“Let me see. Is there a picture of Gretchen?” Iva reached across the table, her silver and sapphire charm bracelet jingling merrily.
She handed her the curling paper then broke off a piece of her muffin. Iva looked down and then back up at her. “Fiona, did you look at this picture?”
“Yes. Of course,” she replied, popping a small piece of muffin in her mouth.
Iva looked at her as if expecting her to say more. “Well, didn’t you notice, my dear? You are the spitting image of Gretchen.”
Fiona was astonished. “What?” She took the paper back and looked at the grainy photo. There was a resemblance. How had she missed that? And…how could she have forgotten? “That’s what Valente said in his letter! That I reminded him of Gretchen. And so that’s why he left me the shop. Guilt, maybe?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Iva told her, her face grave. “Being married to a male senior citizen, I’m constantly surprised at the way his mind works.” She took a sip of bergamot-scented Earl Grey. “What else is in that envelope?” She pulled out a piece of paper folded in thirds.
When Iva unfolded it, Fiona could see the impressions of a typewriter’s keys through the thin paper—the small dots where the sentences ended, an A and an F and other black marks as well.
As Iva read aloud, Fiona’s heart pumped faster.
“‘Hadn’t you better report to the 153rd Precinct, Mr. Valente? If not, you will leave $50,000 in unmarked bills in a plain paper-wrapped package under the stairwell on the third floor of 1473 Broad Street. Tomorrow, by 3:00. Come alone, or I’ll be contacting the precinct for you.’”
There was no need for either woman to speak when Iva was done reading. They just gaped at each other, unmoving, as the waiter set bowls of steaming soup in front of them.
Then Iva looked at the letter again. “The date on this letter is only fifteen years ago.” Puzzlement washed over her face. “Why drag up something like this so many years later?”
Fiona spread a good hunk of butter over her bread, the smell of the food having reminded her how hungry she was. Shaking her head, she replied, “Why indeed? Maybe they just found out about it?”
“Could be. What else is over there? Maybe we’ll have some other clues there.”
“Here’s another envelope—very similar.” Iva didn’t seem to be interested in eating. She pulled out another letter with a very small scrap of newspaper just large enough to depict a very old, yellow photo of a man with his name imprinted under it. “Josef Kremer.” Iva said his name aloud, pursing her lips. “That’s familiar to me, though I don’t know why. Josef Kremer. Hmmm…seems like I should know who that is.”
“What does the letter say?” Fiona asked, reaching to take the paper clipping. He was a young man, not bad looking, with a thin, Hitler-like moustache and heavy brows. The photo was of terrible quality, and that in combination with its age, left much to be desired in the way of details.
“‘Another missing person, Mr. Valente? Tsk, tsk. I’ll look for another package of $50,000 as always. Tomorrow. By 3 pm.’” Iva looked up. “Dated almost a year later than the other one.”
“He was being blackmailed,” Fiona said unnecessarily. “By whom?”
“What for? Murder? Gretchen’s murder?”
They stared at one another for a moment, aged beauty looking at youthful beauty, eyes sparkling like those of twins.
Then the thought struck them both at the same time. “Someone’s been breaking into the shop—looking for something.” Fiona felt like her heart was choking her. “Could it be this—the proof?”
Iva nodded. “Yes. It must be someone who knew Valente…who knew him well enough to blackmail him fifteen years ago…and maybe still was blackmailing him.”
“And he—or she—is trying to find the evidence of whatever Valente’s crime was before someone else does?” Fiona drew her brows together. “Or maybe it’s the blackmailer…trying to destroy the evidence of the blackmail so he isn’t implicated.”
They looked at each other and Iva nodded slowly. “It could be either one of those scenarios.”
“I need to tell Gideon about this. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas.” Fiona’s giddiness suddenly faded.
Iva was looking at her. “I think something’s been bothering him—I meant to mention it earlier, but we got distracted.” She gestured to the spread in front of them. “We had dinner with him on Sunday night, and he was definitely not himself.”
“I’ve noticed it too. Just the past few days. He’s been withdrawn and quiet…and almost short-tempered. Gideon might be a stick in the mud sometimes, but he’s not usually impatient and snappish.” She sipped her tea. “We were going to see a movie on Sunday night, but he called and said he was going to have dinner with the two of you. Just the three of you. It didn’t bother me—really—I just thought it was odd the way he did it at the last minute.”
Iva reached across the table and patted Fiona’s hand. “You’re right not to let it bother you, my dear. He cares about you very much. This is so cliché, but I can’t think of any other way to say it except this: I’ve not seen Gideon this happy since I’ve known him. You’ve brought him to life.”
Chapter Eighteen
Fiona decided to wait and tell Gideon about what she and Iva had found, thinking it would be better to show him the letters in person.
But when he called Fiona to invite her to dinner that night, she knew it was a bad sign.
