She laughed. “Is that the fabulous aroma? Where are you getting this food from, Chip’s definitely does not make soup like that.”
Armand smiled. “I make my own. My mother, she was a very good cook. Even when we had cooks she would tell them what to do and how she liked things to be seasoned. I liked to sit on a stool and listen to her sing French songs while she rolled the dough, and opened this and that spice jar. Like the name of this shop, I suppose. Good memories.” His smile faded for a moment, lost in thought.
Lindy pointed to the box. “And thank you for these, you really didn’t need to. Although, they’re divine, so I protest lightly.”
He smiled with genuine pleasure. “De rien. Those were my favorites as a child, and even now.” With long strides he came to her, gazing with that typical interested intensity. “It iz truly delightful to you?”
She could only nod. What was it about that look? No other man had ever seen her, really seen her that way. He didn’t nod quickly while thinking about stock prices. With that slight tip of his head and gaze on her countenance, he studied her, what she thought and felt. Those warm, ocean-blue eyes. Warm. Just everything warm.
She needed to switch gears and cleared her throat. “Well, I guess it’s time to get a move on.”
He brightened. “You need help, do you? I can offer my assistance anytime— ” she shook her head no “— but truly, it iz very good for me. You remember last time I helped. I wrote for hours and could not stop. You are,” he tipped his head again, “how you say, therapy?”
Lindy laughed. “I doubt that. But yes, if it honestly helps you, that would be fantastic. I’m still learning so much. The back corner areas and window display are where I’m focused today. Any ideas of what to do?”
“Of course, none. But you will tell me, no?” His self-deprecating manner continued to take her by surprise. For the next few hours they once again hauled pieces and small furniture from different centuries. Although some pieces he didn’t know, he could guess the era and age quite well. Better than she could, that’s for sure.
As they worked in tandem, the easy feeling returned between them. He asked where to put an antique French bookcase. She nudged him out of the way while carrying an Italian Rococco Bombe. And he gave a stern expression and tone when she refused to let him carry it for her. For over two hours they pushed, pulled, tugged, placed and replaced items and furniture to be grouped and displayed in the most ideal way.
Searching for a window pop piece, Lindy pulled back a stack of canvas paintings leaning against the wall. Flipping through them she paused, then reached for a beautiful landscape painting of what looked to be the French countryside. A mother and plump toddler fed a wandering duck by a moat in front of an historic chateau. The laughter of the child, the loving look of the mother, the simplicity of the scene. The painter had used the “golden hour” light heightening the fresh green grass. The painting stirred a feeling, she couldn’t exactly describe— peace, movement, joy, contentment, possibility, nostalgia, family, connection. So many feelings from one painting. That was a selling piece, one that customers would see and want more of. The pop piece she needed. And she knew right where to put it— the front window.
Armand had found his way beside her. “Tres bon.”
She nodded. “Very tres bon.”
“I think I have the place most perfect.” With a gentle tug, he took it from her and walked toward the woodstove, apparently to put it on a solitary wrought iron stand nearby.
“Wait, no, no.” She walked over to him. “That’s a pop piece, it needs to go in the front window.”
“No, no, mon cheri. You cannot put zis in a window. It needs protection. And it is a piece for thinking.”
Was he crazy? That was perfect, beyond perfect, just what she had been looking for.
They stood facing each other, Lindy with her hands on her hips, the piece between them. “Armand, no offense, this is the piece, it’s just the thing for women. It belongs in the window display where people will see it and be drawn in by the pop. It’s just what Shennedy was talking about. The best piece— as far as I’m concerned— in the whole store. You may know about the Byzantine era, but I know sales, and this piece can sell. It needs to be on display. There.”
Vehemently shaking his head, “No, no, no. A thousand times, no. I tell to you, Lindy, you will want it here”— he pointed to the spot with the couch, chairs, rug, and knick-knacks in front of the woodstove, a painted scene if there ever was one— “here by the fire where people will look at it. They will sit, they will eat the patisserie. They will gaze at it and they will linger over it. It is the French way.”
