‘I told you. The necklace. Daisy and I were having the same dreams. I mean we were sharing dreams. Sharing lives.’
He stood up. ‘I’d like you to leave now.’
Bonnie whined, upset by the tension, as Laura stepped onto the bank. She couldn’t bear it. She had found him. And she had lost him.
They couldn’t leave it like this.
‘There’s something I’d like to show you. Will you come with me?’
‘You have nothing I want to see.’
‘Please, Seth. It’s not far.’
‘This is a waste of time.’ But he shut Bonnie inside and jumped onto the bank.
They walked along the towpath without talking. When they reached the town, she led him to the gallery.
There were a few people inside, probably just sheltering from the rain. They paid Laura and Seth no attention.
Seth looked around, clearly puzzled as to why she had brought him here. She didn’t speak but allowed him to find the portrait for himself.
‘What is this?’ he demanded, glancing from the image of him and Bonnie, to Laura, then back to the portrait again.
He peered at the title. ‘Unknown man and dog?’
‘As you can see, the paint is dry. I didn’t paint this last night.’
Seth swallowed. ‘She, Daisy, said the woman in her dreams was an artist.’
He looked at her, his gaze mirroring her own questions. ‘How?’
‘I don’t know.’ And she didn’t. But he acknowledged the dreams now.
It was a start.
Miss Moonshine’s necklace had brought them to this place. Laura didn’t think it was done with them yet.
Reaching for Seth’s hand, she hoped not.
The End
Author Bio Living on the edge of the Yorkshire moors, Jacqui Cooper doesn’t have to look far for inspiration for her writing. Her short stories regularly appear in popular women’s magazines, including Woman’s Weekly, The People’s Friend and Take a Break. Writing has always been her dream and she is thrilled to now be able to do it full time.
Take a Chance on Me
by
Marie Laval
Chapter One
Friday
The door chimed as Grégoire pushed it open, allowing the rain and the wind into the shop, along with a handful of petals from the rose bushes at the front of the building. It was dark inside, and he hesitated at the doorway. Perhaps the shop was closed. It was, after all, almost five o’clock.
‘Come in, dear, and shut the door,’ a woman’s voice said from the back of the shop. ‘You’re letting the bad weather in.’
He stepped forward, but the lighting was so dim he bumped into a display table, causing the odd assortment of tins, cups and saucers, and dainty porcelain figures to clatter. What a strange collection. Were these ancient medical implements? And what about that fossilised crocodile skull, complete with teeth?
He shook his head in dismay. How could anyone want to purchase any of this junk? The name of the shop was misleading. Perhaps Miss Moonshine’s Wonderful Emporium should be called Miss Moonshine’s Weird Emporium.
‘Now, dear, what can I do for you?’ An elderly woman with snowy white hair cut in a surprisingly trendy asymmetrical bob appeared at his side. She moved fast. Only a few seconds before she’d been at the back of the shop, hadn’t she?
Grégoire looked into the woman’s hazel eyes. He must be more tired than he’d realised after the flight from Paris and the drive from Leeds airport in the pouring rain across bleak, empty moors. For a second, he completely forgot why he was there.
She smiled and cocked her head to one side. ‘So?’
‘Ah yes, sorry. I believe this comes from your shop.’ He extracted the tiny music box in the shape of a piano from his coat pocket and cranked the mechanism at the side. The last bars of La Javanaise tinkled above the sounds of the wind and rain hammering against the shop’s arched windows.
The woman gestured towards the box as soon as the music died down. ‘May I?’
Grégoire handed it to her. She switched an art deco lamp on, turned the box upside down and traced the contours of the faded sticker with a fingernail painted a dark purple. ‘Yes, indeed. I remember this music box very well. I bought it from a French dealer a few years ago. It’s vintage 1970s. Still in perfect working condition, so quite rare, I believe.’
The knot in his chest loosened. He was on the right track. ‘Can you tell me who you sold it to?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give the names of my customers to just anyone.’
He was so close. How could he fail now? He raked his fingers through his hair, still wet from the rain, and flinched when pain lanced through his hand and wrist. Lowering his arm, he flexed his fingers a few times until the pain receded.
‘Are you all right?’
The woman’s eyes shone with kindness, but anger and pride made him want to curl his fist, punch the wall and finish the job that the car accident had started. He took a deep breath and gave her a curt nod.
‘I’m fine, but it’s very important that I find who bought this music box.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘It was left on my grandfather’s grave in Paris, I believe by someone who knew him well. I came here especially to meet them and… thank them.’ That’s all she needed to know.
‘You’re French, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘My name is Grégoire Beaufort.’
She arched her thin, white eyebrows. ‘The concert pianist? I thought you looked familiar.’
His agent must have been doing something right if an elderly woman who ran a junk shop in a small Yorkshire town knew of him. Perhaps he could use his notoriety to his advantage. At least now she wouldn’t suspect him of being a dangerous stranger with sinister motives.
Honesty, however, pushed him to correct her. ‘Ex-concert pianist. I don’t perform any longer.’ In fact, he hadn’t touched a piano in the three months since the accident and had no intention of ever playing again.
