Little Shop of Hidden Treasures Part Three Read online

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  Chapter One

  ‘Cheer up, love, it might never happen.’

  The words were called from a white van that was trundling along Low Petergate, stuck in the slow-moving traffic that occasionally clogged York’s narrow city streets, and the driver offered Hope a jaunty thumbs up as he crawled alongside. He meant well, she supposed with a grunt, but right at that moment she was tempted to tell him exactly where he could shove his thumb. It wasn’t worth the ensuing argument, of course, but the thought was enough to raise the ghost of a smile, which only seemed to encourage the driver because he added a jolly blast of the horn. It didn’t help with the headache that had lingered behind her temple for the last two weeks, nor did it cheer Hope up. She had good reason to be unhappy and it was going to take a lot more than an instruction from a random stranger to make her feel better.

  Thankfully, the traffic began to move and the van, with its irritating driver, was swept along with it. Hope fixed her gaze on the pavement once more and continued on her way towards High Petergate. There were a few things with the power to make her forget her bruised heart; her family and friends were one, and her job at the Ever After Emporium was another. Being surrounded by so many antiques and vintage items – each with its own fascinating story – was a source of endless distraction and allowed her to keep reality at bay. It was only when she was alone, with nothing to distract her, that she found herself dwelling on the source of her misery: Ciaran McCormack and the hole he’d left in her life. And it didn’t matter how many times her sister told her he’d behaved appallingly and that she was better off without him. Logically, Hope knew both of those things but when was the heart ever logical? She hadn’t even been in love with Ciaran, it had been far too early for that, but she had lowered her guard which, in turn, had opened the door to tentative feelings, something she hadn’t allowed since losing Rob some two years ago. It had hurt when she’d discovered Ciaran was married, and left her feeling foolish. She’d been taken in by his charm and flattered by his interest, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be everything he claimed to be. But then, she hadn’t been totally honest with him; she hadn’t revealed she was a widow, suspecting he’d be scared off by her past. Perhaps she’d have saved herself some heartache if she had told him about Rob at the outset.

  Her mood lifted the moment she stepped inside the Emporium, however. There were still twenty-five minutes before nine o’clock and the shop was almost silent, apart from the fading jangle of the bell above the door and the deep ticking of the grandfather clock that was out of sight along the aisle. Hope paused in the doorway, straining her ears for the faint, delicate tick of the cuckoo clock beyond the grandfather clock. She smiled when she heard it. All was well in the Emporium.

  Her colleague, Frances, emerged from further along the aisle. ‘Morning,’ she called cheerily. ‘I thought it must be you. How are you today?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Hope replied, heading towards the old-fashioned, dark wood counter that was her usual Tuesday morning post. ‘No Mr Young today?’

  ‘Auction in Harrogate,’ Frances said. ‘I’ve been drafted in to fill the gap. But I thought we could hatch a plan for that third window, if things are quiet.’

  Hoped nodded. The window displays hadn’t originally been part of her role when she’d first started at the Emporium, some four months earlier, but she’d been inspired by some of the stock in the storeroom upstairs and had made an idle suggestion about how the items might go together. Mr Young had been enthusiastic and suggested she work with Frances, whose job did include dressing the windows. The resulting Afternoon Tea at the Emporium display had proved popular with passers-by, which seemed to have led to an upturn in sales that had delighted the Emporium’s owner. Frances had been pleased too; she’d confessed privately to Hope that she was running out of ideas herself and welcomed a fresh eye and imagination. And now they were planning their third window together, one themed around York’s proud involvement in the chocolate industry; just thinking about it made Hope crave a KitKat.

  She glanced out at High Petergate, where the summer tourists were already filling the street, and shook her head. ‘I don’t think we’re going to be quiet – not if yesterday was anything to go by. But we can make a start, at least, and see how far we get.’

  Just as Hope had predicted, there was a steady stream of customers across the morning, building to a rush in the afternoon. Some were clearly just browsing and Hope couldn’t blame them – the Emporium had a way of drawing people in and leading them on through the aisles, like a Victorian lady showing a scandalous flash of ankle that promised so much more. Others were tempted to buy and both Hope and Frances were kept busy wrapping the smaller items and arranging delivery for the larger goods. And, of course, Hope felt a pang each time one of her favourites found a new owner, even as she was glad it would be loved and appreciated anew. Thankfully, her favourite antique of all – the magnificent walnut grandfather clock – was safely marked with a red, not-for-sale sticker. It was largely thanks to that clock that she’d got the job at the Emporium in the first place and she couldn’t imagine how empty the shop would feel without its sonorous chimes and reassuring tick.

  As closing time drew near, the flow of customers began to ebb, allowing Frances and Hope to relax a little. Hope was just about to turn the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ when she saw Iris making her way across the road from her flower shop, Blooming Dales.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, pulling back the door to allow the florist inside. ‘I meant to pop over to see you at lunchtime but we’ve been working flat-out all day.’

  Iris pulled a face. ‘It’s been non-stop for me too – did we miss the Shop-’Til-You-Drop memo or something?’ She paused. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I’d just have bought more roses at the flower market if I’d known.’