“Armand, not to be rude, but this is the American way. That pop piece goes in the front window display. As in, my call on this one— ” Lindy made to protest further but he took her by the elbow and guided her to the soft loveseat. He set her down, draping a cream-colored throw over her. Moving the brown cigar arm chair adjacent to her, the clean river scent of his cologne mixed aromatically with the Applewood fire.
“Do you not see?” Armand leaned closer to her, pointing his finger at the painting. “Do you not feel the story, even now?”
Lindy pulled her gaze from Armand and studied the piece. After a few moments, she pursed her lips and turned back to meet his gaze. “Yes. Yes, I can.” Then she smiled in apology.
A pause settled between them, of things unsaid that were too early to say. And sudden and surprising, a mix of fear and anticipation within her. They both had intended to create a “thoughtful place” as he had called it. At this moment, the hum of emotion between them clicked and whirred and made it clear this bit of heaven was more than a shop’s resting spot.
The wood stove crackled in the silence. Lindy added quietly, “We did good work together. I mean today, doing this together as a team, helping, that kind of thing. Didn’t we?”
“We always do good work together.” He reached out and brushed a dusty bit of something from her bangs. Lindy was about to make a funny remark, but the moment didn’t feel right. His hands, strong and sure, suddenly paused on her hair, following the loose tendrils down longer than necessary.
“My sister, she has golden hair like yours.” Studying her he leaned closer, elbows on his fit thighs. So close that she could see golden flecks in the deep blue of his eyes.
Wait, sister? Did she remind him of his sister? Was that good or bad?
“I am thinking,” he spoke as if giving a quiet but sure diagnosis, “that you have been very hurt by something or someone. Too much you are moving quickly and, how you say, nervously running. But like zis,” he gestured to her relaxed pose— leaned into the sofa, blanket to her waist, “you are…Lindy once again, est-ce pas?”
The closeness should have made her pull back. But she didn’t. Instead, they considered each other, allowing the moment to fill and surround them, wrapping each other up in a connection more felt than explained.
Her phone buzzed. Phone? Is Shennedy okay? She sat up hastily, the phone tumbling about in her hands while she tried to see who had called.
Damon.
What was with his timing?
Lindy, it’s urgent that I talk with you.
Just one phone call is all I’m asking. Please.
Armand’s face clouded. “Do you need to answer?”
“No, not at all.” She shoved the phone in her back jeans pocket. But the moment had shifted.
He stood. “I must get back to work. You are okay then?”
“Oh, yes, sure, thank you. Merci.” She untangled from the blanket. “I’ll just finish cleaning the rest of this area, maybe an hour, and I’m set. Really, thank you for everything, again.”
Damon, Damon, Damon. Talk about ruin the moment. She needed to set him straight and deal with this. Or get a new number.
In the awkwardness, she extended her hand out of habit to shake his. At once, she stared at it like a foreign object. What was she doing?
With that gentle motion, he took her
hand and leaned over to kiss it. “Until next time, mon cher ami.”
Lindy’s heart thumped loudly, at least to her. Mon cher ami, what did that mean? She’d Google it as soon as he left. A slight twitch in her lips almost betrayed her nervousness, and was it excitement? But she used her practiced floor show smile and nodded, unable to say thank you. And yet he knew. His soulful expression knew. He turned and she folded the blanket for something to do.
The sound of his shoes reverberated on the tile and then up the stairs. Finally, she could take a deep breath. Why on earth had she been holding her breath? Trust Shennedy to get her mixed up in some unwanted and inconvenient romantic deal.
Once Armand was safely out of sight, she Googled mon cher ami. My dear friend. Hmm. Well, that was something. Dear friend, an improvement over friend. But what did that exactly mean to a Frenchman?
She shook her head and grabbed a duster. No, Lindy girl, you are not going there. He’s a writer. He’s leaving town. You have a job to do. Get. BUSY.
The phone buzzed again.
