by Drea Stein
“No thanks, Madame, I just need a cup of coffee,” he said and tried to bypass her, but she reached out and practically dragged him into the plastic chair across from her at the small round table. When he and his partner had redone the building that housed their construction business, they hadn’t the heart to kick out Madame, who had occupied a small space on the third story.
His nerves jangled as he looked into her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes. Hell, they’d been too chicken to ask her to move, not wanting to court bad luck or an ancient Gypsy curse. So they had done what seemed like a nice thing at the time and offered her a long lease and a new paint job. She had expressed her appreciation by using their break room for free cups of coffee and impromptu tea leaf-reading sessions. He looked around for rescue but Tory Somers, who worked in the building, just shook her head and smothered a smile.
“Traitor,” he mouthed to her, over Madame’s bent head.
Madame took his palm in her strong grip and began to closely scrutinize it. Unsettled but curious, he waited as Madame ran her fingers over the lines in his palm, all the while making strange cooing and clucking noises.
“See this here?” she said, pointing to a line that ran downward.
“What is it?”
“Your love line.”
He could see that Tory was rolling her eyes behind Madame’s back. Tory did not believe in reading tea leaves or waiting for destiny to happen.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asked.
“Yours is squiggly.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re looking for love in all the wrong places. Love isn’t found in bars.”
“I don’t find love in bars,” he said.
Tory’s eye rolling turned to a laugh that she covered up with a cough.
“Or hotel rooms,” Madame added with a disapproving shake of her head.
Jake pushed back: “I don’t go to hotel rooms.”
“Not since you finally moved out on your own,” Tory pointed out.
She had lived next door to him until she moved into a beach cottage with her fiancé, Colby. Now Ellie, Colby’s mom, lived in Tory’s old apartment, right next to him, just another of those small town connections.
“You,” Madame said, one slightly crooked finger waving sternly at him, “need to grow up. Or you’ll never find true love.”
“Who says there is anything like true love?” Jake asked, but Madame gasped.
“For you there could be, but you squander it chasing after anyone that makes eyes on you.”
“I do not,” he said and managed to snatch his hand back, fighting the desire to wipe it down on the side of his leg. Squiggly love line indeed. He’d only been chasing around after others because the one he really cared about had moved an ocean away.
“Don’t you?” Tory said, with a toss of her head as she looked him.
“It’s not like you were ever interested in me,” he said. He’d made a half-hearted attempt to see if there might have been something with Tory, but thankfully they had both realized that it wasn’t right.
She shook her head sadly and said, “Serena, Gwen, Amy … I could name a few more, and that’s just in the last while.”
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice rising. He did not want to talk about the list, especially about Amy.
Madame was ready to go, but not before she sent a warning look in his direction and gave him one last prediction: “You treat love too lightly, and it will kick you in the face.” Her accent faltered only slightly, betraying her New England roots. With a tinkle of jewelry and a swirl of incense, she left the break room.
Tory gave him a one-shoulder shrug and headed back toward her office.
Jake got up, pouring the coffee down the drain. He wasn’t thirsty anymore.
He didn’t treat love lightly. He had never told any woman on that list that he was in love with her, especially Amy. In fact, he’d been quite clear on that point. It wasn’t his fault that maybe one or two of them had thought that they could change him. Why, he wondered. He hadn’t wanted to change any of them. He had liked everything about them for what it was and as long as it lasted. He liked women, but no one ever quite measured up to Colleen McShane. He rinsed out his mug. That was the problem. She had stomped on his heart, and like a little puppy dog, he was ready to come back to her, if she’d take him. And last night she’d been … nice. And now his hopes were riding high. Just maybe they were at a turning point.
