by Jane Porter
“You’re just finding your footing. It’s not my place—”
“You don’t like my window displays,” she interrupted. “Do you?”
“You’re new at this. You’re learning.”
“I actually like you better when you’re being blunt. Please just spit it out.”
“I think you need to add some height to your display. You haven’t really utilized all that space. Your windows still appear empty.”
She shot him a narrowed glance before marching outside to have a look for herself. If she stood very close to the window she could see the flowers and three books, but if she stepped back, to the corner, or even further away, all she saw was empty space.
He was right, she thought, biting her bottom lip. It wasn’t a very dynamic display. “It could use some help,” she said evenly, trying to keep the discouragement from her voice. She wasn’t the most artistic person out there, nor apparently, did she have a crafty bone in her body, which was frustrating because she’d tried hard to make the new display appealing.
“You need something vertical, even a ladder would help,” he said after a moment. “The windows are really tall, and your display right now is all at the bottom so people can’t really see anything until they’re standing quite close to the glass.”
“So put the poinsettias on a ladder?”
“I’d put books on the ladder, and to be honest, I’m not sure the poinsettias are helping you out very much.”
Rachel frowned. “You don’t like poinsettias?”
“I don’t dislike them, but I don’t think they’re interesting enough to make people want to look at your windows.”
Rachel’s confidence just continued to fall. “This isn’t my strength.”
“I understand, and I wasn’t going to say something because I don’t want to be critical. I’d like to be your friend—”
“Huh.”
“At the same time, you’re competing with other stores. Your windows should make people want to look, not look away.”
Ouch. “It’s that bad?”
“Let’s go for a walk. See what everyone else is doing.” He hesitated. “Or have you already done that?”
“I still haven’t really explored Marietta,” she admitted. “I’ve been to the Graff to meet you, Grey’s Saloon for dinner my first night here, and then I walked to the Mercantile this morning, but I was so focused on getting what I needed I didn’t really look around.”
“Unless you’re dying to get back upstairs—”
“I’m not.”
“Then how about we take a walk and then on the way back we hit Main Street Diner for dessert since you haven’t been there yet, and they’re famous for their breakfasts and homemade cakes and pies.”
“Homemade cakes and pies? You’re right. I can’t miss that.”
*
After crossing the street the first shop on the corner was Risa’s Flowers and one of the corner windows featured a giant wreath, while the other window, the one facing Main Street, featured a dozen different pedestals, each topped by a different topiary ball covered in red or green ornaments. Smaller topiary trees and plants were tucked around the base of the white and glass pedestals. At the very top of the window hung three oversized red ball lights, playing off the ornament theme in the window.
Rachel cocked her head and studied the display that filled the entire window. The florist had only made use of three colors, and it wasn’t a busy display, but she found it fascinating anyway. “I like this,” she said after a moment. “But I’m not sure why.”
“It’s a statement display,” Atticus said. “It’s modern and sculptural and yet it has a big impact because those smooth satin ball ornaments are a great contrast to the soft leafy topiaries.”
“Maybe that’s what I like,” she answered. “That it’s more modern and not fussy. I’m not a fan of fussy anything.”
He smiled. “I look forward to hearing what you have to say about the next shop, which is undoubtedly Marietta’s most popular business.”
They took a dozen steps and ended up in front of Copper Mountain Chocolates. A giant chocolate Santa guard above red and gold boxes with lavish ribbon. A tiered tray of salted caramels anchored one corner of the window, while smaller chocolate Santas in cellophane and red ribbon filled a red painted box at the other end. And in between the caramels and gold and red boxes were chocolate houses, dusted with powdered sugar to resemble sparkling snow. Rachel’s mouth watered. “I would go in here,” she said.
“You haven’t been in yet?”
She shook her head. “The Copper Mountain Chocolate’s hot cocoa at Bramble House, but I haven’t been able to come down and pop in when the store is open.”
“Promise me tomorrow you’ll walk down here and introduce yourself. I’m not sure if Sage will be working, but she has a really good staff and Sage is beloved by everyone in Marietta.”
“How do you know so much about her?”
“She’s Troy Sheenan’s half sister.”
“They grew up together?”
“No.” He turned away from the window, and took her arm, steering her forward. “And that’s not a story for me to tell, but I’m sure if you got to know the Carrigans or Sheenans, they’d tell you themselves.”
They crossed one more street and then came to a shop where the window was filled with a gingerbread town and gingerbread people and even a gingerbread courthouse capped with a glass dome, and then Rachel clapped. “This is Marietta,” she said. “This is Main Street—oh, look! There’s Grey’s Saloon and that’s my bookstore, and there, over behind the train tack, that must be the Graff Hotel.”
“I see the courthouse,” Atticus said. “And I think that must be the library over there.”
“We’re just missing Bramble House,” Rachel answered, as they walked on to the next store Atticus wanted her to see.
