The reading of the will was as tedious and boring as Fiona had anticipated. She sipped from a goblet of sparkling water studded with a lemon wedge and surveyed the cluster of people around the great mahogany table. There were only four people other than H. Gideon Nath, the Third, and his blond assistant, whose name she’d learned was Claire.

The rest were somehow related to Nevio Valente, and Fiona spent her time observing them as H. Gideon droned on, reading the long (so long!) document left by Mr. Valente.

Her will—should she ever have occasion to make one—would be one page long, and bullet-pointed.

There was Bradley Forth, the youngest of the bunch, who appeared to be either 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 an accountant. He didn’t wear a wedding band, and presumably if he had a spouse, she’d have been there at the reading of the will, so she could safely assume the interested looks he kept casting her were legitimate and not creepy. Plus, his name was vaguely familiar.

She slipped out her mobile phone and, holding it in her lap beneath the table, stealthily tapped out the keys to Google him.

Next to Bradley Forth sat an older man, perhaps in his late fifties. Except for the greased back hair, he was a dead-ringer for how Fiona had imagined H. Gideon Nath, III, to look when she’d first talked to him on the phone.

His name was Arnold Sternan, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses that settled into little indentations in his cheeks and had spatulate, manicured fingernails that gleamed while he played with a gold-plated fountain pen. His hair was dark, its exact shade uncertain because it was slicked back with some sort of gel and appeared wet. It was a bit too long so it curled up damply at the nape of his neck. Judging from his age, he was probably a son or nephew of Nevio Valente. She gathered during the general conversation that he was some sort of investment banker or venture capitalist. She thought he looked like an aging mobster.

The two others at the table were obviously a couple, a man and woman of advanced 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-stitch embroidery, and seemed to have no rhyme or reason in its pattern. Aside from its overdone decor, the color of the dress itself was enough to make Fiona feel nauseated: it was the hue of a perfectly ripe navel orange. She’d bet it had been purchased at an exclusive shop in Chicago.

The husband’s fashion sense was no more commendable, for, although he wore an unexceptional dark suit and white shirt, 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 shined like a cue ball under the bright lights. The couple was finally identified as Viola Ruthven, Nevio Valente’s niece, and her husband Rudy.

Fiona scrolled through her phone, still hiding it under the table, and was able to determine that Brad Forth was an attorney (oh joy) and was running for state senator in this district—but before she could read further, she glanced up at H. Gideon.

He was glaring at her from over the top of the sheaf of paper he held. Feeling like a student caught passing notes in school, Fiona straightened in her seat and locked her phone, endeavoring to look interested in the proceedings. That was easier than she thought—to look interested—because her attention was caught by H. Gideon’s beautiful hands as they held the sheaf of paper from which he was reading.

They were elegant and strong, and she fairly itched to know what truths they held.

But even that couldn’t keep her interested for long, and as H. Gideon droned on (how long was this will anyway?), Fiona’s thoughts wandered once more.

Logically, 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.

Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes as she remembered the raw hurt and pain in the letter.

And as she’d done for nearly a week now, she mulled over the shock that 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 he encountered unexpectedly 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 identity and reason for her bequest.

One thought that included forced marriages and other strings-attached bequests was so absurd that she actually had to choke back a giggle. She cast a swift glance at H. Gideon, who flashed an annoyed look her way, and then let her attention sweep over the attentive Brad Forth. Surely Mr. Valente hadn’t written a match-making clause into his will. That was for the 19^th and early 20^th centuries, thank you very much.

Fiona snapped her attention back to the head of the table as she heard her name. H. Gideon (she simply couldn’t think of him by any other way) 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, by any stretch, the least of consideration. As one often says, one ought to leave the best for last—and so that is what I’ve done.

“Nonetheless, it was with great thought that I made the decision to leave to her, upon my demise, the building, contents, and all related business of my Antiques Shoppe, located on Violet Way in Wicks Hollow, Michigan.”

Fiona couldn’t control a gasp, then quickly stifled it as H. Gideon gave her a look over the top of the paper, then continued reading.

“I’m certain that she will make the languishing store into a success, and for that reason, I forbid her to sell the shop or its building for the first five years of her ownership. If in the end she makes the determination to sell before the first five years have passed, all proceeds from the sale will be added to the N. Valente Endowment Fund and she will remain with nothing.”

