WHAT A GIRL WANTS
Angie Coleman
Start Reading
About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.ariafiction.com
About What a Girl Wants
Gillian Bennett has always dreamed of opening a luxury hat shop, and when she finds the opportunity of a lifetime in the shape of a rent-free shop she thinks her dreams have come true.
Her parents are less than thrilled and she has two years to prove to them that this isn’t just a pipe dream, or she’ll be shipped back home and into an office job.
But she wasn’t counting on a distraction in the form of sexy but enigmatic Jared, a completely unreadable man that she soon finds herself falling for. Yet, Jared has a secret, and when she finds it out, it shakes Gil to her core.
With everything spiralling out of control around her, will Gil ever realise her dreams?
Contents
Welcome Page
About What a Girl Wants
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Acknowledgements
About Angie Coleman
Also by Angie Coleman
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
“What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next.
Circumstances change, opinions alter.”
JANE AUSTEN, Northanger Abbey
1
The pouring rain beats insistently on the waterproof fabric of my umbrella. I should have taken Grandma Natalie’s big one when she insisted this morning, but I was really hoping the weather would improve. My usual hopeless optimism.
I move to the side of the sidewalk, up against the wall, hoping a projecting roof overhead will protect me a bit. I don’t feel like going home quite yet. I left with an objective I haven’t been able to accomplish yet. I hate giving up. In two days’ time my fake vacation will be over, and I haven’t figured out how to go about opening my small hand-made hat shop. Grandma’s complicity should have helped me prolong my visit here, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. Wendell Bennett never misses a thing. I think he suspected something when yesterday evening Grandma Natalie asked him for a few more days with her granddaughter. It wouldn’t be odd if Mother’s birthday weren’t coming up. At least I already have a gift for her: a magnificent wool sweater in her favorite color: sky blue. I’m sure she’ll love it.
I ignore the crowd rushing back and forth, their umbrellas much bigger than mine, and I glance around. I’ve never been to this part of South Main Street, at least not in recent years. Grandma Natalie lives a little outside of Fall River, so we rarely get to visit the city when we come to see her. We’re all country folk – open air with grass underfoot – but now I’m alone, I’m on a mission, and I only have another two days, so why not find out what this part of town has to offer? Without thinking, I turn onto Spring Street and take a few steps trying to avoid spray from the cars coming towards me, when a shop window stops me dead in my tracks. A sleek Improved Dolly Varden sewing machine has captured my attention. The base is polished wood with a grey metal support; the rest is nearly all black, with elegant gold decorations that make it all the more beautiful. It is even fitted with a spool of thread: it’s magnificent. For a moment I see the dream of a lifetime coming true: a pretty little shop with at least two windows looking onto a busy street. Rows and rows of assorted, elegant, and colorful hats for all ages and sizes, men’s too, but mostly women’s – the sparkle of metal and precious stone appliques, the lightness of colored feathers and satin, the texture of leather and hide. All unique pieces created by me, the owner, with my Improved Dolly Varden, faithful work companion and source of many a satisfaction!
I look up at the sign, which bears a promise more than a name: ‘Same as it Never Was Antiques.’ Good, a second-hand store. Since my savings don’t amount to much, I couldn’t ask for anything better. I quickly close my umbrella and step inside confidently, enjoying the delicate warmth of the interior. The shop isn’t very large, but the countless objects that clutter the place make it look even smaller. There are all sorts of things – inlaid furniture and padded stools, jewelry and necklaces and fountain pens, clothing perfect for a movie set and leather suitcases dating back to at least the last century. It would be fascinating, if it weren’t for the chaos dominating the scene like a medieval castle over the valley below. I have never seen a more disorderly shop. I try to find a route to reach what seems to be the clerk’s dark wooden counter, though it is barely recognizable, covered as it is in bric-a-brac. I have only one thing in mind: the Dolly Varden!
“Is anyone here?” I say tentatively, trying to spot some kind of lifeform.
The sound of a chair dragging makes me turn towards a door I hadn’t noticed before, hidden as it is by miles of cloth piled randomly on clothes hangers and shelves. In a moment, a man in his forties emerges, tall, with dark hair, a very neat beard and mustache, and a penetrating gaze that his glasses, a bit low on his nose, cannot detract from. He is wearing a cream colored turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark pants.
“Good morning, Miss. What can I do for you?” he welcomes me with a polite smile.
“Good morning. Well, I noticed that Dolly Varden in the window and I was wondering if I could buy it.” I get straight to the point – that’s me.
“I’m sorry, it’s not for sale. It’s an 1874 sewing machine, a period piece to which I’m particularly attached. And besides, I’m sure you couldn’t afford it,” he points out so politely that I’m baffled. I’m not sure if I should be insulted because he called me cheap, or to ignore it because of his impeccable manners. “But if you want an electric sewing machine, I have several of those, much more practical. What do you need it for?” I go for the second option. Too polite to take offense.
