Chapter 63
There was Barnaby Forth, the youngest of the bunch, who appeared to be a grandson or grandnephew of the deceased-she hadn't quite figured out which-and was not much older than Fiona herself. He wore his designer suit with the same confidence and air of professionalism as Nath, and constantly cast his gaze in her direction. His dark brown hair was brushed back from a handsome, sharp-featured face with a cleft chin. He held one end of a marbled fountain pen between each forefinger and thumb, his short fingers spread gracefully on the boardroom table. Square index fingers, Fiona noticed automatically. Must be a lawyer or accountant. And he looked vaguely familiar.
Next to him sat an older man, perhaps in his late fifties. He had dark hair, the exact color of which was uncertain because it was slicked back with some sort of gel, and it was a bit too long so that it curled up wetly at the nape of his neck. He wore wire-rimmed gla.s.ses that settled into little indentations in his pudgy cheeks and had spatulate, manicured fingernails that gleamed while he played with a gold-plated fountain pen. Fiona had heard him introduce himself as Arnold Sternan, and, judging from his age, he was probably a son or nephew of Nevio Valente.
The two others were obviously a couple, a man and woman of middle age and poor taste-at least in Fiona's opinion. The woman's clothing, though obviously expensive, was loudly decorated with beads, lace, and satin-st.i.tch embroidery. Aside of its decor, the color of the dress itself was enough to make Fiona feel nauseated: it was the hue of a perfectly ripe navel orange, and was probably purchased at an exclusive shop on the Main Line. Her husband's fas.h.i.+on sense was no more commendable, for, although he wore an unexceptional dark suit and white s.h.i.+rt, his tie looked like a long, narrow quilt. He had a fringe of grey hair that circled his scalp, and the crown of his head s.h.i.+ned like a cue ball under the bright lights. The couple was finally identified as Viola Ruthven, Nevio Valente's niece, and her husband Rudy.
It took an effort for Fiona to drag her eyes away from the garish couple, and when she did, she returned her attention to H. Gideon Nath, III, and found that he was glaring at her from over the top of the sheaf of paper he held. Feeling like a student caught pa.s.sing notes in school, she straightened in her seat and endeavored to look interested in the proceedings. All the while, she tried not to stare at his beautiful hands, for she itched to know what truths they held.
Never one to sit still for long because of her energetic nature and creative mind, Fiona had long since perfected the ability to listen to a lecture with just enough attention that she could tune back in at a moment's notice.
Her mind drifted to the letter Mr. Valente had left for her. It was tucked away in her huge bag, but she could see the words as if the heavy stationery sat on the table in front of her.
My dearest Fiona: I am certain this will come as a surprise to you-first, that I am dead and second that I've chosen you to name you as a benefactor in my will.
I'm sure you are wondering how and why I should do so. The decision was made for me the moment you rushed into my shop that rainy day last June. With your beautiful, windblown auburn hair and swirling skirts, and the wonder that was in your eyes when you gazed at my treasures, the picture you made was indelibly printed on this old man's mind. It was an echo of one such vision-a memory-that I have held in the deepest part of my soul for many, many years.
This old, embittered and ravaged heart softened for the first time in decades as I gazed upon you, for you looked so much like my dear Gretchen that I could barely move for the pain of it.
This old man has been through much hatred and ugliness in his life. Your freshness and innocence reminded me of how I once was, and how I could have been happy-I should have been happy-had things not happened the way they did. Perhaps you will find or create the happiness that I could not. I charge you, then, in honor of my Gretchen, to take this bequest and make something good from it.
Be a.s.sured, however, my dearest Fiona, that should you s.h.i.+rk your duties, I promise to haunt you for the rest of your life! Ha ha.
Looking forward to seeing what is on the other side...
Fondly, Nevio Valente Tears p.r.i.c.kled at the corner of her eyes once more at the obvious hurt and pain in the letter. So because she reminded him of someone he'd once known, the elderly man had bequeathed her-what? Some old treasures? Jewelry? He must have been senile to name a perfect stranger who reminded him of some other woman in his will. At his age, it was possible that anyone who walked into his shop might look familiar.