Fiona stared blankly at Nath, whose voice had trailed off with the end of that paragraph.

An antiques shop?

He left me his antiques shop?

I don’t know a thing about running an antiques shop.

In Wicks Hollow?

But nonetheless, her insides fluttered. Then, just as quickly, her stomach squeezed alarmingly, and she felt sick.

Holy crap, she was going to be a business-owner.

A life without vacations, without sleep, without freedom flashed before her eyes.

“How…generous,” she managed to say when she realized everyone was staring at her.

When no one looked away, she gathered her composure and lifted her gaze to H. Gideon. “Is there anything else?” she asked.

“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 document.”

No one had any questions—at least none they were willing to ask in the presence of the other heirs—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 competition.

“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 Bradley Forth?”

His handshake was brief but his smile lingered. “Yes, of course. Call me Brad, please. 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 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 Brad pompously. “I believe you have my card?”

“My schedule is perfectly clear, H.—er, Mr. Nath,” Fiona said brightly.

Because she just realized she could quit her job.

They’d be devastated at Thurston & Mills, but oh well. She was going to be a business owner. Her stomach lurched, and she swallowed hard. Oh God.

“How about Tuesday at four, Ms. Murphy?” H. Gideon said, looking at Claire, who had slipped up behind them and was madly tapping on an iPad. “Claire?”

The admin paused to nod, then went back to tapping. “Yes, Mr. Nath, four on Tuesday works, now that your golf league is over.”

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.”

* * *

The first thing Fiona did Saturday morning was to make the drive—which was less than an hour along the shore of Lake Michigan—from Grand Rapids to Wicks Hollow.

Since her brother Ethan had bought a log cabin on Wicks Lake, she’d visited the touristy town several times over the last few years. Though she didn’t know all the residents as well as he did, she’d gotten to know Maxine Took, the town’s self-appointed matriarch, and her partner-in-crime (for lack of a better term), Juanita Acerita.

The town itself was nested inside a handful of rolling hills less than two miles east of the Lake Michigan shoreline. The ring of hills reminded Fiona of a large hand that protected the collection of houses, shops, and winding streets by holding them in its palm. From what she understood, Wicks Hollow’s population was normally about two thousand. Over the summer, however, and in the early autumn, tourists packed the little village and swelled its number to more than twice that.

It was early September now, so the tourists with schoolchildren had gone. This cleared the way for a smaller wave of visitors—what the locals called “the newly-weds and the nearly-deads”: honeymooners and senior citizens, who could travel during this off-season and into the Fall Color period, which stretched from late September to mid-October.

From the first time she saw Wicks Hollow, Fiona had been charmed by the treelined streets of mansions built in the late 1890s and early 1900s. Called “painted ladies” for their elegant shapes, ornate trim, and bright colors, the houses lined the streets displaying all the gables, towers, and garrets characteristic of that era. Most were painted in bright colors: cerulean, lime green, purple and violet, and complementary shades of yellow, gold, and pink. Their yards were small, manicured patches of green shaded by mature trees and edged by sweeping landscapes of geranium, hosta, boxwood, and other nursery staples.

To the south and east of the town, there were fewer houses due to a bank of thickly wooded hills that rose like a natural, protective wall. Shenstone House, a large mansion located on the highest hill just southeast of town, was in the process of being renovated to be turned into a small inn. Through the trees still thick with leaves just beginning to think about turning gold and orange, Fiona could see the peaks of the house’s roof and gables.

Before starting her drive, Fiona had used her GPS to locate the address of her unexpected inheritance, and was mildly disappointed to discover it wasn’t located in the main downtown area of Wicks Hollow. The intersection of Faith Avenue and Pamela Boulevard—with neither being an avenue nor a boulevard, but barely two-vehicle wide streets—was the heart of the downtown’s business and tourist district. From that central location, shops, restaurants, cafes, and other businesses sprang up for two blocks in all four directions. Every building was brick-fronted, although the color, type, and height of their facades varied. Some of the brickwork design was complicated, and some of it merely serviceable.

Fiona came into town via the north-south running Pamela Boulevard, then turned west on Faith Avenue. This took her past Trib’s (the trendiest restaurant in town), and on the next block, a second-floor Balanced Chakra Yoga Studio (which she eyed with interest).