“To tell the truth, I would like to open an atelier, a small shop basically, where I would make and sell hand crafted hats. I’m looking for a spot here in Fall River, and while I’m waiting to find one, I was thinking of starting with the sewing machine.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I think I can offer you not only a sewing machine, but also some tools and several forms that a quality hat craftswoman can’t do without,” he offers affably, disappearing for a moment into the cave from which he had emerged a moment ago. He promptly returns holding a pair of magnificent wooden forms, perfect to make wonderful rigid hats.
“These are excellent, made of birch wood. I have several here in the shop – somewhere.”
“Wow, they’re perfect!” I can’t contain my enthusiasm. “How many do you have?”
“I think twenty, more or less. They’re not easy to sell, I have very few clients interested in this kind of item and none of them would take them all, but it’s a full set and I wouldn’t want to separate them,” he explains, setting these wonderful objects on the counter within my reach. I can’t help touching them: one a wide spiral, high and refined, perfect for winter hats that can be decorated with silk or velvet ribbons and a couple of highlights; the other wide brimmed, perfect for straw hats for the spring or summer that could be decorated – why not? – with colored feathers or ribbons. Probably I should stop staring at them, but they are so beguiling that I can’t, until the man standing in front of me rouses
me from my reverie with his deep voice.
“Well, Miss, what do you think? Are you interested?”
“Interested? Absolutely! How much for all of them?” I already know the answer: too much. But it would be criminal to let them go, abandoned who knows where in this total mess. I am also fairly sure no one here gives them the attention they require.
“Well, I can’t give you an accurate estimate off the bat, but I would say more or less two thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars, give or take a cent.”
There. I knew it. It’s a fortune. I look at him thoughtfully for a moment, I can’t let go of the idea of having the whole set. There must be a way. I look around in search of an answer to my question, and instantly a thought strikes me, as if by magic.
“Ok, I don’t have all that money, but you and I could reach an agreement,” I offer with what I hope is a fetching smile. He looks at me as if I hadn’t said a word. His expression is neutral, almost indifferent. He’s a hard nut to crack. “What would you say if, to pay for my purchase, I helped you around the store? I could organize the items, register the goods… tidy up a bit.” It seems so obvious to me that the place needs some serious tidying, more than a light spring cleaning.
“Tidy up a bit?” he asks with a tone of scorn that on him still sounds polite. It’s a mystery how he pulls it off.
“Yes, totally for free!” I try to sound enthusiastic. I have to find some way to sway him.
“I don’t know,” he considers as he glances around uncertainly. “Being tidy is so…” he ponders for a moment, “ordinary. And I’ve never been an ordinary man.”
Oh… well, no, I dare say he hasn’t. The adjective that comes to mind is eccentric, far from ordinary. I have to admit I’m rather taken aback. I don’t know what to say to something like that.
“I see you’re desperate, you really care about opening this shop of yours,” he calmly observes as if we’d known each other all our lives. I have a feeling it doesn’t take a keen observer to see this: who would stare at some bizarre wooden forms as if they were gold, and go as far as to offer to tidy a place that looks like the source of all the chaos in the world, if they didn’t care about it dreadfully?
“It’s a long cherished dream and it’ll start growing mold soon if I don’t find a way to fulfil it,” I explain, fixing my eyes in his deep gaze.
“I understand. It’s a nice dream. Hats are an elegant pastime. Yes, you should really open this shop, Miss…?” he inquires with interest.
“Gillian, Sir, Gillian Bennett,” I hurry to answer. I think I can make out a light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m not willing to give up until I reach it. “So, do you intend to accept my offer?”
“Oh, my dear Miss Bennett, I would be mad to accept your offer, but after all it seems that only madness never leads to regret,” he states nonchalantly as he retrieves a block of post-its from under the counter and begins to scribble something in impeccable handwriting. “You begin a week from now, Gillian, two hours a day, from one to three, when I don’t have clients,” he hands me the note on which he has written an address.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the place where you’ll open your hand-made hat shop. Ring the third floor, fourth bell from the bottom, Mrs Jane Marlowe,” he explains in a professional tone.
“But I really can’t afford the rent right now,” I tentatively remind him. If I can’t pay for the set of wooden forms, how could I possibly afford rent? In a city like Fall River to boot.
“Don’t be pessimistic, Gillian, speak with Mrs Marlowe before saying you can’t afford the rent.”
“Me? Pessimistic?” I would have said I was being realistic, to tell the truth.
“What else would you call someone who keeps finding feeble excuses while a splendid opportunity is knocking on her door?” he asks enigmatically before disappearing back into his dark cave. I’ll have to begin calling it backroom if I don’t want to slip up over the next few days.