  ‘Whereas I would have brought something for lunch,’ Hope replied ruefully. ‘I’d planned to grab something on my break but I didn’t actually get one. I’m starving!’

  Her friend raised both eyebrows. ‘In that case, I have an invitation that will probably make you drool,’ she said and reached into the pouch of her apron. ‘I delivered the usual displays to Isobel Lovelace today and she asked me to pass this on to you.’

  She held out a square white card. Hope took it, frowning as she deciphered the looping handwriting. ‘She wants me to come for afternoon tea?’

  ‘I know,’ Iris said, her eyes dancing. ‘Isn’t it so deliciously Jane Austen? But I bet she’ll put on a good spread – or at least her housekeeper will.’

  ‘It’s for Friday afternoon,’ Hope observed. ‘I wonder what brought this on.’

  ‘Maybe she wants to thank you for returning Elenor’s diary,’ Iris said.

  That was a good call, Hope thought as she turned the card over in her hands. She’d first met Isobel Lovelace after discovering a beautiful Art Deco ring and a letter breaking off an engagement inside an old wooden puzzle box at the Emporium. In fact, it had been Hope’s efforts to uncover who the ring and the letter belonged to that had led her to Ciaran at the University of York. As a Professor of Egyptology, he’d been intrigued by the scarab beetle design of the ring and the letter’s references to excavations in 1920s Egypt, and had quickly
worked out that the letter had been written by local archaeologist, Elenor Lovelace. Eventually, they had found Isobel, Elenor’s great niece, who had been reluctant to help at first but had relented, leaving her great aunt’s diary at the Emporium for Hope’s eyes only. The unexpected gift had sent Hope spiralling back in time, headlong into the astonishing discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb and a tragic story of doomed love. She’d reluctantly returned the journal a week ago and was still suffering from a book hangover of epic proportions. It really wasn’t helping with the whole ‘getting over Ciaran’ thing.

  ‘I guess she might want to thank me,’ Hope said to Iris, with another thoughtful glance at the invitation. ‘Although she really doesn’t need to. In fact, I should be the one thanking her, for lending me Elenor’s journal in the first place.’

  Her friend sighed. ‘I’ve got a horrible suspicion she might be lonely. I know she comes across as totally self-sufficient but I sometimes wonder if it’s a bit of an act.’

  It wasn’t the first time Iris had suggested something along those lines, Hope thought, and it was entirely possible she was right. ‘I’ll go, see what she wants. A little company is the least I can do.’

  ‘Speaking of company,’ Iris said, fixing her with a meaningful look. ‘Have you spoken to Will recently?’

  Hope studied the ground. ‘A bit.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you not to shoot the messenger,’ Iris said. ‘He didn’t want to be the one to tell you about Ciaran’s wife but he did it anyway, because he’s a good friend.’

  ‘I know,’ Hope said, and sighed. ‘It’s just a bit awkward, that’s all. I’m not not speaking to him.’

  ‘But you aren’t speaking to him, either,’ Iris replied. ‘Not like you were before.’

  The observation sounded exactly like the kind of thing Hope’s older sister, Charlotte, would say and it stung a little. ‘It’s not just me. He hasn’t messaged much.’

  ‘Because he feels awkward too.’ Iris folded her arms. ‘Do I need to knock your heads together or something?’

  And now she definitely sounded like Charlotte. ‘No, Iris,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Good,’ the florist said, apparently mollified. ‘Message him tonight. I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear from you.’

  ‘Yes, Iris.’

  ‘And since I seem to have turned into your mum, eat some food.’

  Hope couldn’t help smiling then, because curvy, gorgeous thirty-something Iris was about as far away from her mother as it was possible to get. ‘Okay, I will. And thanks for delivering Isobel’s invitation. I’ll let you know how it goes.’

  ‘Please do,’ Iris said. ‘I’ll trade you for details of my date on Friday night, although my expectations are low and I seriously doubt there will be any French Fancies involved.’

  Hope’s smile widened into a grin, because Iris’s forays into online dating were always entertaining. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal,’ she said.

  * * *

  It took Hope six attempts to draft a message to Will. The first was too chatty, too effusive – she could imagine him reading it with raised eyebrows and a faintly puzzled expression. The second felt cold and abrupt; she could picture his frown, two thin creases between his hazel eyes and a bewildered twist around his mouth. Efforts three, four and five were better but still didn’t capture the breeziness she felt was needed. Finally, she gave up trying to write something clever and opted for the truth.

  Hello. I’ve missed you. How are things?

  She hit send before she could second-guess herself any further and put her phone down on the coffee table. After a moment’s thought, she put a magazine on top and, after a few more seconds had ticked by, got up to prowl through to the kitchen. The fridge was stacked with tempting snacks; Charlotte had reverted to full-on clucky Mother Hen mode as soon as the truth about Ciaran had broken and had insisted Hope must eat well.

  ‘You don’t need to fuss,’ Hope had told her, as her sister loaded the fridge with falafel and humous and cheese. ‘I’m fine.’

  Charlotte’s glance was sceptical. ‘You didn’t seem fine when you were sobbing in my arms. It’s okay to admit you’re hurting, Hope – we’re here for you.’