They passed the travel agency and then an insurance agency before stopping in front of a window filled with delicate birch trees and pine trees and glittering snow. It was essentially a winter wonderland, with trees and birds, and a frozen pond.
Rachel took a step closer, trying to see everything. “This is incredible,” she murmured. “I could never, not in a million years, do something like this. It’s magical.”
“Sadie Douglas is pretty talented.”
“You know her?”
“I was introduced to her and her husband, Rory, at the Sheenans summer party last July. Troy’s twin brother Trey is married to McKenna Douglas, and McKenna is the sister of Rory Douglas—” He broke off as he noticed her bewildered expression. “It sounds more complicated than it is. The Sheenans and Douglases were ranchers and neighbors in Paradise Valley, and Sadie married the eldest Douglas, which made the community happy because Rory needed a miracle and by all accounts married an angel.”
“I spent my whole life in Irvine and know almost no one. You’ve been here—how many times—and seem to know everyone.”
“It’s a tight-knit community. I like it here.”
“How many times have you visited?”
“A dozen times? Maybe more? I try to come as often as I can.”
“Would you ever live here?”
“I’ve thought about it. If the restaurant opens here, it might become my new home base.”
She eyed him a long moment before turning back to the window, and reading the sign above the shop. The Montana Rose. “What is her shop? I can’t tell what she’s selling,” Rachel said.
“Sadie’s an interior designer with a wonderful selection of vintage Christmas ornaments and decorations, along with custom furniture.”
“Why not put those in the window?”
“She does something different with her window every year. Last year she had her vintage trees. This year it’s a snowy meadow.”
“But she’s not actually selling her products in the window.”
“I think the point is to get you to stop and look. If the store was open, would you go inside?�
�
“Probably.” She sighed heavily, and crossed her arms over her chest. “But let’s be honest, everything I’ve seen tonight is way out of my league. Even on my best day, I’d never be able to do any of these things.”
“I don’t think anyone would expect you to do something really elaborate,” he answered. “But you could certainly do more with what you have.”
She pictured the bookstore, and tried to imagine what she could do with what she already had. What if she took one of the reading chairs from the store and put it in the window next to a table stacked with books? Maybe add a lamp and a folded blanket, making it look like a cozy reading corner. And then she groaned inwardly because it sounded like a thrift shop window display now. “What am I doing here? This is crazy.”
“Come on, chin up. Don’t let the window stuff get to you. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
“It obviously is, or we wouldn’t be out here.” She hunched her shoulders and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just really frustrated.”
“Understandable. You’re out of your comfort zone.”
“Yes. Fashion, style, design… those are not my areas of expertise. I’m a math geek without a lick of creativity. I was excited about my windows and now I’m just embarrassed. They were awful—”
“Stop. No more. Your teeth are chattering and I can’t just let you stand here and freeze,” he said, linking his arm with hers. “I promised you dessert and that’s what we’re going to do.”
Chapter Five
The diner was wonderfully warm after the chilly night, and relatively empty giving them their pick of booths. Atticus suggested a table along the front windows, their dark red booth just beneath a pair of painted angels singing “Hark the Herald” on the glass.
Rachel sat down and peeled off the mittens she always kept stashed in her coat pockets. “It feels good in here. I can’t get over the cold. It’s winter.”
“Most of the country has a real winter. We’re the exception,” he answered, placing his coat on the bench next to him.
“Do you like Houston?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered, pointing out the pies and cakes of the day, written on the chalkboard. “See what I mean about options?”
She read the listings—so many delicious desserts—but they had her favorite, an old-fashioned chocolate layer cake with chocolate frosting, and Rachel didn’t need to look anymore. “What do you like about Houston?” she asked, determined to get him to talk since he seemed to ask a lot of questions rather than share much about himself.
“It’s home.”
She arched a brow. “That’s it?”
“There is a lot to like. The culture, the art, food. It’s pretty diverse, and it’s an interesting place to do what I do since there is no formal zoning code. It’s why the urban sprawl can appear so confusing to the outsider.”
“I’ve never been,” she confessed. “And I’ve heard it’s a big city, where you drive and drive, and drive.”
“It’s smaller than Los Angeles.”
That wasn’t saying much, she thought. “Where’s your office?”
“Downtown Houston.”
“Is it your own business?”
“Yes.”
“You give very short answers.”
He cracked a smile. “I’m a former trial attorney. I hate revealing anything.”
“In case it gets used against you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re not a trial attorney anymore?” she asked.
“I switched to real estate law.”
“Why?”
“Is this a deposition?”
“You really hate answering questions.”
Creases fanned from his eyes. “You picked up on that, did you?”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
They paused to place their order and then when the waitress walked away, Rachel said, “It must be nice having control of your own schedule.”
“It’s one of the better perks about my work now.”