Following her GPS (a good sense of direction was not one of Fiona’s gifts), she followed Faith two more blocks to Elizabeth Street and turned north. This three block stretch on Elizabeth was known as B&B Row, for it was lined on both sides with painted ladies converted to bed and breakfast inns. Some even had glimpses of Lake Michigan and the Fire’s Cove Lighthouse from their upper floors.

As she drove by, Fiona noted the names of some of the B&Bs—Sunflower House, Respite Cottage, Blueberry Courtyard, The Pine Glenn Inn. Each had beautiful hand-painted signs with little flip-cards on them that indicated vacancy or no vacancy. Many showed no vacancy for this weekend in early September, and Fiona was pleased. After all, she was soon to be a business-owner here herself.

At the thought, a little squiggle of nerves made her clench her tummy, but she spewed out a long breath. One step at a time.

Elizabeth Street curved slightly west, and Fiona smelled the fresh proximity of Lake Michigan through the open moonroof on her lemondrop VW bug. She took a hard left onto a little street that angled off toward the big lake and found herself on Violet Way.

The road was hardly more than a dirt driveway, stretching less than two blocks between Elizabeth and Frederick Streets. The gravel surface was barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other and definitely room only for one if someone was parked on the street. Though it was several blocks from the main area of town, there were other shops here (probably with lower rent): a small boutique that seemed to carry only black clothing, a tiny pottery store with a cheerful red flag hanging out front, a shop for hiking and camping gear, and, near the Frederick end of the short, gravel road, an old sign that read Antiques.

“This must be it.” Fiona was just pulling off the road into a dubious parking place when her phone rang. The only reason it wasn’t in the depths of her huge bag was because she’d been using its GPS, so she was able to look at it right away. To her pleasure, it was Ethan.

“We’re here. Where are you?” he asked as soon as the call connected.

“I’m right—”

“Oh, I see you now. Hard to miss that yellow car. We’ll be right there.”

She disconnected the phone and stepped out of the car just as he and Diana, his hotshot lawyer girlfriend, walked into view from the opposite direction on Violet Way. She’d insisted they drive up from Chicago for the weekend so they could take a look at her new business as well. After all, what were older brothers—especially ones who dated lawyers—for?

“Hi, Fiona,” Diana said, giving her a brief hug. She was a little shorter than Fiona, and had bouncy, dark hair in a flattering cut that left most of her neck bare. As always, she was dressed in neat, tailored clothing—a summer sweater twinset of periwinkle and casual white trousers. Her shoes were expensive Italian flats that Fiona immediately lusted after, and wondered if there was any chance DSW would get them in.

“This must be so exciting for you!” Diana added as she stepped back with a smile. “Congratulations—and what a surprise!”

The first time Fiona met Ethan’s hot-and-heavy girlfriend was at Maxine Took’s eightieth birthday party last summer, and her first impression of Diana Iverson had been that she was an uptight lawyer who needed to learn to relax. (Didn’t they all?)

Fiona’s initial opinion hadn’t been far from the truth, but after Diana went through some serious upheaval last summer—and hooked up with Ethan during the process—she’d mellowed out quite a bit. Since then, Fiona had visited them in Chicago several times and had come to appreciate and genuinely like the woman whom she suspected would someday be her sister-in-law.

“Thank you,” Fiona replied, slipping her arm through Diana’s, her long yellow skirt billowing against their legs. “It is exciting—but I can’t decide whether to be thrilled at the opportunity, or scared to death that the place is nothing but a money pit—and something that’s going to tie me down forever.”

“Yeah, that’s my Fifi. Anything even remotely like a commitment makes her hair go frizzy,” Ethan said, giving her long, curly hair a tug. “Which is why it always looks like she stuck her finger in a socket.”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a sisterly shove as he approached the front of the shop.

There were two large beveled windows that arched out on either side of the door, which created a little covered alcove at the entrance. All of the glass was dingy and looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for years. An ancient sign on the door said “Closed” in large block letters. On one side of the establishment was the clothing boutique, sharing the same interior wall. But the other side of the building ended at an alley no wider than a footpath between it and the next building, which appeared to be a small real estate office.

“Sure doesn’t look like much,” Ethan said as he peered through one of the door’s windows.

Fiona crowded into the little alcove next to him. “Let me look. I didn’t even get to see yet—I was waiting for you.” She gave him a playful bump at the hip and cupped her hands against the glass so she could look.