The attorney continued to pore through the legalese while Fiona's quirky mind was at work, darting down tunnels of possibilities as to the ident.i.ty and reason for her bequest. One thought was so absurd that she actually had to choke back a giggle. She cast a swift glance at Nath, who flashed an annoyed look her way, and then let her attention sweep over Barnaby Forth.
Fiona snapped her attention back to the head of the table as she heard her name. Nath was reading as smoothly as ever, but again, those steel grey eyes flashed a sharp look at her.
"...Miss Murphy, with whom I recently made an acquaintance, is listed last in this epistle, although she is not the least of consideration. It was with great thought that I have made the decision to leave to her, upon my demise, the building, contents, and all related business of my Antiques Shoppe, located on South Street in Philadelphia, PA. I'm certain that she will make the store a continued success, and for that reason, I forbid her to sell the shop or building for the first five years of her owners.h.i.+p. If in the end she makes the determination to sell within the first five years, all proceeds from the sale will be added to the N. Valente Endowment Fund."
Fiona stared blankly at Nath, whose voice had trailed off with the end of that paragraph. I don't know a thing about running an antiques shop. But, as her mind took her back to that rainy day spent browsing through the shop of lights, she started to smile. Shaking her head, struck anew by Valente's oddities, Fiona became aware that the entire table of people was staring at her.
"How...generous," she managed to say, not quite sure what was appropriate at this time. As her head was still spinning, she couldn't think clearly. When no one looked away, she gathered her composure and lifted her gaze to Nath. "You may continue," she suggested, looking pointedly at the paper he held.
"There is nothing more," he replied coolly, adding the paper to a stack that sat off to the left. But, thankfully, he reclaimed the attention of the others by asking, "Does anyone have any questions? I'd be happy to meet with each of you on an individual basis to clarify any of the points in this doc.u.ment."
No one had any questions, but everyone wanted to schedule time with the attorney to finalize the paperwork. Fiona sat in her chair, cautiously observing the others. She wondered who in the room had expected to inherit the shop-and whether there would be any hard feelings that she had usurped someone else's bequest. The last thing I need is to be dumped into the middle of some crazy family compet.i.tion.
"Congratulations, Ms. Murphy."
The deep male voice caused Fiona to look up as she wrestled her bag onto her lap. "Thank you," she smiled, holding out her hand as she stood. "You're Barnaby Forth?"
His handshake was brief but his smile lingered. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to introduce myself before the proceedings started."
"I was late, so you wouldn't have had the chance anyway." Fiona remained polite, but she began to ease her way from the table, intending to make her way out of the room. "Now, tell me, how are you related to Mr. Valente? I'm afraid I didn't quite catch everything that was in the will."
"I'm the old man's grand-nephew-my mother's brother was his grandson." He looked as though he would have said more, but H. Gideon Nath approached them.
"Let me get you both on my schedule for next week," suggested the attorney, "so that we can get some of this paperwork taken care of."
"If you could have your secretary call mine, that would probably be the most efficient way," responded Barnaby. "I believe you
"My schedule is perfectly clear, Mr. Nath," Fiona said. "How about Tuesday at nine?"
He looked at Claire, who had slipped up behind them and was madly tapping on an iPad. She paused to nod, then went back to tapping. "Yes, nine on Tuesday works. Two hours, then you can get to court by noon?"
He nodded again, and Fiona hooked her bag over her shoulder. "Thank you, and I'll see you then. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Forth. Good-bye."
Fiona spent the weekend in a daze. She kept having to kick herself when she thought about the fact that she was now a business owner...and the proprietor of that lovely shop.
On Sat.u.r.day afternoon, she dragged her girlfriend Chris for a walk along South Street to show her the shop. They paused at the dingy windows, peering into the dimness of the store. A sign on the door said "Closed Due to Death" in large block letters.
"I wonder if it makes any money," commented Chris as they stepped back from the dirty windows to proceed along the street.
