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

by Colleen Gleason

  She dumped her packages on the floor and closed the front door behind her. When she turned back around, she started when she noticed Gretchen sitting on the floor in the center of the shop, regarding her with cool greenish-grey eyes. The very tip of her tail twitched slightly, curling and uncurling like a little finger as Gretchen leveled her an accusing look.

  Fiona gave a little laugh. “Well, I’m sorry it took so long to get back with your food,” she explained, planting her hands on her hips. “Barnaby wanted to eat at Munch’s, and it was a long wait for a table.”

  Gretchen continued to look at her accusingly, and Fiona shrugged. “Yes, it’s Barnaby, not Mr. Forth, and no, I was not ignoring the fact that you were waiting for your food.” She opened the bag and pulled out the pouch of kitty treats. “But look what I brought you to make up for the wait,” she added in an enthusiastic, sing-song voice. When she held one of the tiny, moist triangles toward Gretchen, the feline deigned to sniff delicately in its general direction, but made no attempt to move.

  Fiona raised her eyebrow and placed the treat just out of range of the cat’s paw. “Well, then, my dear, whenever you feel up to it, you can help yourself.” She pulled to her feet, and, gathering up the bags, started back to the rear of the shop.

  The silence of the place suddenly yawned over her. We need some music in here. Maybe some Celtic instrumentals—harps and flutes and such.

  She passed the heavy desk in the center of the room, glancing at the slim telephone and answering machine that seemed so out of place amid the aged items that filled the store. The message light wasn’t blinking, so she hurried on past, back toward the rear of the shop where the ceiling was only eight feet above the ground. She passed the staircase and, glancing up into its darkness, shrugged off the nervousness that threatened to creep back over her neck. The bags made thumping and crinkling sounds as she toted them on down the aisle, and the smaller bag that dangled from her wrist almost knocked a small kerosene lantern off a table.

  Fiona stopped at the large oaken desk to adjust her load, and noticed that the shade was askew on The Lamp.

  She’d come to think of that short, squat, center lamp as The Lamp since that odd happening last Friday. When Gideon had reached to turn it on, she’d felt the rush of cool air brushing over her cheek…then it disintegrated, leaving the dust motes wafting gently to the floor as Gideon plugged in the lamp and switched it on—as if it were just another light.

  Now, the shade had been knocked askew. Gretchen, she thought, sending a wry glance toward the front. As she fixed the shade and turned back, she noticed the shards of porcelain from her accident three days earlier still scattered on the floor. I’ve got to find a broom or Gretchen’s going to cut her paw on that.

  She continued toward the back, determined to take care of the mess without getting distracted this time, but then she passed by the open doorway into the small room filled with boxes and was assailed by the memory of Gideon sprawled there on the floor in his dark, proper designer suit. She wanted to giggle at the remembrance, but instead, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath to still her suddenly-racing heart.

  What a kiss.

  A shiver that had nothing to do with chill snaked down her spine, coiling into her middle as sweat sprang to her palms. She did smile—a dreamy one—and brushed her fingertips over her lips. It had been a long time since she’d been kissed like that. So long that she couldn’t even remember being kissed like that.

  The smile faded when she remembered how cool he’d been upon his return to the front of the store, where she’d been conversing with Barnaby. Other than the shock of dark hair that fell onto his face in a decidedly un-Gideon fashion, he seemed completely unaffected by their tussle on the dirty floor. He’d retrieve that stick that was up his behind, she thought wryly, and regained the haughty air as he chatted with her and Barnaby. The irritated glower had come back, along with the faint air of condescension and hardness in the planes of his face.

  But the fact remained: he had kissed the hell out of her.

  Rubbing her belly, where a wave of pleasure fluttered, Fiona peered into the dusty room, hoping to find a broom.

  Finally, she located an ancient one, with bent and brittle bristles, hanging in a far corner next to a dustpan. She retrieved them and headed back to the mess on the floor. On the way, she glanced at the big oaken desk and noticed that the shade on the same lamp was off-kilter again.

  Frowning, and shooting a glance toward Gretchen’s general vicinity—wherever that might be—she paused and reached to adjust it. The shade was warm to her touch…which was odd because the light wasn’t on.

  The hair lifted on the back of her neck just as a cool breeze wafted along, buffing her cheek. It was more than a waft…it was a small gust.

  Fiona whirled to look behind her and stifled a shriek when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Her heart receded from throat to chest when she saw Gretchen sitting there on a table, calmly washing her paw.

  Her hands were trembling, and she started to stumble away from the little alcove by the massive old desk as the breath clogged in her throat. Abruptly, the breeze ceased, just as suddenly as it had come. But in its wake it left a musty, chill, hollow smell that crept into her nostrils and seemed to wrap around her. And then, again…the scent of roses, faint, dusty—but present.

  Fiona fought to control the irrational fear that caused her fingers to curl into a nearby table. She was not one to disregard the possibility of something on a different metaphysical plane than her own…but she wasn’t exactly sure she wanted to experience it herself.

  Then, a sudden, rational thought struck her, and she turned to look at Gretchen again. The cat had stopped grooming herself, but was merely looking at her with interested gray-green eyes.