It was dark and shadowy inside, and she couldn’t make out many details. “Looks like a lot of stuff in there,” she said uncertainly. “But I can’t tell if it’s any good or just junk.”

“I wonder if the place makes any money,” commented Diana as she too squinted through a window, carefully avoiding getting dust on her pale blue sweater. “It’s a little off the beaten path, but still close enough to walk—it took us about twenty minutes to get here from the middle of town. Did the estate attorney give you any of the tax returns or balance sheets? Anything like that? Or do you have to wait for probate?”

“I don’t have any of that information yet—but I’ll find out more when I meet with H. Gideon on Tuesday.”

Ethan pulled away from the window. He had a dark smudge on the tip of his nose, and Fiona decided it was her prerogative as his sister not to tell him. “H. Gideon?” he said, lifting a brow.

“Yes,” Fiona replied, resisting the urge to rub the end of her own nose and risk tipping him off. “H. Gideon Nath, the Third. He’s the estate attorney, and he’s got a real big stick up his behind. I think his face would crack if he ever showed any emotion at all. And he won’t tell me what the H is for.”

She’d been mulling over it all week. Hank? Herbert? Harry?

“He thinks I’m a real ditz—I can tell. And I couldn’t help messing with him a little,” she added with a grin.

“Why am I not surprised,” Ethan muttered. “I don’t understand why you get off making people think you’re a ditz when you really aren’t, Fifi.”

“Nath,” Diana said, and looked up at him. “Isn’t that Iva’s significant other’s last name?” She sighed, and reached up to brush the smudge from his nose.

“Iva?” Fiona asked, turning away from the shop. There wasn’t anything else to see for now. She’d have to wait to have her curiosity appeased. And her anxiety lessened.

What if the shop was nothing more than a big money pit?

Meow.

The guttural cry had her turning as an ink-black cat with a copper splotch over its left eye emerged from the narrow alley next to the shop.

“Well, aren’t you gorgeous.” She knelt in a pool of long flowy skirts and held out her hand for the cat. “All dark and black and mysterious with a pretty pirate eye-patch.”

The feline eyed her emotionlessly, her copper-brown eyes cool and remote. Then she gave that low, deep meow again.

“She—or he—doesn’t have a tag on his collar,” Fiona commented, still holding out her hand in a friendly gesture. “But she’s obviously a pet.”

“She is a beautiful one,” Diana agreed, crouching next to her. “Very striking. Come here, kitty.”

The cat was even less interested now that two of them were crooning at her. She lifted her nose as if they were four levels beneath her, then gave one last growly meow before turning away. With her tail in the air, she walked off with clear disdain for the fawning humans—and confirmed that her gender was in fact female.

“Do you want to look around the back, Fi?” Ethan asked. “Maybe there are more windows there, or on the alley side wall.”

Of course Fiona wanted to, so they followed the cat down the narrow space between the two buildings. Behind the shop was a slightly wider alley—maybe large enough for a vehicle, if it was careful—and a broken light over the back door. However, there were no windows in the back or along the side, and though Fiona tugged at the door, it was locked tightly.

“I guess I’ll have to wait to see more,” she said in disappointment. “H. Gideon said he thought probate could settle within four to six weeks, which would put me here in late October. Oh, well. I’m getting hungry.”

“Let’s go to Orbra’s,” Ethan suggested with a grin at Diana as he slipped an arm around her waist. “Now that you’ve come to terms with an occasional cup of tea.”

Diana sighed, but her dismay was exaggerated. “Nothing replaces coffee in my book, but at least it’s Saturday and I don’t need the fuel—so tea is acceptable.” She glanced at Fiona, a smile playing about her lips. “The first time I went to Orbra’s, I made the mistake of ordering coffee. I thought they were going to kick me out of the place.”

Since Fiona had driven, Diana and Ethan climbed in the back of her bug. Her brother showed her a “secret” parking lot in the back of the block near Trib’s, and soon they were strolling along Faith Avenue toward Orbra’s Tea House.

“Oh, great,” Diana said under her breath as they walked in, but just as quickly she smiled with genuine, if exasperated, fondness. “Maxine! And Juanita!”

They’d barely stepped over the threshold when Maxine Took was already giving orders from her customary seat at the biggest round table, right at the front window.