He put the mug in the rack to dry. She was a bartender. Of course she was nice to everyone. Except for that creep Charlie last night. Charlie was lucky Jake hadn’t decided to punch him for talking to Colleen the way he had. He felt a sudden, hot intense flash of anger. He needed to settle down. Colleen hadn’t wanted him to interfere, but he had felt compelled to. He would have done it for anyone, of course, because that’s what a nice guy does, but he knew that he wouldn’t have cared about the outcome as much. Nope, he had it bad for Colleen McShane and had for over a decade. With Colleen back in town, his longing for her, his desire to be with her had only gotten more intense.
He flexed his palm open and looked at the squiggly lines. They meant nothing to him and he didn’t believe in Madame Robireux’s predictions at all. Like Tory, he was pretty certain that luck didn’t have much to do with destiny, and success was more about hard work, persistence, and dedication to goals. Colleen McShane was definitely one of Jake’s goals. She just didn’t know it yet.
Of course, he thought with a half-smile, she didn’t really know Jake Owen 2.0, the grown-up, mature Jake. Not the horny teenage football player who had nothing more pressing than thinking about where he was going to take a girl on Saturday night. Hard work, persistence, and attention to detail were all things he was good at. Those were traits that had made him a good football player; now those traits made him a good businessman and an excellent builder. He just needed to turn his attention fully in her direction, give it the full court press, the old college try with the home court advantage. He walked out of the break room, whistling, his head filled with a litany of positive sport analogies that made him smile. He was about to make a play for Colleen McShane.
Chapter 7
After her surprising conversation with her mother, Colleen had walked her daughter to Happy Face Pre-School, where Adele spent a few hours a day playing, learning, and making friends. It was a nice, normal, perfectly small town thing to do and though Colleen missed Adele even for the few short hours, her daughter was always happy.
Now that she had a few hours to herself, she planned on making the most of it as she walked through Queensbay. Last night’s rain was merely a memory, but it had left the village looking freshly scrubbed and sparkly clean. The morning air was still cool, but a promise of warmth to come hung in the air, and a wonderful spring breeze rolled in off of the harbor. A few fat, puffy clouds dotted the blue sky, but the sun shined with gentle warmth.
She stopped for a moment along the boardwalk and soaked it all in. The harbor was spread out in front of her, so that she could see the long, encircling arms of hills and land that hugged the water, along with the hulk of the Queensbay Showhouse, and beyond that, Middle Island with its distinctive stubby lighthouse. Farther out, across the Sound, so far away it was but a low line of gray, was the low-slung coast of Long Island. It was the kind of day meant to be immortalized on a postcard, and she savored it.
Despite having grown up in Queensbay, she hadn’t spent much time on the water. Her family, she laughed at the thought of calling it that, had never owned a boat. Sure, she had used a friend’s canoe once or twice or been out on some other friend’s boat, but during high school she had been so focused on leaving that she hadn’t had much time for friends or parties. Homework had been the priority because good grades were a way out, the basic tool of building her escape plan. Colleen had been a cheerleader, more because that was what the cool girls did than because she liked it as a sport. Debate club had been something she had done because
it had felt good to argue. She joined drama club because although her singing voice was decent, not spectacular, she had loved being an actress. She felt as if she was acting most of the time anyway, playing a part. She liked imagining herself as someone different. She could fake accents, copy mannerisms, always had been believable in whatever role she was playing.
She turned onto High Street, taking in the buildings lining both sides of the street. She loved this section of the village, with the beautiful, well-kept houses, small trim Colonials painted creamy white or buttery yellow, with their tall black shutters. Then there were the later Federal and Greek Revival styles, almost always in austere white, columns strictly at attention. After those, came the Victorians, simple to grand, their bright colors popping. Finally a few Craftsman styles filled in the gaps, solid and boxy with aggressive porches, perfect for catching the shade.
And the gardens. Gardening was a bloodsport in Queensbay. They abounded and it seemed like everyone had a green thumb. For now, the early spring bloomers like the dogwood and cherry trees were starting to bud out, and she was eager to watch the procession of color as the seasons progressed.