Fiona nodded, tucking a thick ma.s.s of windblown hair behind her ear. "I can't decide whether to be thrilled at this opportunity or scared to death that the thing is nothing but a money pit-and something that's going to tie me down forever. I guess I'll find out more when I meet with H. Gideon on Monday."
"Why do you always call him that?"
"Because that's how I think of him. He's a cardboard cutout of a person-stiffer than Al Gore-and he has that whole long pretentious name on his business cards and on his desk nameplate. H. Gideon Nath, the Third. Doesn't that sound like a lawyer?" Fiona chuckled, adjusting the thick gold ring on her right forefinger. That H still bothered her. Hank, maybe? Herman? "He thinks I'm a real flake-I can tell. And I love messing with him."
They turned into a coffee and sandwich shop and Chris led the way, clumping across the wood floor in her heavy clogs. They settled themselves at a small table near the window. When a waitress approached, Chris ordered a double cappuccino and Fiona, wrinkling her nose in disgust with her friend's choice, chose herbal tea.
"How can you drink that stuff?" she asked as she always did. "Don't you know that caffeine just sucks the calcium right out of your bones?"
Chris rolled her pale blue eyes and shook her head. "So what are you going to do about your job? They're going to be lost when you leave."
Fiona grinned and began to systematically pull off the jumble of rings she wore, letting them clatter onto the mosaic-tiled table. "You know I can't wait to quit. I'd have done it already if I was sure the shop would support me in the manner in which I'm accustomed."
"I'm shocked at your restraint, Fiona." Chris grinned, looking up as the waitress served their drinks. "You change careers more often than Lady Gaga changes clothes, and I figured it was about that time for you to be making a switch anyway. You're always so good at your jobs-but this shop will mean a real commitment from you. You won't be able to leave when you get bored. Unless you want to sell it."
"Yeah. That C word gives me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s." Fiona laughed lightly and looked down at the pile of intricate gold bands, pus.h.i.+ng them around on the tabletop with her forefinger. "Just like my mom. I come by it honestly, I guess. I'm sure I'll hang on to the shop for awhile, anyway."
Despite the fear building inside her-from the fact that she now owned something, that she had to be responsible for a business-Fiona already knew she didn't want to give up the shop. She'd only been there the one time, but there was something about it, something that made her feel like she belonged there. She hoped she could find a way to make it work.
Fiona removed the tea bag from her mug and placed it on the saucer, inhaling the scent of jasmine tea. "I have a lot to learn, though-what I know about antiques would fit in this cup."
"Your background should help a little bit there, though," commented Chris, swiping a spoonful of whipped cream from the top of her coffee.
Fiona nodded and had to push the hair out of her face again. She had two undergraduate degrees: one in art history and one in interior design-an excellent example of her inability to make commitments. "At least I know the time periods and basic styles," she agreed, sipping the green tea. It was clean and light, and the essence of jasmine relaxed her. "But I won't know anything until I meet with that lawyer on Monday."
"Speaking of lawyers, you never got back to me on my text about Tuesday," Chris said.
"Text?" Fiona reached for her bag. "I didn't get any text from you." She began to rummage in the depths of the satchel. Or did she? If she could actually find the phone....
"Did you lose your cell again?" Chris shook her head in mock annoyance. "I don't know why I bother trying. I should just stick to face to face or calling you at work."
"So what's going on Tuesday?" Fiona asked, still feeling around amid the jumble for her phone. When was the last time she'd seen it?
"There's a guy I want you to meet," her friend replied, her eyes dancing with humor. "He's just so sweet and down to earth, and he's never been married."
But Fiona was already shaking her head. "That lawyer? No way. You know how I feel about that breed. And I don't trust any blind date you arrange for me anyway, especially after the guy who was supposed to be a veterinarian. The man had hands like the Tin Man-big and knuckly and creaky."
"You are so weird about hands, Fiona. And you know that blind date was only to pay you back for sending me flowers from Colin Farrell."