“Ethan and Diana—well, it’s been long enough since you been up here, hasn’t it? Now that the two o’ you are heating up the sheets don’t mean you can’t drive up here and visit us old ladies! Sit yourself down—and that’s your sister, ain’t it?” Maxine possessed a head of thick, iron-colored hair in a non-descript style that might or might not be a wig. She had dark skin and large hands with knobby knuckles, and peered through bottle-thick glasses as she gestured violently with her cane. “What’s your name again, girl? Look just like a fortune-teller, you do, with that hair and your headband, and those long skirts—you better take care not to trip on them. Break a knee or a wrist, you know. You can read my palm again today—tell me if something’s changed. Sit right here.”

Fiona, as everyone tended to do when faced with the imperious Maxine Took and her cane, obeyed.

Diana, who’d flushed a little pink when Maxine mentioned heating up the sheets, took a chair next to Juanita Acerita. “Who’s winning?” she asked, gesturing to the Scrabble board on the table.

“I am,” Juanita replied.

“That’s because she’s cheating,” Maxine grumbled, somehow hearing their conversation even as she was ordering Fiona around. “I saw you swap those letters when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Juanita replied with such heat that Fiona thought maybe Maxine had a point. “You just can’t stand it that I got a Q-word without a U that you didn’t know. She had to look it up because she didn’t believe me,” she added, looking at Diana. “Sheqalim.”

“What the hell is a sheqalim anyway?” Maxine demanded.

“You looked it up—didn’t you read the definition?” Juanita replied archly. “It’s obviously the plural of sheqel.” She was holding a large leather totebag on her lap, and from inside, her seven-pound papillon Bruce Banner was looking around with bright, interested eyes.

“Orbra, please, I beg of you, bring us some tea and food,” Ethan said as the proprietress approached, putting a temporary end to the Scrabble squabbling.

“Make room—Cherry’s on her way over on break from the studio,” said Orbra van Hest. At seventy, she was a large-boned powerhouse of a woman, standing six feet tall and sturdy as an oak, with pure white hair Fiona suspected she had washed and set at least twice weekly. “Do you want the whole tea set-up, with sandwiches and scones and all that, or just a sampler, dearie?” She was speaking to Ethan.

“I want it all. Bring us the whole thing—extra egg salad and cucumber sandwiches, though, because Fiona’s vegetarian.”

Orbra looked at her with a jaundiced expression, but merely asked, “What kind of tea do you like, then, Fiona?” Her tone made it sound as if someone who didn’t eat meat would have very strange taste when it came to tea.

“I don’t drink caffeine,” Fiona replied, prompting a disbelieving look from Diana and a raised brow from Orbra. “So something herbal, or maybe a rooibos?”

“Why don’t you give her that canela blend you’re trying out for fall, Orbra,” said a new voice behind them. “It’s herbal—like cinnamon— and it’s really good with the cardamom and cacao in it.”

“That sounds delicious,” Fiona said quickly. “A great combination.”

“Hi, Cherry,” said Ethan and Diana at the same time.

A slender, toned blond woman in her late sixties slipped into the last remaining chair. She was wearing workout clothing because she was the owner of the yoga studio and had probably just come from a class.

“I’ll have my usual after-vinyasa tea,” she told Orbra.

“So we’ve got one full tea set-up, extra no-meat sandwiches,” Orbra said, giving Fiona a side-eye, “an autumn specialty blend, a strong-brewed chai with lots of milk so it doesn’t taste like tea” —she gave Diana a quelling look— “and a silver needle tip brewed light, with almond milk on the side. What tea did you want, Ethan?”

“Oh, I’ll have whatever you recommend,” he replied with a big smile—thus making all the ladies at the table look bad, and himself taking the prize for “best customer.”

Fiona rolled her eyes, then re-introduced herself to Cherry as Orbra went off to put their order together. “We’ve met once or twice before.”

“Of course I remember you—you’re Ethan’s sister. The palm-reader. Good thing Iva’s not here—she’d flop her hand down on the table and ask for a reading right off.”

“Fiona’s going to be in Wicks Hollow a lot more often now,” Ethan said, and went on to explain briefly. “In fact, I told her she could stay at my cabin whenever she wants. So you’ll see a lot of her.”

“Her shop is that old place up on Violet Way? Oh, it’ll be wonderful to have someone tending to it again,” Cherry said. “I can’t remember the last time I saw it even open.”

“I ain’t never seen it open in ten years,” Maxine informed them. “And I drive by it all the time.”

