Enright Family Collection (52 page)

A sense of overwhelming sadness drifted to the second floor and the girl leaned back on her haunches to ponder it all. The boy—who, unlike her brother, had never treated her like a baby, and had never been too busy to teach her how to climb trees and throw a fastball and catch frogs down near the pond—had vanished into the night, and there was, about all, a dense air of finality she did not comprehend.

“Nicky, do you think we’ll ever see him again?”

He wanted to reassure her, to tell her yes, of course, Ben would be back. But having already learned that children were, after all, pretty much at the whim of adults, he merely shook his head and said, “I don’t know.”

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter
1
 

Zoey Enright leaned against the window and watched as, for the third day in a row, fat drops of water smacked and spattered against the wooden steps leading to the entrance of My Favorite Things, the shop she had opened but seven months earlier. April showers were one thing, she grumbled as she let the lace curtain fall back against the glass, but this was ridiculous.

Unconsciously she straightened a stack of hand-knit sweaters for the fifth time in half as many hours. Like all of the merchandise in her shop, the sweaters were exquisite things, made of hand-woven wool, one of a kind, and pricey.

Maybe a bit too pricey for this rural Pennsylvania two-mule town, her sister, Georgia, had ventured to suggest.

At the time, Zoey had brushed off Georgia’s comment with a wave of her hand. What did she know, anyway? She’s a
dancer,
Zoey had pointed out, not a shopkeeper, and Georgia had shrugged that she’d only been voicing concern.

Zoey had been convinced that her unique little shop would be the talk of Chester County, located as it was in
a honey of a tiny renovated barn midway between Wilmington, Delaware, and Lancaster, Pennsylvania, just a pleasant drive from the country-chic of Chadds Ford and all those new upscale housing developments. The nearest shopping was a strip mall that was under renovation and had not been scheduled for completion until next year. By that time, Zoey had hoped to have her clientele all firmly locked up, and there would be a steady stream of repeat shoppers beating a path to her door to find all those very special goodies they could not find elsewhere.

Shelves laden with baskets of sweaters, wooden toys and dolls, pottery and jewelry, hats and afghans, painted boxes of papier-mâché and stained glass windows lined the shop and competed for the attention of the customer’s eye. From old-fashioned clothes racks, satin hangers displayed dresses and capes, the styles of which dated from the turn of the century, some antiques, some reproductions. Authentic Victorian boots of softest black leather trimmed with jet beads sat next to nineties’ style granny boots. Marcasite bracelets from the twenties and thirties shared case space with new pieces crafted by up-and-coming contemporary jewelry designers.

A glance at the calendar reminded Zoey that she had been open for business for exactly seven months today. With backing from her mother, Zoey had spent the entire summer preparing for her grand opening back in September. Georgia had driven up from Baltimore, where as a member of the famed Inner Harbor Dance Troupe, she worked hard to make a name for herself in the world of professional ballet. Early in the morning on opening day, Georgia had knocked on the front door and waited patiently for Zoey to admit her as My Favorite Things’ very first customer.

“So,” Zoey had ushered her sister into the shop, “what do you think of my little venture?”

Georgia had stood drop-jawed in the middle of the colorful, handmade rag rug that covered the center of the floor.

“Zoey, it’s awesome. It’s like . . .” Georgia had sought to do justice to Zoey’s displays. “Like a tiny mall full of perfect little boutiques.”

“Exactly.” Looking pleased and somewhat smug, Zoey folded her arms across her chest, watching with pleasure as her sister lifted item after item and marveled at the variety.

“Where did all this stuff come from?” Georgia held aloft a small hand-blown glass perfume bottle to admire the workmanship.

“Here, there, and everywhere.” Zoey grinned.

“Well, it’s all wonderful.” Georgia had lifted a black beaded shawl and draped it over her shoulders to cover the river of thick, straight blond hair that ran the length of her back.

“That’s the real thing.” Zoey’s blue eyes sparkled with pride as she straightened out the back of the shawl. “Circa nineteen twenty. Those are real glass beads, by the way, hand sewn on silk.”

Georgia glanced at the price tag.

“Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope.” Zoey leaned back against the counter.

“Zoey, this is one pricey item.”

“Georgia, that shawl is handmade, it’s eighty years old, and it’s in mint condition. I don’t know where you’re likely to find another like it, if in fact another exists. And the price, I might add, is barely marked up over what I had to pay to get it.”

“It is gorgeous, there’s no question that anyone would love to have it. I just hope that you’ll be able to find a buyer for it. I’d feel a little more confident if you were a little closer to Philadelphia, or Wilmington—even closer in toward West Chester would help—but as far out as you are into the country, well, I just hope that you haven’t priced yourself out of a sale.”

“I’d be lying if I said that the thought hadn’t occurred to me,” Zoey admitted, “but that shawl was so perfect that I had to have it. It’s like these sweaters.” She held up a dark green woolen tunic. “The lady who makes them
wanted an arm and a leg for them, but they’re clearly worth it.”

“Zoey, I’m not the financial whiz in the family, but I don’t think you’ll make much money if you don’t mark up what you buy.”

“I know, but I thought that in the beginning at least, it would be a good idea to have some really eye-catching things.”