“Do you miss anything about being a litigator?”
He hesitated so long she wasn’t sure he would answer. “I felt like I was doing something good,” he said at length. “I felt like I had a purpose.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“It’s a different kind of good, and a different kind of purpose. Maybe because the stakes are different.”
She wanted to reply to this, but the waitress returned with their cups of coffee—regular for Atticus, and decaf for her—and after the waitress left, it somehow didn’t seem right to pursue the subject. Or maybe Atticus’s hard, shuttered expression made her reluctant to push.
Rachel added milk to her coffee and gave it a slow, thoughtful stir. “Work is a strange thing,” she said after a moment. “It’s certainly consuming. This is my first real break in years. I’ve taken a day here and there, but never two full weeks off at one time.”
“Your company discourages staff from taking vacation time?”
“No. I just always feel like I have too much to do to take time off. I have weeks and weeks coming to me—and I was going to lose three of those at the end of this year if I didn’t take them—which is partly why I’m here now rather than January or February.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t hard for you to take two weeks at one time.”
She grimaced. “Oh, they didn’t like it. In fact, at first I was told it couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t convenient, but when I threatened to quit they backed down. So here I am.”
“Will you face a backlash when you return?”
She thought of work and wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. It had been such a roller coaster the past few years, and she still felt so deflated after being passed over for the last promotion. “I would have worried two months ago. I’m not as concerned anymore.”
He gave her a penetrating look. “Did something happen?”
“It’s just an annoying thing. Not worth talking about.” She sipped her coffee, enjoying its warmth. “I will say, though, that I miss my work routine. I’m struggling a bit without it. This afternoon seemed to last forever. I would have given almost anything to be at my desk, in my office, pouring over real numbers instead of deciding whether or not a hundred-year-old book is worth keeping.”
“I would think the monetary value would be the indication.”
“So would I, but it’s not quite so cut and dried. Some of the books have exquisite illustrations. Others have lovely gilt edges and delicate pages—” She broke off and gave her head a shake. “Accounting is black and white. The book business isn’t.”
“Can you make it more black and white?”
“I’m trying. It’d be easier if it was.”
“Aren’t there online bookstore that will tell you whether or not your book is important?”
“Yes, there are, and I’m using those, but sometimes the books have secrets that don’t increase the value.”
“What do you mean by secrets?”
“Maybe there’s a better word, but as I’ve been going through the boxes of books I’ve found books with sweet inscriptions, books with slips of paper inside, where someone saved a dance card, or a ticket stub, or a shopping list. In one book I even found a republican ticket with a list of candidates from 1881.”
“That must be fascinating.”
“It is, but it complicates the book business. What do you do with the dance card, and the ticket stub, and the republican ticket?”
“Leave it inside the book?”
“That’s what I’ve done, but some of those books aren’t valuable, so theoretically they shouldn’t be kept.”
“But if you see value in them, can’t you keep them?”
“I would if there was a place to put them. Lesley’s store shelves are crammed full. I can’t see keeping a storage room filled with boxes.”
The waitress returned with her
cake and his slice of banana cream pie.
“Why not reach out to Lesley and ask her?”
Rachel slowly lowered her fork. “Ask her what?”
“Ask her whatever you don’t know. Ask whatever you want to know. Ask to see her profit and loss statement going back five years—”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? You look at everyone else’s financials.”
“That’s different. I’m their accountant.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice to see her operating numbers?”
Absolutely, Rachel thought. It would make a huge difference, but she also understood why Lesley might not want her to see them—if Lesley was operating in the red, she might be afraid the debt would scare Rachel away. “I’ve seen some of her taxes from three years ago. There wasn’t a lot of income.”
“What about monthly? Which months were her best months? Which months were the leanest?”
“Atticus, I’ve only met her a couple times in my life, the last time at my mother’s funeral. If she walked in here now, I don’t think I’d even recognize her.”
“I think you would. I’ve never met her but what I’ve heard she’s short with curly gray hair and a big smile. Think Angela Lansbury.”
“Except that Angela Lansbury is five eight, not five one.”
“How do you know Angela Lansbury’s height?”
“My grandmother Gerber—that was my mom’s maiden name—was a huge fan of Murder She Wrote and whenever I’d stay over at her house, we’d watch it, so in fifth grade I ended up doing a book report on her character, Jessica Fletcher, and the fictional town of Cabot Cove, and I read that Angela was five eight.”
“You’ve remembered that detail all these years?”
“I have a gift for numbers.”
“Yes, you do.”
They fell silent for several minutes as they ate, and then Atticus said, “You do know it’s okay to ask for help, don’t you? No one expects anyone to be able to do everything perfectly.”
Rachel’s cheeks heated. She felt vaguely nauseous and suddenly didn’t feel much like eating anymore. “Where did that little gem come from?”
“I’m not criticizing you,” he said almost gently.