Suddenly, one of the photographs caught her eye and she lifted it into her hand. She sat down on the floor and stared and tried to comprehend the image on the photo.
The photo was in the shape and style of a postcard, but much thicker stock. The image, although slightly faded, was the front of the funeral home, but from a time long past. The signage read Nichols Funeral and Embalmers. There was a glass front with the word “Undertaking” stenciled upon it. A smaller sign in the window read “Lady Assistant Required.”
Inside, she could see a beautiful white coffin display and other funerary items. In the reflection of the glass was the clear image of a black funeral carriage tied with elaborate ribbons.
But the most startling aspect of the photograph was the handsome undertaker standing proudly in front his business, his hands clasped in front of him. It was unmistakably, Adam Nichols. She turned the photograph over. In the same elegantly flowing handwriting as the piece of paper she found in Adam’s pocket, she read the words, Week of October-11-1896.
A searing heat consumed Lizzie’s body and a buzz filled her ears as she dragged breath in and out of her lungs. She struggled to her knees and blinked hard to clear her misty vision.
What entity had she allowed to enter her life when she opened her door just a few hours earlier?
A glint of gold grabbed her attention and she crawled toward an antique coffin screw lying on the floor. A wicked smile formed on her lips. She took it into her hand, with the dangerous sharp point of the screw protruding through her index and middle fingers. She squeezed it so hard that the Victorian feathered heart motif imprinted itself onto her palm.
When Adam Nichols woke up, she would have a surprise waiting for him. She would drive the screw into his temple before he realized she was upon him. No one, and nothing, would take her new home from her.
She staggered to her feet. An uncontrolled stream of tears flowed from her eyes and stained the front of her robe. Time blurred, and she stood rooted to the spot, waiting until Adam, wrapped in a blanket, appeared in her vision. Lizzie had a sudden, almost absurd thought in the moment that his clothes were still wet inside the washer.
When he walked into the sitting room, she took a huge step backward, her back nearly touching the French doors that led out to a balcony. His unique colored eyes were so soft and full of concern that her murderous intent began to evaporate. No matter what Adam Nichols was, she couldn’t kill him. The coffin screw she clutched fell from her palm and skidded across the hardwood floor.
In that moment, Lizzie knew she had only one escape. That was to flee through the French doors onto the balcony, and jump to the street below, most likely shattering her body and ending her life.
He stepped closer to her. “Lizzie, why are you crying?”
Words would not form on her lips. She could only stand there tongue-tied and terrified as he closed in on her.
“Ah, my poor, precious angel,” he cooed as he encased them both in the blanket and pulled her tight against his bare body and pressed a kiss against her hair.
Suddenly Lizzie felt a shift within herself and she pulled him close.
He belonged here. She belonged here. It was so obvious now, how could she have not realized it earlier?
A sense of inner peace that had always eluded her now filled her being, and she clutched Adam tighter.
Nothing else mattered now.
She kissed his bare chest. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to meld with this antique man and make him a part of her modern world. When she looked up into his face, his indigo eyes captivated her.
“I’m home now, Lizzie. I’ll take care of everything from now on.”
His lips descended to meet hers, soft and sweet, sending her senses spinning. When she opened her eyes, his smile was beatific.
“You belong to me now, you do know that?” he asked.
And that was just fine with Lizzie.
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If you enjoyed Antique Charming check out The Activist, The Showgirl, and The Pincushion:
The Archivist, the Showgirl, and the Pincushion
“Come along, and mind no touching, girl! I’ve eyes in the back of my head, ya’ know,” the old lady scolded as she motioned me to follow her inside. Keeping a safe distance as she shuffled along with the help of a cane, I saw no other help which was a puzzle. Surely the mistress of such an estate, the august Mrs. Fitzpatrick-Hughes could afford it. And such a house it was. Not so much grand as an over-enunciation of its status, it was your basic 20th century pile channeling an English country manor home. With its expanse of checker-boarded marble floor, the foyer alone was large enough to hold my squirrel’s nest of an apartment. A curving staircase unfurled dramatically as if awaiting an unseen hostess to make her entrance. Tucked beneath it was an elevator, which my surly escort and I took to the second floor. As we ascended I couldn’t help stealing glances. With raisin eyes sunk deep into a sour sap face and an old-fashioned flowered scarf on her head she resembled a babushka—save for the incongruous pair of eyeglasses perched on her beaky nose. Huge plastic frames in a cheerful sparkly blue, circa 1985; they clashed at least a century with her dour demeanor and dress. The wonder was that they wouldn’t be out of style today in certain hipster enclaves.
I was in the home of the singular Mrs. Fitzpatrick-Hughes, the once and famous, if not scandalous Ziegfeld girl billed as Sylvie Van Cleeve—whose song and dance career had died a thousand spangled deaths before reviving and landing her in the gilded lap of Cyril Royston Fitzpatrick-Hughes.
Antique Charming Page 2