by Drea Stein
Working for Phil in high school had been her first exposure to old things, well-worn and well-loved antiques. Before that she had been surrounded with old, but it had just been, well, old. His passion for treasures had transferred to her, though she’d taken a different approach. She’d gotten into college in Manhattan, excited by the thought of leaving the small town behind. She needed money to pay for it, so Phil had set her up with a job at an antiques store in New York City. Still, she’d barely been able to afford rent, so she’d gotten a second gig bartending. Both the antiques store and bar had been strictly second tier. The great thing about the city was that everyone, even the A-listers, had a favorite dive bar.
The one she worked at happened to be a favorite after work hang out of a restauranteur who owned one of the hottest night clubs downtown. Soon, Colleen had talked herself into a job there, both as a hostess and a bartender. Once there, she served a different kind of clientele, and she had impressed the owner of a high-end antiques store with her knowledge of the resale value of 16th century antiques while pouring him a single malt scotch shot that cost more than she made in an entire night.
She introduced the antiques dealer to a middle-aged divorcee, who preferred extra dry martinis, and who was quietly looking to divest of her ex-husband’s collection of antiques. As a thank you, the antiques dealer had offered her a job in his store. Strictly commission only, but she’d found that the commissions made selling furniture and artwork worth tens of thousands of dollars added up quickly.
She’d embraced her new life, dropped out of college, and made more money than she’d ever imagined selling antiques and promoting parties at clubs all over town. School was a distant memory.
She’d been part of an It Crowd, defined by parties, shopping, and living the good life. She found that if she played her cards right, she never had to pay for anything. Someone with daddy’s credit card or a trust fund was always part of the party, and that was who paid her way. Her name was always on the right list for the newest club opening or the hottest after party.
As long as she kept bringing her bosses clients, whether for antiques or drinks, they were happy, and so was she. She put it all on her blog, of course, and she was a minor celebrity. Life was good. When she thought it couldn’t have gotten any better, she met Olivier. He had been the real deal, strictly old money. French, with an accent to die for—or actually to fall in love with—he ran his family’s antiques business. He had an antiques shop in Paris, the best of the best, an apartment in town, and a country estate, with a crash pad in New York.
She had been swept off her feet, and the rest of the story had unspooled according to a time-worn formula that she had come to recognize after it was too late. Debonair older man flirts with younger woman who sorely needs a daddy figure. Long romantic dinners followed by a kiss, and soon she’d moved to Paris and found herself a woman about town, the brash American who could speak French, helping Olivier with his business. Her blog had continued, featuring their “lifestyle” including plenty of mentions of his store. It had been good for his business and their partnership.
She’d turned those customers into her own interior design clients, advising people with more money than sense on what to buy to fill their apartments and country homes. Colleen’s sense of style was in high demand and her life had felt very European, very glamourous, until she got pregnant.
She’d been scared to say anything to Olivier, but he had been delighted. It was an alpha male thing, the pleasure that he could produce children. He had been happy, but that was when things began to change. She was something different for him, no longer a girlfriend, or as she had come to realize, the favored mistress. She was, too, she’d come to see, just one of many girls Olivier kept. He was generous and kind until you asked for too much.
Financial support he provided in abundance. Excellent doctors and, after Adele was born, a night nurse and a housekeeper. Her rent was paid and money was deposited in an account for her, but Olivier’s presence had slowly slipped away.
Then he got engaged. Simone. She was from an old, aristocratic family, a woman who had grown up with city apartments, a summer house in the Rivera and skied in the Alps for winter break.
Simone was the kind of woman that Colleen could never truly be. Sure, she might have re-invented herself into someone who seemed like that, but it would all have been a fraud. Underneath it, she was girl from the wrong side of the tracks who had figured out how to give people what they wanted, whether it was a cool night out, a perfect martini, or the perfectly designed dining room.
Olivier’s engagement had been a surprise, since she had seen a mention of it in the paper rather than hearing it from him. She had felt the fool when she realized what was happening, but then she would look at Adele and all regrets faded. Olivier had dismissed her with his usual insouciance, as if she had been a fool to think that he might actually have married her, Collen McShane, an American of Queensbay rather than Simone Des Robles of Paris, London, and Geneva.
Still, of course, he had promised, things didn’t have to change between them. He adored her, Colleen, and their daughter; they’d just have to be discrete. And so, since Colleen didn’t know what to do, she had stayed in Paris, in the apartment Olivier paid for, accepting referrals of clients from his store, while she worked on her book and her blog.
After four years of watching Adele grow and working on her blog and book, taking on interior design clients, selling her repurposed flea market finds, she found herself at a crossroads. She was almost thirty, Adele would start school soon, and it was time to think of what was next, to forge the next chapter of her life. She could go anywhere in the world, start over.
Thank God for Phil, and his help with that, though she wished he would have said something about being sick. She would have come home sooner, come to see him, and helped him in his final weeks. But she had known nothing about it.
