LITMIR.BIZ

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before turning back to face Holly. “When will you be re-opening? This close to the holidays, you’ve already forfeited most of your seasonal profits.”

      Holly held her gaze, most likely like a deer in headlights. Something about the way Mrs. Gillespie focused on a person made it next to impossible to prevaricate. “I—I’m not sure I will be.” There, she’d said it. Put the words right out there.

      Mrs. Gillespie surprised her by nodding. “You never did have a head for this. You’re more the dreamer.”

      “Dreamer?” Holly was honestly surprised by the description. Eight years spent surviving in the very cutthroat world of advertising had hardly made a dreamer out of her. She’d always thought her mother was more the dreamer, living in a fantasy world of sleigh bells and Santa Clauses.

      “Running off to Europe, head in the clouds, wanting to become a famous painter.” She turned her attention back to the store. “What would you call it?”

      “I work in advertising.”

      Mrs. Gillespie didn’t seem to give any more credence to that comment than Sean had the night before. Holly continued. “I don’t know what my mother has told you, but painting is not—”

      “What keeps food on your table, I’m aware.” She turned back to Holly. “Your mother found a way to make her passion pay for itself. She has a good eye for both whimsy and collectibles, and the business education to know how to turn a profit at it.” She cocked her head slightly and clasped her hands in front of her coat. “What will you do with all she’s built here?”

      Holly was at a bit of a loss as to how to respond to that. On the one hand, Mrs. Gillespie didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised that Holly might not attempt to continue on in her mother’s footsteps, and although not entirely easy to read, she wasn’t thinking there was disapproval there, either. “I don’t know yet.” Which was absolute honest truth. She’d spent the day and a half since arriving looking over the books, checking the inventory, the title to the building, which her mother had owned for some time now, and the taxes on the building, all of which her father had neatly categorized, summarized, and filed in tidy folders and binders in her mother’s office. And she still wasn’t certain what her best course of action would be. Or how long it would take before she could flee back to London.

      And fleeing was exactly how it felt. Just as it had over a decade earlier.

      “A shame you couldn’t have found a way to return sooner. Might have lost what window you had to sell the thing off, lock, stock—”

      “And jingle bells,” Holly murmured, knowing it was true. She waited for Mrs. Gillespie to continue with the lecture, but her interest had once again returned to the store.

      Holly was drawn out of her thoughts as she watched the older woman continue to sweep her gaze, quite steadily and deliberately through each area of the store, without taking so much as a step or even unclasping her hands. Holly frowned a little, wondering what was going through the woman’s mind, certain she’d hear about it momentarily unless she did something to move this visit forward to its conclusion. “Can I get you anything? I have tea brewing in the back, or—”

      “This isn’t a social call,” she informed her, not breaking her steady regard of the store, which was now on the far corner.

      Holly hid the dry smile that threatened, certain Mrs. Gillespie would not be pleased by Holly’s amusement with her eccentricities. Then another thought occurred to her. While none of the women who’d worked for her mother had done so full-time, or drew any significant income from it, it was an income. And perhaps, Mrs. Gillespie was here trying to determine if she was going to be getting her old job back, but too proud to ask. Holly supposed she’d already answered that question, so now all that was left was to allow her to save face and leave of her own accord, in whatever manner she wished to contrive. Holly would follow her lead.

      So, no one was more surprised than Holly when Mrs. Gillespie abruptly turned to her and said, “Have you come up with a figure?”

      “A figure?”

      “An asking price,” she clarified, her expression still flat and unreadable.

      “An asking price for—oh, you mean—” Holly stuttered to a halt, really caught off guard this time, then frowned and said, “Were—are you…interested? In buying the place?”

      “No.”

      Holly frowned. “Okay. I’m not following, then. Do you know of someone who is?”

      “I’d like to set up a meeting with you,” she responded. “To discuss possibilities. Unless, of course, you already have outside interest, or alternate plans.”

      “No, I—I hadn’t—” She felt like an idiot, and she really needed not to be. Mrs. Gillespie was a shrewd woman, and Holly was fairly certain the woman would take full advantage of Holly’s lack of business sense if it stood to gain her anything. It was simply the smart thing to do. And Mrs. Gillespie was nothing if not smart. “I’d be happy to talk with you, once I have had time to better acclimate myself.”

      “How long a process will that be?”

      Holly’s mind was racing now, and she had to work hard to corral it until she was alone with time to really think all this through. But all she could think at that moment, standing there, was that, of all people on the planet, who’d have thought that Mrs. Gillespie could turn out to be her savior. “Can I ask…when my mother announced she was retiring, why didn’t you approach her directly if you were interested in making some sort of offer or deal on the place? The timing would have been much better, seasonally, and—”

      “She was quite clear about wanting to bequeath it to you. It was your inheritance. It wasn’t up for discussion.”

      “I don’t know that she really thought any of you would want the place. It’s a lot of work and—”

      “My dear, I’ve helped to run the place since long before you were in diapers in a playpen back in your mother’s office. I’m quite well aware, certainly more so than you are, as to what it takes to run the place.”

      Holly didn’t want to state the obvious, but Mrs. Gillespie was even older than her mother, in her late seventies, at the very least. It was one thing to work fifteen or twenty hours a week for someone else. Did she really want to tackle running a store at her age? “I’m certain you do, I was just…” She had no idea how to phrase it without insulting the woman. And given she could very likely be the answer to all of Holly’s fervent prayers, that was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment.

      “There is another reason I’ve waited.”

      “Oh?”

      “This place, the contents, were your mother’s passion. Clearly she was of no mind to see it sold off, bit by bit. I don’t know that she held out any true hope you’d take it over, but she just wanted to leave it as it was, so that her memories of the place remain intact. I respect that.”

      “Okay.” Holly wished her mother had made Holly feel that sure about things, but hearing it from Mrs. Gillespie actually gave her a great deal more confidence in her growing certainty of where she was going to go with her inheritance. Mrs. Gillespie was right about one thing. Holly might not have found a way to pursue her own dreams, but she did know that this wasn’t her path.

      “I waited because, while I admire your mother, both her business acumen, and her eye for a good piece, I don’t hold with her fondness for the Christmas holiday.”

      Holly knew the surprise was clear on her face. “But, you’ve worked here for—”

      “I love antiques. I love the history, the workmanship…” She drifted off, as if suddenly overtaken by her own passion. It was only a momentary blip, but an important one.

      Holly’s first real glimpse, she thought, of the woman behind the ever-present clasped hands and oh-so-serious expression.

      “Back

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