last, and he saw that her dark amber eyes glistened. “Thank you. When is the reading scheduled? I’ll certainly plan to be there.”

  “Tomorrow, at four o’clock. It will be here. I do hope your schedule can accommodate that time slot. Is…there anything I can get for you?” he felt compelled to ask in light of her obvious emotion.

  “No thank you. Well, Mr. Nath, if there’s nothing else?” She gathered up her bag as if preparing to rise.

  “No, no there isn’t, Ms. Murphy.” Gideon stood and extended his hand to shake hers. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice evening.”

  She clasped his hand with a firmness that surprised him, and held it for a moment, looking down as though examining something fascinating.

  “Such long fingers,” she murmured, then, as though remembering where she was, looked up at him, smiled. “Have a nice evening yourself.”

  He stared after her when she left, flowing skirts and gypsy hair, suddenly feeling like he’d been blindsided by the sun.

  Chapter Two

  The reading of the will was as tedious and boring as Fiona had anticipated. She sipped from a goblet of sparkling water studded with a lemon wedge and surveyed the cluster of people around the great mahogany table. There were only four people other than H. Gideon Nath, III, and his blond assistant, whose name, she’d learned, was Claire.

  The rest were somehow related to Nevio Valente, and Fiona spent her time observing them as H. Gideon droned on, reading the long document left by Mr. Valente.

  There was Barnaby Forth, the youngest of the bunch, who appeared to be a grandson or grandnephew of the deceased—she hadn’t quite figured out which—and was not much older than Fiona herself. He wore his designer suit with the same confidence and air of professionalism as Nath, and constantly cast his gaze in her direction. His dark brown hair was brushed back from a handsome, sharp-featured face with a cleft chin. He held one end of a marbled fountain pen between each forefinger and thumb, his short fingers spread gracefully on the boardroom table. Square index fingers, Fiona noticed automatically. Must be a lawyer or accountant. And he looked vaguely familiar.

  Next to him sat an older man, perhaps in his late fifties. He had dark hair, the exact color of which was uncertain because it was slicked back with some sort of gel, and it was a bit too long so that it curled up wetly at the nape of his neck. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that settled into little indentations in his pudgy cheeks and had spatulate, manicured fingernails that gleamed while he played with a gold-plated fountain pen. Fiona had heard him introduce himself as Arnold Sternan, and, judging from his age, he was probably a son or nephew of Nevio Valente.

  The two others were obviously a couple, a man and woman of middle age and poor taste—at least in Fiona’s opinion. The woman’s clothing, though obviously expensive, was loudly decorated with beads, lace, and satin-stitch embroidery. Aside of its decor, the color of the dress itself was enough to make Fiona feel nauseated: it was the hue of a perfectly ripe navel orange, and was probably purchased at an exclusive shop on the Main Line. Her husband’s fashion sense was no more commendable, for, although he wore an unexceptional dark suit and white shirt, his tie looked like a long, narrow quilt. He had a fringe of grey hair that circled his scalp, and the crown of his head shined like a cue ball under the bright lights. The couple was finally identified as Viola Ruthven, Nevio Valente’s niece, and her husband Rudy.

  It took an effort for Fiona to drag her eyes away from the garish couple, and when she did, she returned her attention to H. Gideon Nath, III, and found that he was glaring at her from over the top of the sheaf of paper he held. Feeling like a student caught passing notes in school, she straightened in her seat and endeavored to look interested in the proceedings. All the while, she tried not to stare at his beautiful hands, for she itched to know what truths they held.

  Never one to sit still for long because of her energetic nature and creative mind, Fiona had long since perfected the ability to listen to a lecture with just enough attention that she could tune back in at a moment’s notice.

  Her mind drifted to the letter Mr. Valente had left for her. It was tucked away in her huge bag, but she could see the words as if the heavy stationery sat on the table in front of her.

  My dearest Fiona:

  I am certain this will come as a surprise to you—first, that I am dead and second that I’ve chosen you to name you as a benefactor in my will.

  I’m sure you are wondering how and why I should do so. The decision was made for me the moment you rushed into my shop that rainy day last June. With your beautiful, windblown auburn hair and swirling skirts, and the wonder that was in your eyes when you gazed at my treasures, the picture you made was indelibly printed on this old man’s mind. It was an echo of one such vision—a memory—that I have held in the deepest part of my soul for many, many years.