The way he did it—the way he called and, in a very business-like manner, invited her to dine with him that evening—reminded her too much of the scene in When Harry Met Sally… when Harry and Sally meet for an uncomfortable “it was a mistake” dinner after they slept together.
Not a good sign.
At least he hadn’t had his assistant call, Fiona thought morosely.
Her hands felt clammy for the rest of the day whenever she thought about it. When evening came, she took off the scarf she’d taken to wearing as a headband and pinned up her hair on the sides so that it kept her face free and fell down her back. Of course, now she wouldn’t have the benefit of the nervous habit of pushing her bangs out of her face, but Fiona was too miserable to care.
She knew this was not going to be fun. Her antennae had been singing ever since the morning she’d asked Gideon if he wanted to leave his toothbrush at her house.
Navigating her Beetle through the streets of Philadelphia’s Society Hill, Fiona smiled a wry one. She finally got comfortable enough with a guy to want to build something permanent out of hot sex, great meals, wonderful conversations—not to mention a skeleton in her closet—and she scared him away.
She’d scared him, but she’d scared herself more.
Hell, she might as well be honest with herself—she always was, Fiona thought as she jerked her steering wheel to grab an on-the-street parking place. She was in love with the most amazing, sensitive, talented man she’d ever met—and he had scheduled a Dear Jane Dinner.
~*~
Gideon had never been more miserable in his life. He’d spent the entire weekend with a mason block in his stomach.
Now, as he sat across the table from Fiona—who looked as disheveled and gypsy-ish as always—he found himself taking a larger drink of his martini than he should have. It was Grey Goose vodka, smooth and clean, but the way he swallowed it—hard, fast, and large—ruined it and left him with a rasping throat.
Fiona sat across the table from him, watching as tears sprang to his eyes while he battled the urge to cough and choke. Her hands rested on the table, folded neatly, her fifteen rings (he’d counted them more than once—and the number was always the same) glinting silver and platinum in the low light. She looked at him with large cinnamon eyes, and there was an eerie calmness about her that made him feel even worse.
When the server approached and asked if they were ready to order their dinner, Fiona folded her menu and laid it precisely next to her plate. “Not yet,” she told him. “We’ll need at least fifteen
minutes. Thank you.”
Gideon closed his mouth and stared at the menu. After the server walked away, he looked up at Fiona, who was watching him steadily.
“I don’t see any reason to order dinner,” she told him. “But I didn’t want to mention that in front of the waiter. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”
He took another drink of his martini—this one went down much better. “Fiona. I hardly know where to begin.”
“Let me help you. It has to do with Leslie, I’m sure. And it has to do with us.” She linked her fingers in front of her and looked at him.
Gideon heaved a deep sigh. He might as well put it all on the table—Fiona was already doing so. “I found out on Saturday night that Leslie’s pregnant.”
He waited while she digested the words. She blanched, then her expression firmed, then it became bleak. “I see. Well, that makes it easy for me, then.”
Gideon’s heart froze. “What do you mean?”
“I realized after I made that stupid comment the other day about you leaving your toothbrush that I probably scared you off. I know that it scared me; and pretty much as soon as I said the words, I wanted to take them back. I was going to tell you that I wanted to slow things down…but I guess that would be a moot point, now, wouldn’t it?”
Gideon felt like he was standing on the edge of a sand pit, and the sand was falling away under his feet as he stumbled backward.
He delved into her with his gaze, searching her expression to see if he could read anything behind her words. She appeared calm, sincere, and collected. He looked closely into her eyes, and they matched his without guile.
“We’re too different, and it’s been a lot of fun and wonderful hot sex—and a few laughs, too…but I’ve been feeling a little cramped lately.” She chuckled, the sound clear and unstrained, and Gideon suddenly knew she was telling the truth.
“I don’t know if the baby’s mine,” he managed to say, trying to salvage some ounce of control. “I don’t want to stop seeing you, Fiona—”
“Well, that was obvious since you came over and slept with me the night you found out about the baby,” Fiona said with the faintest harsh edge to her voice. The smile on her face had become brittle and Gideon felt that sand rushing away from his feet faster now, and he could almost see the funnel through which it was spiraling down.
“Fiona—”
“Look, Gideon, you’ve said it before—and I do agree. We’re too different. You live and move in a totally different world than I do. Leslie’s pregnancy is a perfect excuse—reason—for you to take a step back, and I understand that. I truly do.” She reached across the table and patted his hand—like he was back in second grade and had lost his favorite Matchbox car. “You’ll make a wonderful father, darling.”
His heart plummeted, then surged back up. “I don’t even know if the baby’s mine, Fiona,” he repeated, hearing the desperation in his voice. The vodka in his stomach sloshed. He wasn’t ready to be a father. He wasn’t certain he’d be strong enough to put his weaknesses aside, unlike his father had. He wasn’t ready to let Fiona out of his life, either.