Fiona smirked, remembering how she'd called her, babbling uncontrollably about the dozen red roses that she'd received the day after meeting Colin Farrell at a charity function Chris had chaired. "That was a good one, wasn't it?"
"Not as good as the vet I set you up with-the one who performs hypnosis on dogs and cats."
Fiona snorted and flapped her hand to brush off her friend's aspirations. "You are nowhere near as good as I am when it comes to great practical jokes. Just keep trying, though. Maybe someday you'll learn." She sipped more of her tea.
"Anyway, this lawyer-"
"Speaking of lawyers," Fiona said, bent on changing the subject. "Why is an accountant better than a lawyer?"
Chris rolled her eyes but succ.u.mbed to the pressure. "I don't know."
"At least accountants know they're boring."
Chris chuckled, and, just as she opened her mouth to speak again, she snapped it shut. Fiona realized why when a deep voice reached her ears. "Ms. Murphy?"
She looked around just as Barnaby Forth stepped into her line of vision. "Well, h.e.l.lo," she greeted him, surprised that he would seek her out.
"I thought that was you," he said, smiling down at her and then at Chris. "Mind if I join you for a quick minute?"
Fiona shrugged and flickered a glance at Chris, who seemed to be bursting with curiosity. "Have a seat. This is my friend Chris Nielsen. Chris, this is Barnaby Forth, the grand-nephew of Mr. Valente."
He took a seat, and the waitress was upon them in a second, obviously eager to take the order of the well-groomed, attractive man. After ordering a black coffee, he returned his attention to Fiona. "So were you out checking out your inheritance?" he asked with a grin.
She felt her face warm slightly, but replied with casual aplomb, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. But what brings you down to South Street?" This was definitely not a place she would have expected Barnaby Forth to frequent. The Main Line, Society Hill, Chestnut Hill...maybe. But not the quirky, gothicky South Street.
"I'm meeting a friend for dinner and got here a little early. When I saw you, I thought I'd take a second and say hi."
Fiona took a sip of her tea, then decided to ask the question that had been niggling at her for days. "Speaking of your great-uncle...do you know who Gretchen was?"
"Gretchen?" He looked at her with genuine confusion. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
She shook her head as if to clear it, and decided to start from the beginning. "Mr. Valente left a letter for me, sort of explaining his reasoning for putting me in his will, and he mentioned someone named Gretchen. I thought she or her ident.i.ty might have come up at the reading of the will on Friday, but she didn't. I just wondered if you knew who she was because your great-uncle spoke very fondly of her in the letter."
Barnaby looked surprised. "Fondly?" He shook his head, absently glancing up to smile at the waitress who set his coffee carefully in front of him. "I'm sorry, I don't know who that could be. Frankly, I can't imagine my great-uncle feeling fondly toward anyone." His smile was wry as he stirred his drink-although he'd added no sugar or cream, Fiona noticed-then rested the spoon carefully on the saucer. "No, I don't think I've ever heard mention of a Gretchen. Did he say anything specific about her?"
Fiona took a moment to sip her own tea, wondering how much of the contents of the letter she should share. Not that there was anything that important in it, she reminded herself, but she felt odd sharing the nostalgic words from the old man. Not even H. Gideon Nath, III, knew what was in the letter. Then she shrugged again. "He didn't say much, other than that he knew her long ago." That was a good compromise. "Hence my questions."
"I'll ask my mother if she knows," he promised.
"That would be great. It's just something that bothers me a little, in a curious sort of way." She gave him a dazzling smile and noticed interest and appreciation in his eyes.
"I'll give you a call next week," he said. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he glanced at his Rolex and stood. "I'm sorry to be so abrupt, but I have to run now." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a money clip, flipped through several large bills to find a ten-dollar bill, and tossed it onto the table. "It was nice to see you again, and nice to have met you," he added, looking at Chris.
"Good-bye," Fiona said, and returned her attention to Chris as he walked out of the coffee shop. Her friend was looking at her through narrowed eyes. "What's wrong?"