I retrieve my umbrella and once again face the pouring rain. I look at the note I am clasping: Pleasant Street, number 1577. It’s not far from here, but I’ll have to take a bus to get there. I stop at the first bus shelter and wait expectantly for the vehicle. I would never have expected such a stroke of luck, I feel like I’m living in a fairytale, a daydream from which I fear I’ll awaken. Once I’m on the bus, I stare out of the window next to me trying to make out the street numbers. I have to get off at the stop closest to number 1577. As soon as I see 1501, I get up from my seat, push the button to request the stop, and like a gust of wind I fly up to the driver, expectant and excited. Outside it’s still raining, but it looks like it’s about to stop and this makes me even happier. Once I’m on the street, I rush, without even opening my umbrella, towards the nearest door, I glance at the street number, and decide which way to go. A few feet further and I find myself beside an extremely elegant red brick building with white hexagonal based faux columns set between two shop windows on the ground floor. The entrance is right on the truncated corner of the building, at the crossroads with Everett Street, and the whitewashed ground floor walls contrast with the red bricks that cover the base and the other floors. On each column there is a black lantern reminiscent of 19th century London, and the shop windows finish in round arches that make them look more like glass walls, giving the whole building an elegant air. The crenellated string course separating the ground from the other floors is a shade of brown only slightly darker than the red of the bricks. It’s magnificent.
I look up at the entrance and take a moment to observe the street number, framed in a shiny ceramic oval that makes it stand out on the inner surface of one of the columns flanking the front door. The intercom is just below. I study the names on the plaques. The two lower ones are blank, the others have four names written in an elegant script that makes me doubt they were printed and is similar to the style of the author of the note I’m holding in my hand. From the top there are: Samwise Drake, followed by Margherita Valery, Jane Marlowe, and Ernest Clancy. The third one down is the one I’m looking for, that is to say the fourth from the bottom. I take a deep breath and ring the bell. The sound doesn’t reach outside; I can hear only the accelerated beating of my heart. I’m so excited I didn’t even take a minute to think. Not that I do very often, but maybe an endeavor like this would have deserved a moment of reflection… on the part of someone who wasn’t me. I stand stock still in front of the door, waiting in trepidation, until a sprightly voice answers over the intercom.
“Who is it?”
“Good morning, Mrs Marlowe, I’m sorry to bother you, my name is Gillian Bennett, I would like to talk to you, I was sent by Mr…” Just a minute… what is the name of the man who sent me here? I should have asked him. Darn! “The man who works at the ‘Same as it Never Was Antiques’ sent me,” I try to wriggle my way out, hoping the lady knows who I’m talking about.
“Oh, Ernest. Of course, dear, I’ll be down in a second,” she replies, not at all surprised. Wow, I’m impressed. Aside from having exquisite handwriting, he also lives here. I should have guessed it: too many coincidences. Well, I’ll take it as a good omen, a fortuitous sign.
I wait, trying to smooth down the beige jacket that got a bit wet in the recent deluge. I would like to make a good impression and I have no idea what my hair looks like right now. I’m fairly certain the pony tail I had when I left Grandma Natalie’s hasn’t held up. It’s probably now a limp mass of untidy dark hair. That’s too bad, I can only hope that Mrs Marlow won’t care much about my looks and will trust me despite my appearance, which I imagine is a bit disheveled for a serious and trustworthy woman.
A handful of seconds later the door opens and a little round woman with a pleasant, good natured air emerges. She is wearing a black wool dress with a silver shawl over her shoulders that nearly matches the color of her hair. Her watery eyes are such a light blue that they would be disturbing if it weren’t for a spark of intelligence lighting them. As soon as she see
s me, her thin lips pull back into a smile that makes a myriad of creases appear on her plump face.
“Come in, dear, don’t stand out there in the cold,” she ushers me in gently, taking a step back so I can cross the threshold.
“Thank you. I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this, I hope I’m not bothering you. In fact, this day has taken such an unexpected turn that I didn’t stop to think that my visit might be inappropriate.”
“Nonsense, it’s not inappropriate at all. Ernest sent you to me, and whomever he sends me is never inappropriate. So, tell me how I can help you, Gillian, isn’t it?”
“It is!” I smile, already happy she’s remembered my name. “You see, this morning I happened upon Mr Ernest’s shop and he sent me here,” who knows why, but it’s best if I keep that to myself. “I told him I really want to open a small hand-made hat shop, and he insisted I come and talk to you,” I explain, showing her the post-it with its author’s distinctive handwriting.
“I see, dear. I love hats and as usual Ernest did the right thing. I think I have just the shop for you. Follow me,” she beckons, turning and heading for the glass doors to my left. She rummages in the pockets of her dress and pulls out a bunch of keys, which she studies, turning them over in her chubby hands, finally choosing one and sticking it in the keyhole.
“I realize it’s a bit dusty here, there’s some work to be done, but I’m sure it’s the ideal spot for a hat shop,” she explains, stepping in and patting the wall to her right in search of the light switch. When she finds it, the room is flooded by a weak yellowish light. It is large, rectangular and terribly shabby looking. The paint is flaking in several spots, the plaster is faded, the window so grimy no light gets through from outside, the floor tiles covered by an unidentified patina, and there is no sign of any furniture. I can barely make out an entrance that leads onto the street, darkened by a rolling shutter on one of the long sides of the room, the one with the windows, and two doors, one next to the other, on the opposite side.
What a Girl Wants Page 1