I’m serious about flying to see you. Are you afraid to meet in person, that if you give me a chance, you might see that while you were right about a few things, and I’m grateful you were, you were wrong about a few things too? I’m asking, and you know I don’t do that. But I am. And for you. Please let me come see you this weekend. All I ask is one chance. One meeting. That’s it.
Lindy tapped the phone to her chest. This weekend, was he serious? Fly across the country, to meet with her once, for what, an hour? Was he crazy? Or truly in love, as he had once promised? Or just being Damon, as he typically had been?
She frowned. He had said he’d changed. His texts did sound different— more open-minded, more acknowledging of his faults and the part he had played, and his willingness to let her decide as she would, no pressure. So he said.
Lindy checked the time on the text— during his weekly Board Round Up. That’s a first. Board Round Up was always the forbidden zone— no calls made, no calls allowed during that 90-minute power meeting. She smiled. A few of those meetings got pretty heated, too much testosterone and conflicting opinions. But over the two years he had learned to listen to her, the one female among several men, and often deferred to her when the men met an impasse. So he wasn’t a complete jerk.
A hardness came over her. Except when it came to the romantic department. And the honesty department. And the focus-on-something-other-than-business department.
Shaking her head, she grabbed the feather duster and went with unusual gusto to the back corner of the shop. She had a forbidden zone to deal with too, of a different sort.
SITTING ON HER BED, LINDY tapped her finger on the computer mouse, listening for Shennedy to be up. The sun streamed in through her bedroom window pleasantly warming the side of her face. She closed her eyes and soaked in it for a moment.
For whatever reason, Armand came to mind and the warmth of the wood stove. Of him. Of the moment yesterday. How unexpected that had been and yet, had it felt as close to him as it had to her?
A smile escaped her lips. Life had changed in the matter of a week. She was not only awake every day, but with a purpose, and a deeper feeling to boot. Getting the antique shop ready for sneak peek opening day on Wednesday was mission number one. However, the process already had been more than she had hoped for. Armand had been indispensable in his knowledge and suggestions. And not exactly difficult to be around either.
No, she wouldn’t think of that, or him, right now.
Besides, she was getting back to her old self. Over the passing days that familiar creativity had returned and she found herself with ideas and connections. The baked goods idea had come to beautiful fruition— Martha Jean had agreed to sell her bestselling apple cider donuts, tea cream puffs, and pecan caramel brownie squares at their store. Parfait.
And now, in considering how to boost sales for Shennedy, she had created an online plan to share with Shennedy as soon as she was awake and able to chat. Although the hysterectomy recovery had gone well, Shennedy still had days where she was more tired than not. Lindy needed to walk carefully and not overwhelm her with marketing excitement.
Lindy opened her eyes. Yes, everything was great. And she could start to see herself here. But for how long? Or maybe that wasn’t something to decide just yet.
The bzzzz sound came from her phone. Lindy checked the text. Not Damon, just from Martha Jean about food delivery on opening day.
Surprised at the relief that flowed into her, Lindy nodded. Even that area had become a momentary calm in the storm for her. Since that one questioning text there had been thankfully nothing. Thank goodness Armand didn’t hound her like Damon. Even working on the shop together, being with him felt connected, not business-like.
She leaned her head back on the pillow and looked out the window onto the still sturdy white phlox. His presence, his being was at once calming and enlivening to be around. Even now, she could imagine him sitting next to her, typing on his laptop or telling childhood stories; laughing at something she said or offering to make her breakfast. A warm rush washed over her. That wasn’t rose-colored imagining, that was who he was.
But was that realistic, and what she ultimately wanted? What he wanted? Or was this simply a rebound feeling and desire for what Damon was not, and the opposite of what she’d experienced last year?
“Hey sleepyhead.” Shennedy walked in wearing her signature light pink robe and unruly blonde mass of hair in a quick updo.
Lindy laughed and patted the space next to her. “You know me, sleeping ‘til all hours. How are you feeling?”
“I’m gonna make a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m fine. Now leave me alone.’” Shennedy lay on her side of the bed, leaning her head on her hand. “Whatcha working on?”