Later in the summer, the sunny side of the streets would be ablaze in lavender and rosemary, coneflower, and foxglove. Riots of color would poke out from white picket fences or more ornate iron ones. Overflowing pots were hung from porches and giant classical urns filled with flowers flanked walkways and brightly painted doors.
The tourists would be in town by then, walking in and out of the shops including La Belle Vie, her store, and that was the secret she was keeping from just about everyone. Her own shop, something she had wanted and dreamed about for years, but had never been certain she’d take the leap to do it.
She knew just how she would stock it. A mix of inventory, from antiques to newer furniture she would restore herself, to housewares, linen, jewelry, and even some clothing. Her idea was to embody the idea she had created with her blog. A little bit of the French philosophy on living a good life on any budget, right here in Queensbay. And of course, she could ship anywhere in the world. She might be based in a small town, but there was no reason she couldn’t go global. And she’d take on clients, those who wanted to hire her to decorate their homes and their offices.
Nothing like that existed in Queensbay yet. And as she stopped in front of the ramshackle front of Phil’s Queensbay Treasure Emporium, she realized that she was a long way from her dream of La Belle Vie.
It was still hard to believe that Phil’s Queensbay Treasure Emporium, long a mainstay of town, was hers. Somewhere along the line, Colleen had become an heiress and that was a thought that made her want to laugh out loud. She had worked for Phil Sattler in his dusty Treasure Emporium back in high school. He’d been old even then, but kind, and once he realized that her interest in antiques and furniture was genuine, he became her mentor and taught Colleen about buying low and selling high.
She in turn had been fairly decent with computers, and once she’d set him up with a website and an online auction account, there had been no stopping him. Phil’s Treasure Emporium had shipped all over the world, or at least throughout the continental United States. There was no telling what people would buy off the Internet, he always said and Phil had taken full advantage of that fact, happy to turn one man’s junk into another man’s treasure.
She had stayed in touch with Phil over the years, answering his technical and not-so-technical questions via email. He came to Paris and visited her and they had gone on a wine-fueled treasure hunt through the famous flea markets of the city. He had followed her blog and ordered ten autographed copies of her book. He sent little presents to Adele and antique postcards from Queensbay’s past that he turned into humorous missives when he decorated them with slightly off-color comments. He’d been like a grandfather to her, and she had thought they were close. Apparently they had not been close enough for him to tell Colleen about the cancer. It had taken him quickly, so quickly.
The only thing more shocking was to discover that he had left her everything. She knew that he had no relatives, was the last of the Sattlers. His estate had proved to be surprisingly robust. It included the building, which he owned outright, several bank and investment accounts, his inventory and online auction account, which she had diligently kept up while trying to decide what to do. A five-star rating was nothing to sneer at, and she knew Phil, wherever he was, would be happy to know that his “treasures” were still finding their way into the hands of people who appreciated them.
At first, she had been enticed by the suggestion that she sell the building and liquidate the accounts. The lawyer who handled the estate said that there was a lot of interest in a commercial building in the heart of the village. He promised a quick deal, money in the bank. It had been especially tempting as things with Olivier dissolved. But Colleen had sat down, opened up a spreadsheet on her computer, and done some computer-aided math. Along with her own savings and what Phil had left her, she could open her own store. A place of her own where she could sell the furniture she restored, and things she loved to discover and tell the world about, all the things she had highlighted and talked about on her blog.
It had long been a dream of hers to do it, and Olivier had made vague promises to help her with it, but she had soon realized that those promises were empty ones. If she wanted to do it, it was up to her and her alone. And suddenly, with that random twist of fate, she’d inherited a commercial property in the small but vibrant tourist town.
Of course the reality of dealing with the remains of the Treasure Emporium and a rundown building had proved somewhat overwhelming. She was focusing on the inside, but she now looked at the outside of the building critically. Someday it would be nice to have the building restored; for now, just a good coat of paint on the front would do. She had taken the shutters down and they were in the workroom in the basement of the shop, leaning against the wall in various stages of undress, as she thought of the stripping and sanding she was doing.