“You do not,” Juanita said, shifting her bag so Bruce Banner’s carrier was on the deep windowsill next to her. “And I remember seeing it open a year ago—when there was that sesquicentennial celebration—”

“You don’t remember nothing,” Maxine told her. “I—”

“My niece just moved here from Philadelphia,” Cherry said in a voice designed to forestall anymore arguing. “Her name is Leslie, and she’s renovating Shenstone House—getting ready to turn it into a B&B.”

“’Bout time someone did something with that place,” Maxine announced. “Used to be a speakeasy, way back when, according to what my mother used to tell. And there’s that story about the missing jewels—”

“And the ghost,” Juanita put in, her pudgy fingers reaching for one of Maxine’s scones. “There’s always a ghost.”

Fiona glanced at Diana—the least likely person at the table to believe in ghosts—and was surprised that the other woman wasn’t scoffing at their pronouncements. Come to think of it, hadn’t Ethan mentioned something about a ghost at her house last summer?

“So,” Cherry went on with a smile at Fiona, “you’ll both be new business-owners here in Wicks Hollow. And she’s about your age too.”

“I’ll look forward to meeting her—but it’ll be at least a few weeks, maybe even a month, before I actually come into possession of the shop,” Fiona told them as Orbra wheeled up a tea cart laden with pots and cups and very fragrant tea.

“So what are you going to do about your job, anyway, Fi?” asked Ethan. “Thurston & Mills will be lost when you leave.”

Fiona grinned and began to systematically pull off the thirteen rings rings she habitually wore, letting them pile onto the cloth-covered table. “You know I can’t wait to quit. I’d give my notice next week if I was sure the shop would support me in the manner in which I’m accustomed.”

“I’m shocked at your restraint, Fiona.” Her brother grinned, looking up as Orbra placed a small pot with dainty pink flowers painted on it in front of him. “You change careers more often than those Kardashians change clothes, and I figured it was about that time for you to be making a switch anyway. How long have you been there? Eighteen months? Two years is about your max, isn’t it?”

“Twenty-five months last week, in fact,” Fiona told him haughtily. “I’ve been at Thurston & Mills for twenty-five months, which, yes, is a record for me—but they treat me well and they really do love me.”

“Who wouldn’t,” Ethan said in a teasing voice. “You’re so energetic and fun to be around, especially first thing in the morning—”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, I am looking forward to giving it a real go.”

“And there’s that hot blacksmith Declan Zyler who just moved to town,” Cherry put in. “Though I’m hoping he and my niece will hook up so I can live vicariously through her. You do like men, don’t you, Fiona?”

Fiona laughed as Orbra placed a cup in front of her. “I certainly do. Very much.”

“All right, well, I just thought I’d ask and not assume,” Cherry said. “Like some people do.”

“Now, don’t mind Cherry,” Orbra put in as she set a three-tier tray on the table next to Ethan. It was laden with small triangular sandwiches made from paper-thin bread, and spread with cucumber and cream cheese, sundried tomato and spinach, egg salad, ham and Gouda, and chicken salad. “She’s still getting over that lady who tried to corner her after one of her hot yoga classes a few weeks back.”

“She thought just because I have short hair and am very toned and slender that I was a lesbian,” Cherry said, scooping up one of the tomato sandwiches. “And I’m not.” She sighed. “Sadly. Because it would probably make life easier.”

“Over two years at your current employer?” Ethan commented after he plowed through four little sandwiches. “Maybe you are ready to settle down, then, Fi. Either way, you’re going to be tied down for at least that long with this new venture. You won’t be able to leave when you get bored. Unless you want to sell it. It’s a big commitment—and one you didn’t even ask for.”

“Yeah. The C word does give me the willies.” Fiona laughed. Her brother’s honest words spoken like a lecture in public could have bothered her, but they didn’t. He was right. “I come by it honestly, I guess, with our mother being the same way.”

Despite the fear building inside her—from the fact that she would soon own something, that she would be responsible for a business—Fiona already had the sense that she wouldn’t give up the shop. She hadn’t even seen it; didn’t even know the details, but there was something about it…

This was an unexpected, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There were a lot of unknowns, but something about it felt right…as if she’d been waiting all her life for something to happen.

Of course, once she looked at the books and balance sheets and got into the nitty-gritty of the business, she might feel differently…but how could one look at gift horse in the mouth when she hadn’t even met the horse?