“Oh, this. I’ve got some great marketing ideas to boost sales, if it’s not too early for you.”
“Fire away.”
Lindy shared a few ideas for in-town and better utilizing the under-construction second floor boutique of Kenworth’s. Then she shared the idea of an online store, connecting with other antique shops in scheduled cross-promotions. “Like a scratch-my-back kind of pay it forward. Then we list their niches, what you don’t have, and they list ours. We use a website presence to draw interest, get a great shipper we can trust, and bada-boom, we’re in business.”
Shennedy nodded. “I like it, I can see the potential.”
“Plus, you can easily manage it from your home office and hire an assistant to help you do the online. It’s mostly computer work and can be done from anywhere.” Lindy shrugged. “But we need a great website person who is fast and dependable. And a trustworthy shipper— we need it there in one piece.”
“Pop’s Shipping does most of that around here. They started a website company and I think it’s doing well. I can find out for sure.”
Lindy gave her a look.
“I took it easy yesterday, don’t worry, and this stuff is by phone. Never mind that I’ve gone through every Jane Austen book around. I feel a definite need to talk serious business before I start saying things like henceforth and to wit.”
Lindy smiled, putting the pen behind her ear. “One more thing. Armand suggested dabbling in international antiques. His mother apparently is an amateur collector, though with their amazing family, I don’t think amateur has the same translation. He suggested a few antique lines that would likely do well. At least, they’ve done well within their French circle— and what is that look for?”
Shennedy’s eyes were bright and slightly raised, a mixture of curiosity and mirth. “Oh, nothing. Just that when you mentioned his name your face flushed and you spoke faster and actually smiled for the first time since talking business this morning. What gives?”
“What gives? Nothing, there’s nothing to give. Or tell or whatever.”
Shennedy waited. With the look.
“What, no, really. It’s just, he’s been a great help. That’s really it. I mean, he’s defi
nitely kind, and given surprisingly spot-on suggestions at the shop. Like I said before, he’s not afraid of work, which also surprised me, no diva thing there. And the other day, if you can believe, he made soup— he cooks, who knew, right?”
Smiling, Shennedy nodded.
“Will you lose the Cheshire cat smile? It’s just that I don’t know that I get what’s going on. It’s strange. On the tour, he was this one kind of person, it seemed. More aloof and this attitude, barely said two words to anyone, then cancels and no remorse or response, even though it cost us thousands and all the repair work, mostly done by me. Then bam, he does it again his first few days— at the airport, then canceling on Britta, his own family, as it were. Who does that?
But now, here, it’s like he’s a different person. He’s warm, and kind, and aware. The other day he brought pastries I liked, and then made sure the woodstove was warm because I might stop by. He’s supposed to be this annoying prima donna, and…he’s not. He’s actually quite lovely to be around. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Shennedy laughed. “Ah, he’s upset your perceived apple cart. That makes sense to me, though— ” she looked at her with kindness “because you’re a different person here too, once you finally woke up, that is.” Lindy grimaced. “But it’s true. You’re softer here, more open and not so driven. Except for overwhelming me with marketing ideas before I’ve even had toast. But do you see what I mean?”
Lindy gazed back out the window. “I can see it. And feel it. It’s like a kind of winter thaw and I feel this gentleness come over me, and this openness. Like I want to just sit, and be, and have him stroke my hair by the wood stove. And do nothing productive. And then I think, what’s wrong with me? That is not the Lindy I know— I need a plan, a future, something. And I wake up, like this morning, with ideas and on fire. And there’s two Lindys. But right now, the calm and relaxed Lindy is winning. Should I be worried?”
Shennedy shook her head. “That’s called maturity. Learning to be present in the moment, with the people you love and savor what is. Believe me, if you can learn that now at your young age, you will be on the path to wisdom.” She stood up, adjusting her hair clip. “So what are you going to do now, about mon cher Armand, I mean?”
Kisses Between the Lines: An Echo Ridge Anthology (Echo Ridge Romance Book 2) Page 47