Instead the catalyst to come home had been two-fold. Phil’s estate needed settling, but she could have done that over the phone and by email. Rather, what had cemented her decision was when Olivier had come to her and had made the very casual suggestion that they rekindle their relationship. He had offered to set her up with her own shop. Not in Paris though, of course. New York was suggested, though London was a possibility.
She had realized, without having to ask, that he had no intention of becoming unmarried to his wife. He wanted them both. But Colleen had learned over the last few years that she could be on her own. That only Adele mattered, and that, in truth, she no longer loved Olivier. So she had told Olivier that she needed to come home for a while, to sort things out in person before she could give him an answer.
And truly she had meant that, to sort things out, to figure out what to do next. Maybe she would consider Olivier’s offer to set up a shop. London or New York would be ideal. A business relationship only, of course. But somewhere along the way, as she cleaned and inventoried, moved in with her mom, found a preschool for Adele, and settled into life in Queensbay, a plan formulated, including the decision to open her own shop. Except, not in Paris or London or even New York. No, La Belle Vie: A Parisian Emporium would begin its life in Queensbay.
Elated, she had splurged on a brand new sign for the shop, just as she realized how much work the place really needed. Her list grew and grew, and she was adding to it even now. The floors were a good solid wood but scarred and scratched. They should be refinished. Or, if that was too expensive, maybe painted, and the walls and ceiling. Everything had once been white but was now a dingy gray. She had put paper up on the windows, to keep prying eyes away, but she knew that curiosity about the place was running high. With the tourist season coming soon, she needed to be ready to open.
She was jolted out of her list-making by the rattle of the door and the sound of voices. Somewhat tempted to ignore it and keep working, she reminded herself that telling people she wasn’t quite ready was almost as good as telling them she was almost ready. She went to the door, u
ndid the lock and opened it, stepping back a bit as she did. Then she stopped when she saw who it was.
“What are you doing here?” Jake asked, obviously surprised. Next to him stood Jackson Sanders, his best friend, and, if Colleen remembered correctly, current business partner.
“I own the place,” she said, then tried to look cool as if she were used to being the owner of something. She greeted Jackson, to cover the fluttery feeling in her stomach.
He smiled politely and nodded at her. He was as tall as Jake and slimmer, his build that of a baseball player rather than a football player. Unlike Jake, he was dressed in a well-tailored suit and tie. Jake wore his usual khakis, boots, and polo shirt, the sleeves tight around his muscles. She told herself not to look at those but instead focus on Jake’s face. It was all strong angles and blue eyes and dimples and almost as distracting as his muscled arms.
“I thought you worked at Quent’s?” Jake said, clearly confused.
“I do,” she said, deciding that the less information she doled out the better.
“I thought you worked at the Osprey Arms,” Jackson said, his voice mild.
“I did. Didn’t work out,” she said, her answer sharp and clipped. Jake shot his friend a dark look.
Jackson nodded, a knowing look crossing his face. “Darby give you a hard time?”
Jackson had gone to high school with them too, and no one could fault his grasp of the complicated history of relationships that bound them together.
“Something like that,” Colleen said and shrugged, one shoulder going up, a distinctly Parisian gesture she had adopted. It kept people guessing, and she liked that.
“What are you doing here?” Jake asked again. He took a step forward, and she took a step back and before she knew it, she had let the two of them inside the shop.
“Where did all the junk go?” Jake asked, walking around. He stopped, tested a column, bent down, touching his hand to the floor.
“In the basement, for storage,” she answered, folding her arms over her chest. Jackson stood there, his hands in his pockets, a slightly amused look on his face, watching the two of them. He could sense, Colleen was sure, the tension between them. She had the feeling that Jackson knew everything.
“Where’s Phil, in the basement too?”
“He died six months ago,” she said, shocked, then saw the smile on his face.
“I know. I went to his wake. What are you doing in his shop?”
She paused. The word was bound to get out. “If you must know, he left it to me.”
“Why?” Jake asked and turned around to look at her.
“I used to work for him back in high school, and we stayed in touch after I left.”
“You stayed in touch with Old Phil?” he said, disbelief in his voice.
“I did,” she said and raised her chin up. She had nothing to apologize for. She and Phil had been friends, and if people thought anything otherwise, well, that was their problem. But, she felt the familiar niggle of doubt. She was used to getting second glances. After all, she’d always been the girlfriend, never the wife, and there had seldom been a father figure around for Adele. Let them talk. Even at preschool, she had spent the first weeks dodging questions about the whereabouts of Adele’s father.
“Old Phil,” Jake said, still having trouble wrapping his head around the idea.
“Yes. Phil and I were friends. We kept in touch, and he even visited me in France. Turns out he didn’t have anyone else to leave the building to, so he left it to me. Now I own it. I plan on having my own shop here,” she said and waited a beat before she added, “Do you have a problem with that?”
“No,” Jackson answered promptly and then pretended to be interested in a spot on the wall when Jake glared at him.
“What kind of shop?”
“Furniture, French antiques, design services, housewares. In case you have clients that are interested,” she said.