  Fiona exhaled deeply and swiped a hand over her face in relief. Cats had a sixth sense about the presence of the supernatural.

  So if whatever it was didn’t bother Gretchen, it wouldn’t bother her.

  ~*~

  Gideon slashed a thick, dark line with the charcoal pencil, then added hard, short marks with a softer lead to finish the texture of the riverbank. He pursed his lips, looking at the simple drawing that held verve and expression in its black, abrupt strokes and stepped back from the heavy paper. Then, with a grunt—for he saw what it was missing—he scratched with the pencil, cross-hatching the rise of gentle waves, then adding the subtle stroke of a cloud in the sky.

  Dropping the pencil with finality, he sipped from his glass of Merlot, all the while staring at the drawing with narrow vision. The river shifted and moved as if before his very eyes, and the stolid homes of Germantown’s old brick twins studded the riverbank. Details were few, just a mere hint, which was true to his style—works that were half-finished, leaving the viewer to complete it with his or her eyes and imagination.

  Not bad. You’ve done worse.

  Thoughtfully, he pulled another thick, textured paper from a stack—this sheet a deep gold color—and rummaged in the drawer for his white charcoal pencil. Without hesitation—for the image had long been in his mind—he used quick, bold strokes of black to draw the curve of sensual lips and thick-lashed eyes, then the white to add highlights and dimension. He liked to draw women…especially women who intrigued him.

  He was just adding a hint of thick, curling hair when the doorbell rang. Jerking around, Gideon scooped up the mass of papers and shoved them into the desk drawer. The charcoal pencil rolled onto the floor, and he stooped quickly to retrieve it, then jammed it into the drawer and slammed it shut.

  Only then did he check his watch, and, muttering a soft curse at the amount of time he’d wasted, he hurried to the door.

  “Grandfather.” He held out his hand for a shake and it was ignored as he was hustled into a blustery embrace.

  Gideon extricated himself, still a bit uncomfortable with his usually-staid Grandfather’s sudden show of affection even after six months of succumbing to it, and turned to th
e short, white-haired woman who was the cause of Gideon Senior’s new-found display of sentiment. It was easier to hug her, this woman of sweetness and bright eyes, apple cheeks and spun-sugar-hair.

  “Dear Gideon.” She smiled, taking his face between her warm hands. He was so tall next to her, it was necessary for her to extend her arms to their full length. She gave him a little kiss on the mouth and said, “It’s good to see you again. I hope you don’t mind that we barged on over here so soon, but I couldn’t keep your grandfather in check. He just had to see you.”

  “In check! Pah! More like on a leash.” Gideon Senior pretended to grumble, but Gideon saw the warmth in his eyes. Then, the warmth retreated—to be replaced by shrewdness—as he looked at his grandson. “What the hell are you doing home on a Saturday night, young man? What’s the matter with you? You working again?” He moved past Gideon, craning his neck to look into the den as if to spy an engaged computer on the desk.

  Gideon breathed a mental sigh of relief that he had put his drawings away and followed his grandfather down the hall back to the living room. “No, I wasn’t working,” he admitted. “Iva, would you like some tea? Grandfather, how about a Scotch?”

  “Yes to the tea, dear, no to the Scotch.” Iva’s reply was quick and firm, and when her husband began to protest, her voice turned to steel. “Now, Hollis, you know better than to have a drink on an empty stomach—and you know what the doctor said.”

  Gideon saw his grandfather actually wince—whether it was from the use of his given name, or from his fourth wife’s no-nonsense reminder, he wasn’t sure—and he managed to hide a smile. “How about coffee, then?”

  Gideon Senior shot a glance at Iva, who returned it with a firmly raised eyebrow. He capitulated. “Decaf if you have it. If not,” he sighed, “just water.”

  Iva patted his hand with her own wrinkled, blue-veined one, and smiled. Then she turned to Gideon. “I hope we didn’t interrupt any plans you might have for the evening.” She followed him into the kitchen, and Gideon Senior tramped along behind, mumbling about being unable to have fun anymore.

  Gideon pushed away the tinge of irritation and busied himself by turning on a teakettle filled with water. His step-grandmother’s comment was simply a more tactful way of trying to find out the same thing her husband demanded to know. “No, no plans this evening.” He set a small basket of tea bags on the grey granite counter in front of Iva.

  His grandfather hmphed and would have begun the usual diatribe—at least, the one that had become a familiar litany in the six months since Iva had come into their lives—had she not intervened. “Well, that’s good, because we’d hoped you’d join us for dinner so we could tell you all about our honeymoon.”

  Relieved to be off the hook, and somewhat surprised at how pleased he felt at having something worthwhile to do, Gideon accepted the invitation with enthusiasm. “Do you have any pictures yet?”

  “Pictures? Ha! How about three of those—what are those little things called?—three of them of video? Your grandmother spent every waking moment with the recorder dangling from her hand.”

  “They’re called memory sticks. And, Hollis, you know that’s an exaggeration,” Iva responded mildly, looking up from the basket where she’d been flipping through the different teas.

  “I said every waking moment—” Gideon Senior began, with an unmistakably meaningful wink.