  And that was part of the problem, Hope had thought – it felt like she was lurching from one disaster to another and all her family ever did was pick her up after she’d fallen. ‘I admit finding out about Ciaran was a nasty surprise,’ she replied. ‘But let’s be honest, it’s not in the same league as losing Rob. I really don’t need looking after.’

  Now Charlotte’s expression softened. ‘I know you don’t and of course it’s not like Rob. But I also know you trusted Ciaran and he let you down. That kind of betrayal hurts.’

  Hope had opened her mouth to deny it, then sighed. ‘I’ll get over it.’

  ‘You will,’ her sister agreed firmly, and waved a wax-covered round of cheese. ‘With time, TLC and this excellent chilli Red Leicester.’

  The cheese was long gone now, replaced by other treats designed to encourage Hope to indulge herself. And while she felt her family’s well-meaning interference was unwarranted, she had to admit it had helped. Right now, she was using her sister’s shopping skills to distract her from wondering whether Will had replied, or whether he would reply at all. Loading a plate with food, she poured a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and carried both through to the balcony that overlooked the wharf. By the time the plate was clean and the glass was empty, she felt robust enough to risk a glance at her phone.

  Will had replied 43 minutes earlier, less than five minutes after she’d sent her message. Hope’s finger hovered over the message for a few seconds, trying to dispel her uneasiness, and then the realization that she was being ridiculous crashed over her. She stabbed the screen and Will’s words blossomed into view.

  Hey, great to hear from you. We’re good, apart from a seriously out of control Paw Patrol habit – how are you?

  The thought of him locked in a TV battle of wills with his niece, Brodie, made Hope smile. He’d only been her sole guardian for six months, with no experience of raising a child prior to that, and he freely admitted he was often out of his depth but Hope also knew he would do anything to make the little girl happy. Even if that meant numbing his brain with endless kids’ TV.

  Oh dear, she tapped out in reply. Sounds like you need a new book to read!

  Instantly, Will is typing… appeared at the top of the screen.

  Are you kidding? It’s your Matryoshka doll book all the way. She sleeps with it. But don’t think you’re getting away with dodging my question. How are you?

  Hope’s fingers moved automatically to write the words I’m fine but then she hesitated. On the surface she was fine – hadn’t she spent the past few weeks trying to convince her family that was true? But she knew Will understood about grief and loss and somehow that made her reluctant to gloss over the fallout from Ciaran’s betrayal. And perhaps that was why she’d avoided contacting Will since finding out; subconsciously, she’d known her guard might come down. That and remembering the extreme reluctance with which he’d told her that Ciaran was married. It had been much easier not to contact him.

  I’ve been better, she typed. But also much worse, so I guess that’s something. I’m sorry to go all silent on you. I suppose I didn’t know what to say.

  It was a shock when her phone vibrated in her hand and she saw Will’s number on the screen. She stared at the arrows zooming upwards, then hit the answer button and lifted the handset to her ear.

  ‘Is this okay?’ Will asked, before she could even form the word hello. ‘I thought it would be better to talk without actually stopping to think about whether you could. Say if it’s inconvenient.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Hope said, as the sound of his voice caused a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. ‘Hello, Will.’

  ‘Hello, Hope,’ he replied and she thought it sounded as though he might be smiling too. ‘Thanks for messaging.’


  She shook her head. ‘It should be me thanking you, for saving me from a horrible mistake.’

  There was a brief silence. ‘You definitely don’t need to thank me, Hope. No one wants to hear news like that and believe me, I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.’

  His voice held the same strain she remembered from the party, when she’d forced him to reveal the wretched truth, and Hope could imagine his expression now. ‘It wasn’t a great moment,’ she allowed. ‘But I appreciate you telling me and I’m genuinely sorry I haven’t said that until now.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, and she heard him draw breath. ‘So, what have you been up to? The Emporium has looked busy every time Brodie and I have passed by.’

  Hope felt a stab of guilt, because she knew how much the little girl loved the shop. Had Will been hurrying Brodie past to avoid an awkward encounter with her? She gave herself a brisk mental shake – of course he hadn’t. There were any number of reasons why he might pass by instead of coming in, she told herself, and they had nothing to do with her.

  ‘It’s been really busy,’ she said. ‘Mr Young has been away at a few auctions recently so I’ve put in some overtime but I don’t mind. It’s been a good distraction.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ he replied sympathetically. ‘My shop has been mobbed too – poor Brodie has had to entertain herself more than I’d like but she’s a good kid, luckily for me.’

  Hope pictured the girl sitting on the rug in Will’s jewellery workshop, playing with her dolls. ‘I suppose there’s no chance of a nanny or a childminder, is there?’

  ‘Zero.’ Will’s tone was emphatic. ‘She still doesn’t trust strangers.’

  ‘That’s going to be a problem in September,’ Hope observed. ‘What does your therapist say?’

  ‘That it will be a slow process but we agree that starting school will be a huge positive in the long run. We’ve got a short, getting to know you visit coming up this Thursday, actually, so I’ll have a better idea then.’