She smiled and extended her hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Monsieur Beaufort. I am Miss Moonshine, and a great fan of yours. Your renditions of Liszt and Chopin are among the most beautiful and sincere I’ve ever heard, and I have heard many in my time.’
Her handshake was surprisingly firm for such a small woman. Then again, she wasn’t exactly your typical little old lady, more a mixture of old hippy, avant-garde fashion designer and something else – something he couldn’t quite put his finger on… but he was daydreaming again.
‘Merci, but like I said, my performing days are over.’
‘I am very sorry to hear that. Did you know Liszt stayed at The White Lion Hotel, not five minutes’ walk from here, whilst on a tour of England? He was such an extraordinary, vibrant young man.’
‘I had no idea.’ Liszt was the composer he had most enjoyed playing, the one whose music touched his soul and made it fly as high as the stars, or pushed it down to the cold depths of despair. All that was in the past.
‘I believe your grandfather was Henri Beaufort, the famous pianist and conductor. I was very sorry to hear about the accident. It must have been dreadfully hard to lose him.’
He nodded, a lump forming in his throat.
‘How long are you planning to stay in Haven Bridge?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t fancy driving back to Leeds in this weather tonight. Can you recommend any local hotel?’
‘The Old Bull is very nice. You will find it after the bridge, on your left.’
‘About the music box, are you sure you can’t help me?’
‘I am sorry. I can’t, but I hope you have a pleasant stay at The Old Bull. They have entertainment on Friday night. I am sure you’ll enjoy it.’
Entertainment? Did she mean stand-up comedy, or dancing? He repressed a sigh, wrapped the music box back in the protective plastic and put it in his pocket. ‘Perhaps. Well, goodbye, then.’
She closed the door
behind him. It was blowing a gale now. Clouds turned the sky almost black, rain bounced off the pavements. He started walking in the direction of The Old Bull. The shops and cafés in the main street were closing for the day. A few cars drove by and a handful of people ran past him to escape the rain.
Grégoire pulled up his collar and dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He should be used to being alone in strange, foreign places. He’d travelled the world often enough. This time, however, was different. He wasn’t there to perform, or give a piano masterclass, but to fulfil his grandfather’s dying wish.
Chapter Two
Friday evening – The Old Bull
‘Do you need anything before you start?’ Barry called from behind the counter.
Jane dropped her bag next to the piano and shook her head. ‘I’m all right, thanks, although I could do with a cup of tea.’
‘I take it you want your usual brew, without milk or sugar?’
He pulled a face and the overdramatic look of horror made her laugh. She opened the piano’s fallboard and looked around. It was just before seven on a Friday night. The pub should be full, but the bad weather and the football match on the television meant many regulars had chosen to stay at home.
‘Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll turn the music off.’ Barry set a steaming mug on the table beside the piano.
Jane took a sip and sighed. ‘That’s the first cup of tea I’ve had since breakfast. It’s been crazy busy at the café all day, and when I got home I had to bake a birthday cake for Arthur’s party.’
‘How old is your Arthur now?’
‘Three already! I remember the night he was born as if it was yesterday. I was in such a state, Grandma held my hand all night. I hope the weather improves so we can have the party in the garden. It’ll be more fun.’
‘I’ve not seen your grandma for a while. How is she doing?’
Jane frowned. ‘Soldiering on, and ignoring the doctor’s advice to take it easy.’
‘Joyce was always a very determined lady.’
‘She’s stubborn, you mean. Since she decided to help with the choir’s performance at the summer fete, she’s been driving everybody crazy, including the dogs.’
Barry’s hearty laugh boomed. ‘She’ll have your choir in good shape in no time. She is a great musician, like you. In fact, you two are very similar, give or take a few years, of course. You have her eyes, her smile, even her hairstyle.’ He pointed to Jane’s short blonde hair.
‘I wish I was half as talented as she is.’ Jane ran her fingers up and down the keyboard, and her thoughts wandered as she settled into her usual playlist – Elton John, Adele, Sinatra, Kings of Leon, followed by some Leonard Cohen and a couple of ABBA songs.
There was no woman she admired more than her grandmother. As a girl, she had followed her every move at the farm, copied the way she sang, the way she dressed or did her hair. When all her friends were growing their hair, straightening or curling it, she’d kept hers short and smooth, Twiggy-style, and never mind if girls at school sniggered and said she looked like a boy.
It was her grandmother who had brought Jane up. She had taught her to play the piano, sing and read music, as well as helped with her homework, and tended to her grazed knees or bruised heart when she’d fallen in love with unsuitable boys. Her mother had never shown any interest in music, the farm, or her only daughter. She worked in a community centre in London and came to Haven Bridge twice a year, made a lot of noise about the state of the farm, or her daughter’s lack of ambition, and disappeared again, leaving behind a cloud of patchouli and promises which everybody knew would remain unfulfilled.
A few more people drifted into the pub. Red-cheeked from the wind and dripping with rain, they didn’t look in the mood for a singalong.
Barry walked past, a couple of empty pint glasses in his hand. ‘Why don’t you go home? It’s not going to be a good night.’