  This old, embittered and ravaged heart softened for the first time in decades as I gazed upon you, for you looked so much like my dear Gretchen that I could barely move for the pain of it.

  This old man has been through much hatred and ugliness in his life. Your freshness and innocence reminded me of how I once was, and how I could have been happy—I should have been happy—had things not happened the way they did. Perhaps you will find or create the happiness that I could not. I charge you, then, in honor of my Gretchen, to take this bequest and make something good from it.

  Be assured, however, my dearest Fiona, that should you shirk your duties, I promise to haunt you for the rest of your life! Ha ha.

  Looking forward to seeing what is on the other side…

  Fondly,

  Nevio Valente

  Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes once more at the obvious hurt and pain in the letter. So because she reminded him of someone he’d once known, the elderly man had bequeathed her—what? Some old treasures? Jewelry? He must have been senile to name a perfect stranger who reminded him of some other woman in his will. At his age, it was possible that anyone who walked into his shop might look familiar.

  The attorney continued to pore through the legalese while Fiona’s quirky mind was at work,
darting down tunnels of possibilities as to the identity and reason for her bequest. One thought was so absurd that she actually had to choke back a giggle. She cast a swift glance at Nath, who flashed an annoyed look her way, and then let her attention sweep over Barnaby Forth.

  Fiona snapped her attention back to the head of the table as she heard her name. Nath was reading as smoothly as ever, but again, those steel grey eyes flashed a sharp look at her.

  “…Miss Murphy, with whom I recently made an acquaintance, is listed last in this epistle, although she is not the least of consideration. It was with great thought that I have made the decision to leave to her, upon my demise, the building, contents, and all related business of my Antiques Shoppe, located on South Street in Philadelphia, PA. I’m certain that she will make the store a continued success, and for that reason, I forbid her to sell the shop or building for the first five years of her ownership. If in the end she makes the determination to sell within the first five years, all proceeds from the sale will be added to the N. Valente Endowment Fund.”

  Fiona stared blankly at Nath, whose voice had trailed off with the end of that paragraph. I don’t know a thing about running an antiques shop. But, as her mind took her back to that rainy day spent browsing through the shop of lights, she started to smile. Shaking her head, struck anew by Valente’s oddities, Fiona became aware that the entire table of people was staring at her.

  “How…generous,” she managed to say, not quite sure what was appropriate at this time. As her head was still spinning, she couldn’t think clearly. When no one looked away, she gathered her composure and lifted her gaze to Nath. “You may continue,” she suggested, looking pointedly at the paper he held.

  “There is nothing more,” he replied coolly, adding the paper to a stack that sat off to the left. But, thankfully, he reclaimed the attention of the others by asking, “Does anyone have any questions? I’d be happy to meet with each of you on an individual basis to clarify any of the points in this document.”

  No one had any questions, but everyone wanted to schedule time with the attorney to finalize the paperwork. Fiona sat in her chair, cautiously observing the others. She wondered who in the room had expected to inherit the shop—and whether there would be any hard feelings that she had usurped someone else’s bequest. The last thing I need is to be dumped into the middle of some crazy family competition.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Murphy.”

  The deep male voice caused Fiona to look up as she wrestled her bag onto her lap. “Thank you,” she smiled, holding out her hand as she stood. “You’re Barnaby Forth?”

  His handshake was brief but his smile lingered. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself before the proceedings started.”

  “I was late, so you wouldn’t have had the chance anyway.” Fiona remained polite, but she began to ease her way from the table, intending to make her way out of the room. “Now, tell me, how are you related to Mr. Valente? I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch everything that was in the will.”

  “I’m the old man’s grand-nephew—my mother’s brother was his grandson.” He looked as though he would have said more, but H. Gideon Nath approached them.

  “Let me get you both on my schedule for next week,” suggested the attorney, “so that we can get some of this paperwork taken care of.”

  “If you could have your secretary call mine, that would probably be the most efficient way,” responded Barnaby. “I believe you have my card?”

  “My schedule is perfectly clear, Mr. Nath,” Fiona said. “How about Tuesday at nine?”

  He looked at Claire, who had slipped up behind them and was madly tapping on an iPad. She paused to nod, then went back to tapping. “Yes, nine on Tuesday works. Two hours, then you can get to court by noon?”

  He nodded again, and Fiona hooked her bag over her shoulder. “Thank you, and I’ll see you then. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Forth. Good-bye.”