“Gideon.” Her simple word—similar to her response when he’d told her about his mother: quiet, full of feeling without being smothering—made him focus on her sad face. “Remember what I saw in your palm? A wife and a baby?”
With both of hers, she gathered up his left hand, gently turning it so that the palm faced up. Her index finger traced a crease on the side of his pinkie, then carefully swept over his open hand, whispering over his skin and raising every nerve ending in his body.
He was losing her—he’d lost her—faster than that sand funneling away underfoot. It was in her face, and in his head. He knew what he had to do, and he knew it was the right thing to do.
Suddenly, he recalled what Iva told him, the message from Salton: She said that you would have a very difficult decision to make…that it would turn your life around…and she said that, although it would be very painful, you would do the right thing in the end.
It seemed like everyone knew his future but him.
~*~
Fiona rushed briskly out of the restaurant, blinking back what she refused to consider might be tears. No way. It was allergies that made her eyes sting.
She’d done the right thing. Gideon was wishy-washing around about telling her the whole story—but she knew what his palm had said, and she knew what had to be done. He had to be cut loose so that he could become a father with a little less guilt than he would already have, having had a father of his own who was such a screw-up.
The baby might not be his.
So? she told herself, jamming the key into her car door lock. She knew Gideon. She’d come to learn his soul during their time together. He was the responsible type—the ultra-vigilant responsible type, and even if the baby wasn’t his, he would do right by Leslie because it could easily have been his.
And because he couldn’t stand to see the child of someone he cared about—perhaps even loved, she thought miserably, cranking up a song on the radio about being hot and then cold—grow up in a broken home. He would fix it as his grandfather had fixed his.
Oh God, oh God…why did she have to fall in love with such a conservative, stick in the mud, responsible, do-the-right-thing guy?
The truth was, she told herself firmly, if he wouldn’t have been looking for a way out of their “relationship,” he would never have brought it up. Responsibility or no, Leslie’s pregnancy was Gideon’s fast ticket away from her.
~*~
“I’m getting married,” Gideon told his grandparents.
His grandfather beamed, leaning across the table at Bookbinder’s, and clasped Gideon’s hand firmly. “Congratulations, son,” he said, tightening his warm grip before his grandson could pull away. “Iva and I have been hoping for such an announcement from you, and we’re thrilled that you’ve finally found the right woman.”
As he settled back in his seat, he readjusted the napkin on his lap and turned a pleased smile onto Iva. “You know what that means, my dear,” he said. “I’ll be able to start my succession plan and half-retire in the next year.”
Gideon frowned. “Succession plan? Retire? You?” He laughed, although he knew it must sound forced, based on the way Iva was watching him.
“Of course, my dear boy. I promised Iva that once you settled down and decided to get married—whenever it was—I would start easing up myself and begin to retire.” Grandfather was pleased. Gideon didn’t ever think he’d seen him as happy, other than when he’d announced his own marriage to Iva.
She still looked at him, her bright blue eyes steady and with worry painted in them. She hadn’t congratulated him. She hadn’t said a word. Gideon felt his middle twist and he took a sip of water laced with lemon.
The ring he’d bought for Leslie weighted down his pocket. Its box bore the gold-stamped logo of one of the finest jewelers in Philly, and he knew Les would be pleased to flaunt it. He was going to bring it to her after dinner tonight. Perhaps he should have invited her to join them at Bookbinder’s, but somehow he knew it would be best to talk with his grandparents first.
The ring itself had been easy to select: a single, square-cut diamond set in platinum, two carats of brilliance that would look lovely on any woman’s hand—but most especially with Leslie’s manicured, white-tipped fingernails.
The pit of his stomach had felt deep and heavy as he’d fingered through the diamonds spread out on a purple velvet cloth earlier today. How different his choice would be if he were selecting a ring for Fiona.
And how foolish of him to allow that thought to enter his mind.
Fiona had seized the opportunity to rush him out of her life the moment he gave her a reason. Obviously, her insecurities and inability to commit to anything had won out—and, Gideon mused, it was just as well. Whatever he did, he was in for the long haul. Fiona didn’t have it in her to tackle anything for the long haul and she’d made that clear.
A wife like Leslie van Dorn—an executive, a powerhouse of a businesswoman and stunning to boot—would serve him and his grandfather’s practice much better than a flighty palm reader would do. Chances were, Fiona would get bored with her antiques shop anyway and move onto greener pastures within months.
With a start, Gideon realized that both Iva and his grandfather were looking at him expectantly.
Kindness, perhaps even pity, glinting in her eyes, Iva spoke. “You don’t seem very happy about this, Gideon. Is it too soon for you? Are you rushing into this?”
The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) Page 23