She nodded, and finished with the old French song she always played at the end of her set.
*
Grégoire watched the rain bounce on the road from the window of his bedroom on the first floor of the pub. Clouds swallowed the hills and the houses that clung to the slopes. If this was summer, he dreaded to think what winter was like in this place.
Downstairs in the pub someone was playing the piano. This must be the entertainment promised by Miss Moonshine. He unzipped his bag, pulled out a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt, and stepped into the bathroom to take a shower. Ten minutes later, refreshed and changed, he sat down on the bed and was reading the tourist information leaflets he’d picked up from the pub downstairs when his mobile rang. He glanced at the call display.
‘Hi, Cassandra.’
‘At last! I was starting to believe you were avoiding my calls. We’re supposed to have dinner together tonight. Remember?’
He cursed under his breath. The dinner date with Cassandra had completely slipped his mind. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t make it.’
‘But we need to talk about the recital at Salle Pleyel.’
He sighed. Would Cassandra ever accept his concert pianist days were over, and that he’d never play at Salle Pleyel, or anywhere else for that matter?
‘I won’t perform again, I told you. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding another pianist.’
‘I don’t want anybody else. I want you. Listen, Grégoire, we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. I’ll grab some takeaway dishes from a restaurant and come over.’
‘You can’t. I’m not in Paris.’
There was a pause. ‘Where are you?’
‘In England.Yorkshire, to be exact.’
‘What? What are you doing there?’
‘Chasing after a ghost.’
‘You’re not making any sense. My poor darling, I know the accident, your injuries and your grandfather’s death hit you hard, but you need to pick yourself up. I am worried about you. You’re acting very strangely.’ Her voice was softer now, almost cajoling.
‘There’s no need to be worried. I’m taking a holiday, that’s all.’
Cassandra said something, but he wasn’t listening. Perhaps she was right and he should be worried about his mental health. He could swear the pianist downstairs was now playing La Javanaise. But it was impossible! The song might be a classic in France, but who would know it here?
Nobody… except perhaps the person who bought the music box from Miss Moonshine’s shop and left it on his grandfather’s grave – the woman he was chasing after.
‘I have to go.’ He ended the call, snatched his keys from the bedside table and ran out of the room.
Grégoire raced down the stairs to the main part of the pub, but by the time he got there, the music had stopped, the fallboard was down and the stool tucked under the piano. Had he imagined it all?
‘Hi there.’ The landlord, who had introduced himself as Barry, looked at him, puzzled. ‘Is everything all right?’
Grégoire cleared his throat and pointed to the piano. ‘I thought I heard someone playing, a minute ago.’
Barry nodded. ‘That was Jane. She plays here Friday and Saturday nights. You just missed her. She’s good, isn’t she?’
Grégoire made a non-committal sound. The pianist had been skilled enough, he supposed – at least enough for a backwater pub – but she had played La Javanaise with just the right amount of melancholy.
‘The last song was very nice.’
‘She always closes her gig with that old song. She says it’s a French hit from the sixties. Perhaps you know it, being French yourself.’
‘I certainly do. It’s a classic.’
Barry’s face lit up. ‘She’ll be delighted to hear that. It’s a nice tune, but a bit too sad, in my opinion. Most people prefer ABBA to sing along to.’
‘Did you say she would be back tomorrow evening?’
‘Unless she’s too tired after Arthur’s birthday party.’
‘Arthur?’
Barry laugh
ed. ‘Her baby. He’s three years old tomorrow. Actually, she calls him her baby but he’s not really a baby. He’s –’
A woman’s piercing shriek from the kitchen interrupted him. ‘What the heck was that? Sounds like my new barmaid is being murdered in there! Take a seat. I’ll be back in a sec.’
Grégoire sat at the bar, feeling a lot more optimistic about his quest. Jane could be the woman he was looking for – the woman who had left the music box on his grandfather’s grave. It was a pity he’d missed her tonight, but he would try to get her address or contact number from Barry later. Failing that, he could always wait for tomorrow…
Chapter Three
Saturday
Jane recognised him the moment he stepped in. He had been in the news a lot after his car accident, and of course, with his brown hair and dark eyes, he looked just like a younger version of his grandfather.
He scanned the cake counter and the display of collars, leads and dog toys before looking at the customers enjoying coffee and cake. Dogs stretched at their feet, or wolfed down a biscuit or a bowl of doggy ice cream.
She had been expecting him since Miss Moonshine called that morning, but her heart still beat too fast for comfort. Her fingers shook as she piled up the pup-muffins she’d just colour-coded with icing so that Dixie, the café’s Saturday girl, would no longer get mixed up between the blueberry, apple or carrot flavours. There had been several customer complaints lately, although not from the dogs.
The cakes formed a colourful pyramid almost as high as her, and the thought of ducking behind the counter and escaping through the back door was suddenly very tempting. It would, however, be irresponsible, as well as cowardly. Dixie could not be left alone without causing chaos, selling dog cakes to humans and vice versa. What’s more, if Grégoire Beaufort had come all this way, he wouldn’t leave until he had answers. She’d better sound convincing.
Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories Page 10