  “I only filled up one memory stick, although it was eight giga-whatevers. And besides,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “the last thing your grandson wants to see is you in a Speedo.” Without turning a hair, she chose a bag of peppermint tea and handed it to Gideon, who had to choke back a snort of laughter at the revelation that his fairly physically-fit grandfather not only owned—but wore—a Speedo. At least if he happened to see a picture, Gideon wouldn’t want to poke his own eyes out.

  Gideon Senior may have flushed a bit, but his grandson wouldn’t have testified to it had he been pressed. It may just have been the natural ruddiness that his face took on when he blustered about. “Anyway, m’boy, why is it that you don’t have plans on a Saturday night? Whatever happened with that woman—er—what was her name? You brought her to our wedding. She was a fine-looking woman—and seemed smart, sharp, sophisticated.”

  “Leslie, dear. Her name was Leslie.” Iva flashed a quick glance at Gideon as if to show her sympathy for him, but he wasn’t fooled. He had figured out their good-cop, bad-cop routine months earlier.

  With a sigh, he capitulated. “Leslie van Dorn, Grandfather. And nothing has happened to her—I just don’t have plans to see her tonight.” It had been several weeks, in fact, since he and Leslie had had occasion to get together.

  “Well why not?” Gideon Senior demanded as his grandson turned to retrieve the steaming kettle. “If you don’t spend any time courting her, how do you expect to find the opportunity to propose?”

  Gideon burned himself on the teakettle and yanked his hand away from its hot metal spout. Swallowing a curse, he replied calmly, “I don’t intend to propose to her, Grandfather, and you know it.”

  Indeed, despite the fact that she was exactly the kind of woman he would someday wed—if he did at all—marrying Leslie van Dorn, President and CEO of Interworks, Inc., was the last thing he could see himself doing. “Grandfather, Leslie and I have the stereotypical perfect arrangement. We both choose to concentrate on our careers, and, since we’re so busy all the time, we just help each other out when we need an escort for some function.”

  …Or felt the need for a more intimate fulfillment.

  “You know that I don’t intend to marry—at least for a long while.” He kept his voice light but firm as he poured steaming water over Iva’s tea bag in a cup with his monogram on it. “Now, where are we going for dinner?”

  ~*~

  Later that night, Gideon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He folded his hands over his chest and absently rubbed thumb-pad against thumb-pad, remembering the conversation he’d had with his grandfather.

  Gideon Senior had been annoyingly vague about Nevio Valente and his concerns about the man’s estate, but, when pressed, he’d admitted nothing other than a niggling concern— “my sixth sense” he’d called it—about Valente’s estate.

  Trying to hide his annoyance, Gideon had asked his grandfather, “If there’s nothing that you can put your finger on, then why in the hell did you come back early from your honeymoon?”

  Adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses up and down on the bridge of his nose—a sign that he was uncomfortable—the older man replied, “Why, I suppose I just jumped the gun, m’boy. I always felt there was something not right about him, and, to be completely honest, I must admit I never liked the bastard one whit, even though he was a good client. I always felt like he had something to hide, something that lurked just below the surface…and what better time for it to come out than when he’s dead and gone, and his family is quibbling over the estate?”

  “But the family isn’t quibbling over the estate. There was no problem whatsoever with the reading of the will, no one contested anything or even hinted about it—even when they learned about F—Ms. Murphy’s bequest.”

  Gideon Senior frowned as he shoved a forkful of salmon into his mouth. “Yes, this Miss Murphy is a mystery. You say she didn’t even know who he was? What kind of idiot thing was Valente thinking?” He shook his head, his unruly silver hair gleaming in the low light of the restaurant. Stabbing another forkful of the fish, he stared at it for a moment, then stuck it in his mouth.

  “Not only did she not know who he was, but once I showed her his picture and she remembered him, she raved on about how sweet and kind the elderly man was.” Gideon took a sip of wine as his grandfather’s jaw dropped.

  “Close your mouth, dear,” Iva suggested. “The view is quite unappetizing.”

  “Valente was as far from sweet and kind as a piranha,” her husband informed her, ignoring the fact that he still had a mouthful of food.

  Clu
cking, Iva smoothed back a white curl and smiled with mildness. “Now, Hollis, don’t tell me that even a piranha doesn’t have a soft, warm side—after all, look at you.”

  Gideon vacillated between merely rolling his eyes and turning away from the sappy sentiment that now flowed between the newlyweds. Instead, he settled for taking another bite of steak.

  “Regarding Miss Murphy’s comment about Valente—as I was saying, is it so far-fetched that he might have a soft side? And that, for some reason, she brought it out? After all, it could just be that he interacted with people who didn’t bring out the best of him,” Iva continued.

  Gideon looked at her in surprise. “Fiona said almost exactly the same thing,” he said.

  “Fiona?” his step-grandmother asked delicately.

  Gideon felt his face warm slightly. “Fiona Murphy, the woman who inherited the shop.” Just as he said this, he looked away and happened to see a cloud of auburn hair, thick and curly, on a woman whose back was to him at a table across the room. His heart gave an unnatural, off-rhythm thud, then returned to its normal pace as he directed his attention to the meal.