She looked to her left. Only three doors down, the neat and trim façade of the Golden Pear Café beckoned her. She could almost smell the aroma of the dark, rich coffee wafting down the street. It reminded her of the Paris cafes where she had loved to sit and watch people when she had first moved to the city. She’d heard that Darby’s pain au chocolat was fantastic as well. She thought longingly of being able to breeze in and order, without things being awkward. After all, ten years had passed since Darby had flung open that motel door, and she and Jake hadn’t even been a thing. So it should have all have been okay.
She’d thought when Darby’s husband, Sean, had hired her at his restaurant, The Osprey Arms, that bygones were bygones. Then Darby had dropped by and seen her there. The fight between Sean and Darby had been muted, quick, and fierce. After it was over, Sean had looked like he was truly in the doghouse, but he hadn’t said a word to her.
The last thing she wanted to do was to cause trouble with anyone’s marriage, though from what she’d heard, they were sickeningly in love and had one adorable baby to prove it. Still, she was not that kind of woman, so she took pity on Sean and quit before he had to figure out a way to fire her nicely.
As she was walking out, head held high, Oswald, the sous chef, had told her Quentin Tate was looking for some help at his sports bar. She stopped by Quent’s that same day, and before she knew it, she as pulling in a few shifts. Of course, she didn’t have to work, not with her savings and what Phil had left her, but she’d made a vow not to rely on a man, any man, even if he was dead and had left her all his money. So she worked for the principle of it, figuring that the bar patrons might very well become her customers, and serving drinks was one way to reestablish herself in the community before she risked it all and opened a business.
She had not seen Darby since that day at the restaurant. Colleen knew that part of moving back here meant atoning for her past behavior. She’d been a classic mean girl in high school, so ready to get the heck out of this town, s
he hadn’t cared whose toes she stepped on.
It was that Colleen McShane who had thought nothing of giving in to her desires and making out with someone else’s prom date because she had lost the election for class president to Darby. In high school, Darby had everything Colleen didn’t: a loving, over-protective father; a sweet, PTA-bake-sale-baking mom; a happy home life. Colleen couldn’t let her win. But that was the old Colleen. Back then she’d believed life was a zero-sum game. That to get what she wanted, someone else had to lose. Being buffeted around by life had taught Colleen that sometimes she would win and sometimes she would lose. Life, and happiness, were a marathon, not a sprint. And she had come to realize that the life she thought she wanted had turned out to be all wrong.
When she’d decided to come back to Queensbay, she knew she’d have to make amends, prove she wasn’t the same person she’d been. It was obvious to start with Darby, but she hadn’t had the courage. Yet. Colleen squared her shoulders. This was her town, just as much as it was Darby’s. They’d both grown up here, both gone to school here, and now they were both business owners. It was part of Colleen’s job description to get along with the other shopkeepers in town. Retail business owners found strength in numbers. Besides, La Belle Vie was going to be the type of place people sought out, a special, one-of-a-kind magical shop that catered to people with money to burn. They would be very happy, Colleen told herself as she forced her steps toward the plate glass windows of the café, to shop and then go get lunch and coffee at the café just a few doors down.
The coffee she’d already had was making her stomach churn. Tea, maybe something herbal would be better for her, she thought and a croissant to put her in the Gallic mood as she worked on her designs for the store. She could take pictures of the croissant for the blog post. Maybe get some business for Darby. She’d be bound to appreciate that.
She pushed open the door and a bell, strong, certain, announced her presence. There was no going back now. A few people sat, scattered at the round tables, reading the paper, checking their phones, and sipping coffee, enjoying a peaceful interlude. Colleen could appreciate the sense of style in the place, beachy and cozy, with good hardwood floors and white wainscoting that climbed halfway up the light gray walls, a simple, effective backdrop for the large black and white framed photographs. The photos featured local scenes, sailboats, the lighthouse, and the cottages out on the point, maritime without being kitschy. Music played, contemporary coffee house rock, neither too loud nor too low.