“So the bartending is just biding time?”
“A part-time gig, while I get everything sorted out.” Bartending was quick, easy money, and she liked the social aspect of it.
Jake said nothing, and the silence hung between them.
Jackson looked at them, shook his head in resignation, and said, “Hey Jake, I’ve got to go. Colleen, always nice to see you.” He slipped out quickly, and Colleen imagined he was glad to get out into the sunlight and leave the complications of old relationships behind.
She was alone with Jake again. If it unsettled him the way it unsettled her, he didn’t show it. He was bending down, running his hands over the floor, and when he looked up his expression was considering. He looked serious, and somehow, it was even sexier than his usual lazy, relaxed grin. This Jake was all business, and she supposed she had an understanding into why his company was so successful.
“These floorboards need reinforcing and a nice sanding, staining, and buff wouldn’t hurt. Paint job too. White or were you thinking something warmer? Or gray? Gray is the new white, or so I’ve heard.”
“Something like a creamy white,” Colleen answered, surprised.
Jake stood up, arms folded. She didn’t quite believe she was talking building renovations with Jake Owen, but so she was.
“Outside could use a paint job as well. I have a construction company in case you haven’t noticed.”
“It’s on your shirt. You can’t miss it.”
“Best advertising there is. I could get you a shirt too? Or maybe you just want to borrow mine sometime?”
His voice had dropped and was suddenly playful. She decided to ignore the subtle little flip in her stomach. She found Jake Owen sexy. This constant temptation to go against her decision to remain uninvolved was really annoying. He was all of those things, but she was stronger than that, stronger than him. There was no place in her life for anything resembling a complication.
“I don’t think so. Somehow, embroidered polo shirts don’t quite say Parisian style,” she said, proud that she was taking a stance against flirting. She wondered if his shirt would smell like him, like soap and sawdust and pine sap.
“You might change your mind,” he said, and the double meaning of his words was obvious to both of them.
She looked at him and said, “I don’t think so.”
There was a pause, and he smiled. Her heart skipped a beat. It was time to get back to business. She had to pick Adele up in less than an hour.
“I have things to do. Did you come here for something in particular, or were you just being nosy?”
“Would it be so bad if I just stopped by?” He came closer to her, and she wanted to take a step back. He was just so damn big and hulking, and smiling. She had brushed him off so many times, yet he always came back with the same cocky, self-assured grin.
“Grand opening will be in a couple of weeks. I’ll have some free wine and cheese. You can come back then.”
“Too bad, I like pretzels and beer. It looks like you could use some help now. Maybe I can stop by later and help you paint something. Or, better yet maybe help you strip something off?”
She avoided closing her eyes, avoided even giving into the temptation that stripping anything off of Jake Owen might just be the most excitement she’d had in years.
“I’m busy later,” she said.
“At Quent’s?”
“No,” she said shortly. She had a date with some swings and Adele at the park. But she didn’t need to give him any ideas. He nodded and moved back just a fraction. She could breathe now.
“I did come here for a reason. If I remember, Phil used to have some old postcards of places around town.”
His voice had lost the flirtatious edge, which she appreciated, even if she missed it. She thought for a moment. She had seen something like that downstairs. At the moment they had seemed completely unsellable so she was considering just donating them to the Maritime Center.
“Sounds familiar. Why?”
“A little research project,” he said evasively.
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br /> She wondered at that, but decided that if she didn’t want him nosing around in her business, she couldn’t nose around in his. Besides, if he really wanted them, he could pay for them.
“I’ll see what I can find,” she said finally.
“I’d be mighty grateful to you. Maybe I could send some of my boys over to help you out, at least with the floors. Hard work, but worth it, and my guys are fast and good.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He turned, as if he were about to go, then stopped and stared.
“Did you do that?”
She crossed over to where he stood.
“Yeah, I finished it yesterday.”
It was a small set of drawers, something she had picked up at a yard sale in the neighborhood. It was a solid, but old-fashioned piece, made of real wood but of no historical value. So she hadn’t felt bad removing some of the fussier details, stripping it of its stain and using a cool white-blue for a whitewashed, slightly distressed effect. She loved it, as she did all of her pieces, developing a maternal-like attachment to them. Still, she was pretty sure she could make a decent profit on it. Or maybe she’d just let it be a display item.
“It’s good. Really good,” he said, surprise obvious in his voice.
“Guess I’m more than a girl who can sling a drink.”
“I never thought otherwise,” he said, then turned to look at her, his blue eyes thoughtful.
She took a breath, steadied herself. Out of all the people she could be around, why did it have to be him? Every time she looked at him, she was reminded of that night, of how sweet he’d been and then how ferocious the need for him had been. Now, with the filter of years, she could see that it had been yearning. Poor Colleen McShane had been looking for her daddy, and instead she’d found Jake Owen, who was the clean-cut hero type right out of central casting and still as sexy as hell. The kind of guy you could count on, who’d taken a girl to the prom because he was the only guy her father had trusted. Yup, Jake Owen didn’t run away.