"So, what-is he the reason you don't want to meet the lawyer I want to set you up with? He's not bad looking, but seems a little...not your type."
With a sigh, Fiona picked up her six rings and slipped them methodically back on her fingers. "What is it with you and setting me up? I go out enough. I don't need you to-"
"I know you go out all the time, but when you do, it's a different guy every time. Don't you get tired of playing the game?"
"I like being casual about it. Just because you found Mr. Perfect doesn't mean that I'm interested in that. I'm not. I like things just the way they are. And besides," Fiona added, her faint irritation evaporating, "now that I have the shop to run, I'll have enough responsibility in my life. I don't need to be responsible for a man, too."
CHAPTER THREE.
"Doesn't the shop or the will have to go through probate and everything? And what about the other members of Valente's family-aren't they ticked off that I got the shop and they didn't? Should I worry about them trying to stop this from happening?" Fiona Murphy settled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, staring Gideon down as though she'd just poked holes in some beloved theory he'd dreamed up.
Gideon felt faint surprise that she knew enough to ask about probate. Maybe she wasn't quite as ditzy as he'd thought. "The probate hearing was yesterday and it went off without any challenges. As I a.s.sume you heard at the reading last week," he said with not-so-gentle emphasis, "the other family members inherited other, much larger and more lucrative portions of Valente's great wealth. The antiques shop is really just a small piece of it."
"Very well, then. And that brings up a bigger issue. Before we go any further and before I sign anything, I'd like to see just what it is I have to work with." Ms. Murphy's smile was engaging, but there was shrewdness-and something like apprehension-in her eyes. "I want to know what I'm getting into before I actually get into it."
She caught him by surprise. Gideon set down the papers he was holding and reached for another folder. "Of course we can go through all that. I just presumed you'd want to wait until everything was final before spending time on it." Actually, he'd a.s.sumed she hadn't a clue in her lovely head about running a business, and that ledgers and accounting would be the last thing she'd worry about. When she spoke again, she surprised him further.
"I'll be the first to admit that I don't know much about running a shop, but I do know something about business. I'm one h.e.l.l of an office manager. But since I've never had my own business, it's hard to know whether I have a head for the big picture. But," she leaned forward, "I figured you'd be a good resource for me to ask whether the shop is viable financially. From what you've said, I get the impression that Valente left me the dog, and everyone else the diamonds. Not that I'm complaining..."
He found himself nodding in agreement while trying not to smile at her bluntness. "Absolutely, Ms. Murphy, I-"
"And," she said, giving him a smile that warmed like a sip of the twelve-year-old single malt Scotch his grandfather liked, "I think you can stop calling me Ms. Murphy. Fiona is fine. Now," she continued, rummaging in that huge bag of hers. "Please, tell me about the whole picture here." She extracted a piece of paper with what appeared to be a list-of questions most likely.
"Well, Ms. Mur-Fiona," he corrected himself and firmly directed his attention back to the matter at hand, "in a nutsh.e.l.l, you're right-the shop isn't going to make you a wealthy woman. But it's not in the red, either. There's quite a bit of healthy income from rents, although the inventory of the shop does bring in a bit of a profit, both from walk-in and online sales. You won't find yourself on the street-at least right away."
He pulled the information out of a folder and for the next thirty minutes, went through the property in detail as Fiona fired her questions at him.
"So I should be able to make a living off the shop and rents," she said at the end. Her voice held enthusiasm, but trepidation still hung on her face. "When do I get the keys?"
Gideon almost laughed, but caught himself in time. It was amazing how she'd gone from serious, banker-type mode, bright-patterned cheaters perched on the edge of her nose, shooting off questions with little pause-to guarded enthusiasm in a split second. "As soon as you sign these t.i.tle papers, I'll be happy to relinquish the keys."
It was another thirty minutes before the t.i.tle work and other papers transferring owners.h.i.+p to Fiona were completed.
"I think we're about finished, and I can give you those keys."
"Marvy!" She stood just as he did, and her ankle-length, gauzy dress settled in fluid folds around her.