  ~*~

  Fiona spent the weekend in a daze. She kept having to kick herself when she thought about the fact that she was now a business owner…and the proprietor of that lovely shop.

  On Saturday afternoon, she dragged her girlfriend Chris for a walk along South Street to show her the shop. They paused at the dingy windows, peering into the dimness of the store. A sign on the door said “Closed Due to Death” in large block letters.

  “I wonder if it makes any money,” commented Chris as they stepped back from the dirty windows to proceed along the street.

  Fiona nodded, tucking a thick mass of windblown hair behind her ear. “I can’t decide whether to be thrilled at this opportunity or scared to death that the thing is nothing but a money pit—and something that’s going to tie me down forever. I guess I’ll find out more when I meet with H. Gideon on Monday.”

  “Why do you always call him that?”

  “Because that’s how I think of him. He’s a cardboard cutout of a person—stiffer than Al Gore—and he has that whole long pretentious name on his business cards and on his desk nameplate. H. Gideon Nath, the Third. Doesn’t that sound like a lawyer?” Fiona chuckled, adjusting the thick gold ring on her right forefinger. That H still bothered her. Hank, maybe? Herman? “He thinks I’m a real flake—I can tell. And I love messing with him.”

  They turned into a coffee and sandwich shop and Chris led the way, clumping across the wood floor in her heavy clogs. They settled themselves at a small table near the window. When a waitress approached, Chris ordered a double cappuccino and Fiona, wrinkling her nose in disgust with her friend’s choice, chose herbal tea.

  “How can you drink that stuff?” she asked as she always did. “Don’t you know that caffeine just sucks the calcium right out of your bones?”

  Chris rolled her pale blue eyes and shook her head. “So what are you going to do about your job? They’re going to be lost when you leave.”

  Fiona grinned and began to systematically pull off the jumble of rings she wore, letting them clatter onto the mosaic-tiled table. “You know I can’t wait to quit. I’d have done it already if I was sure the shop would support me in the manner in which I’m accustomed.”

  “I’m shocked at your restraint, Fiona.” Chris grinned, looking up as the waitress served their drinks. “You change careers more often than Lady Gaga changes clothes, and I figured it was about that time for you to be making a switch anyway. You’re always so good at your jobs—but this shop will mean a real commitment from you. You won’t be able to leave when you get bored. Unless you want to sell it.”

  “Yeah. That C word gives me the willies.” Fiona laughed lightly and looked down at the pile of intricate gold bands, pushing them around on the tabletop with her forefinger. “Just like my mom. I come by it honestly, I guess. I’m sure I’ll hang on to the shop for awhile, anyway.”

  Despite the fear building inside her—from the fact that she now owned something, that she had to be responsible for a business—Fiona already knew she didn’t want to give up the shop. She’d only been there the one time, but there was something about it, something that made her feel like she belonged there. She hoped she could find a way to make it work.

  Fiona removed the tea bag from her mug and placed it on the saucer, inhaling the scent of jasmine tea. “I have a lot to learn, though—what I know about antiques would fit in this cup.”

  “Your background should help a little bit there, though,” commented Chris, swiping a spoonful of whipped cream from the top of her coffee.

  Fiona nodded and had to push the hair out of her face again. She had two undergraduate degrees: one in art history and one in interior design—an excellent example of her inability to make commitments. “At least I know the time periods and basic styles,” she agreed, sipping the green tea. It was clean and light, and the essence of jasmine relaxed her. “But I won’t know anything until I meet with that lawyer on Monday.”

  “Speaking of lawyers, you never got back to me on my text about Tuesday,” Chris said.<
br />
  “Text?” Fiona reached for her bag. “I didn’t get any text from you.” She began to rummage in the depths of the satchel. Or did she? If she could actually find the phone….

  “Did you lose your cell again?” Chris shook her head in mock annoyance. “I don’t know why I bother trying. I should just stick to face to face or calling you at work.”

  “So what’s going on Tuesday?” Fiona asked, still feeling around amid the jumble for her phone. When was the last time she’d seen it?

  “There’s a guy I want you to meet,” her friend replied, her eyes dancing with humor. “He’s just so sweet and down to earth, and he’s never been married.”

  But Fiona was already shaking her head. “That lawyer? No way. You know how I feel about that breed. And I don’t trust any blind date you arrange for me anyway, especially after the guy who was supposed to be a veterinarian. The man had hands like the Tin Man—big and knuckly and creaky.”