“Well, you’ve certainly accomplished that.” Georgia removed the shawl gently and carefully refolded it, placing it back on the shelf. “I just hope that the locals appreciate your style and that they shop here frequently enough to keep you in business. I’d buy this”—she patted the shawl—“in a heartbeat if I had a few extra hundred dollars I didn’t know what to do with. You must have spent a bloody fortune on your inventory.”

“Actually, the bloody fortune was Mom’s,” Zoey admitted. “She was as excited about this venture as I was, and you know how Mom is when she gets excited about something. Besides putting up the cash, she really got into scouting out the most unusual, the most exquisite things. That collection of Victorian mourning pins, for example . . .”

Zoey opened the case and removed a tray of pins, which looked, Georgia noted, strangely like hair.

“They are made out of hair”—Zoey grinned—“and yes, it’s human hair. A hundred or so years ago, it was a popular custom to cut off some of the locks of a deceased loved one, and have them woven into rings or bracelets or pins, depending, I guess, on how long the hair was. There were people who actually did this professionally.”

“Oh, yuck.” Georgia made a face. “None for me, thanks.”

“They’re not exactly to my taste, either, but they are kind of interesting. Look at this brooch, Georgy. Look at how intricate the gold weaving is, and how the woven hair mimics the gold—”

“I don’t care how intricate the workmanship is.”
Georgia groaned. “The mere thought of wearing a dead person’s
hair
gives me the creeps.”

“Well, actually, not all hair jewelry was made from dead people’s hair. Some people had the hair from a loved one—a spouse, a child—made into a pin or a bracelet or a—”

“Enough already with the hair jewelry, Zoey. I think it’s creepy.” Georgia handed the tray back to her sister.

“Mom was kind of drawn to the concept. She’s probably thinking about how to use it in her next book. And besides, she thought that if we were aiming for an eclectic stock of merchandise, we should really go all out and find some things that probably wouldn’t be available anywhere else locally.”

Delia Enright had totally backed the efforts of her daughter. Zoey was her middle child and the only one of the three who hadn’t—as Delia delicately put it—
landed
yet. Nick, her oldest child and only son, was a doctoral candidate who had found a contented life studying marine life on the Delaware Bay. He had met a wonderful young woman and before another year had passed, India Devlin would become his bride. Georgia, Delia’s youngest, had never wanted to do anything but dance. Pursuing her goal with single-minded drive, Georgia had, at sixteen, been invited to join the prestigious Berwyn Troupe. Three years later, she had been asked to become a charter member of the newly formed Inner Harbor Dancers, where she had, for the past six years, worked hard and performed with blissful zeal. Only Zoey had yet to find her place.

It wasn’t for lack of effort or desire on her part. Over the past several years, Zoey had tried her hand at any number of occupations, all of which she had mastered, none of which had fed her soul and promised her the kind of long-term gratification she craved. The joy that Georgia had found in dance, the satisfaction her brother had found in identifying and studying marine life, the pleasure experienced by her mother in crafting her
novels, had eluded Zoey all her life. Many are called, few are chosen, aptly described Zoey’s quest for a career she could sink her teeth into.

As a child, when asked what she would be when she grew up, Zoey would answer, “A teacher. And an astronaut. And a news lady on TV. And a fashion designer. . .”

And so on, and so on. There were few things that hadn’t caught Zoey’s imagination at one time or another. Over the years, she had, in fact, tried her hand at a goodly number of those things—except for being an astronaut, and there were times when she wasn’t completely certain that she’d given up on that.

The problem was that for all the things that caught her fancy, and all the things she did well, nothing had sustained her for long.

“Zoey is a bit of a late bloomer,” Delia would explain matter-of-factly when questioned about her middle child’s current status. “One of these days, she will find her place, and she’ll be an outrageous success and live happily ever after.”

Delia would then pause and add, “It’s just taking her a little longer to get there, that’s all.”

Zoey had on many occasions offered silent thanks that she had been blessed with a mother who understood
perfectly.
It had been Delia who, recognizing her daughter’s sense of style, encouraged her to open the shop and fill it with all manner of wonderful things. Delia had had every bit as much fun as Zoey, shopping for all of those one-of-a-kind items that overflowed from every nook and cranny of My Favorite Things. All of those wonderful things that were
not
beating a path out of the store under the arms of the droves of happy shoppers who were all, alas, happily shopping elsewhere.

*  *  * 

“Charming, Zoey.” Georgia laughed as she entered the shop through the back door and shook off the rain. “Absolutely charming.”

“Is this hat great with these amber beads around the
brim?” Zoey turned to greet her sister, grinning impishly as she pushed her long black curls behind her ears and plopped a wide-brimmed hat of brown felt upon her head.

Georgia dropped a heavy purse of dark green leather onto the floor.

“Ummm, I think it’s the red rose that makes it.” Georgia raised her hand to touch the huge red silk blossom pinned to the underside of the brim. “But there are probably only a handful of women on the planet who could get away with actually wearing such a thing. You just happen to be one of them.”

“Nonsense. Just about anyone with some imagination could wear this.” With a swoop, Zoey plunked the chocolate brown creation on her sister’s head.