I felt dismissed, but not in a bad way. The day had turned even cloudier, but I didn’t smell rain. I buttoned my jacket that was more stylish than warm, thought about going back to the house for something more substantial, but decided that would be wimpy, even for me.
The cobblestone circle was deserted. No cars, pedestrians, or horses.
Looking across the way I could see The Silver Braid sign. Perhaps I’d get a ring to replace my wedding band. I’d invested so many years in the nervous habit of turning it over and over that ringless made my left hand feel naked.
The shop directly next door to the Hallows appeared vacant, but the one on the other side of that had a pink neon sign in the window that was out of place and keeping with the ‘vibe’. As I drew near, I was thinking I would have made it illegal if I was on the city council. The store’s name was Notions and Potions.
The door opened and a woman in her early thirties emerged to lean against the door jamb, almost like she was waiting for me.
I nodded and said, “Hello.”
Her response was a smirk. “G’day.”
Huh.
I walked on, evaluating the possibility that I might be misjudging. Maybe that was just what her face does when she thinks she’s smiling.
Sitting at the head of the circle like a state building, The Hung Goose was the focal point of the Hallow Hill business district. It featured a large hanging sign with a portrait of a handsome gray goose that, thankfully for my appetite, was alive, well, and sporting a red bow tie. I’d been thinking about Maggie’s verbal menu ever since she’d described what might be expected for lunch.
I took a slow turn around the circle, peeking in windows, but not opening doors. The shop that called to me was the florist. Stands of blooms, made all the more attractive because they were out of season, almost lured me into the shop to buy an orchid for the writing desk. Then I remembered I hadn’t yet decided to stay.
The storefront on the next corner was the smallest bank I’d ever seen. The sign said loans, exchange, currency storage. Notary upstairs in solicitor’s office. There were two deserted intersections on the way to the pub, meaning places where I might encounter cross-traffic. I looked down the narrow streets at what appeared to be row houses. They were old and timeless, but pretty and colorful. Not in a graffiti sort of way, but in a flower box sort of way. The streets were too narrow for four-wheeled vehicles to park, which added to the charm.
Continuing on, I took note of each business. Apothecary. Silver shop. Market. I would have called it a grocery store, but that’s just me.
The next shop of interest was the Magic Spindle. There was a large display window on either side of the deliberately distressed blue door. Each window featured an antique spindle as the focal point in the center. “Handweaver” was painted on the door in gold script and, certainly, it would be easy to believe the pieces in the window were created magically. They were that beautiful. One was an oversized shawl in greens, blues, and mixed media of wool, silk, and bits of soft suede latigo laced through like ribbons. It was beyond gorgeous, a timeless piece to hand down to a daughter, and would probably be out of my budget even if I hit the lottery. Which was impossible because I’d never bought a ticket. I stood and stared until I saw an opaque outline of a feminine figure inside waving for me to come in. I smiled politely, shook my head, and continued on.
Book store.
Boot shop. I was too busy admiring the boots in the window to give proper heed to Maggie’s admonition. I plead guilty to being a shoe person.
Like an adolescent with faulty self-control, I pulled the door open, stepped in, and closed my eyes as I breathed deep the intoxicating scent of tanned leather.
“What do you want?”
My eyes flew open at the challenging tone, which made the words sound more like accusation than question.
A smallish man sat on a stool in the rear in front of a worktable surrounded by bolts of leather in various textures and colors. He had a bald head, huge ears, a strikingly low forehead, and arms that appeared to be a tad too short for the rest of him. I could see why Maggie had called him a little goblin and, while the idea might fit, it seemed kind of a mean thing to say.
“Are you deaf? I said, what do you want?”
“Do you always talk to customers like that?”
“Bah,” he said, losing interest in me and turning back to his work. “You’re not a customer until I agree to sell you something. Come back when you want boots. Go someplace else to waste time.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Wow,” he mocked with a goading smile.
“This is the last place I’d go if I wanted boots.”
“Good,” he said. “The door’s behind you.”
Deciding that taking the exchange any further might end with one of his tools coming in contact with his unusually shaped head, I satisfied my pride by choosing the more mature response and left, heading straight for the pub while thinking I should listen to Maggie’s advice more, impulses less.
The day had grown colder and windier and I was rethinking what I’d planned to wear to the solicitor’s dinner. I was also imagining living in the tiny picturesque village that looked like a feature of Disneyworld.
All of a sudden it felt like life was moving too fast.
I happened to turn my head to the right and see the Hallows Antiques and Treasures sign. Inexplicably, I was overcome with a warm feeling of pride and proprietorship.
It was only eleven thirty, but I was hungry. Probably more so because of the chill creeping underneath my jacket and scarf. Hot tea sounded good. Hot soup sounded good. I hoped they were open.
Just a few steps from the door a forceful gust of wind blew my hair into a tangle and caused me to gather my scarf in both hands to keep it from being blown away. As I reached for the handle, a man came around the corner with a big smile and pulled the door open for me.
I ducked in and, when the door was closed, said, “Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, Mrs. Hayworth. I’m Fie Mistral. I’m happy to meet you and welcome you to our village.” He waved his hand. “And the pub.”
He had black wavy hair, flawless latte-colored skin, and cognac-colored eyes that gave the impression of maintaining a perpetual twinkle. Like everyone I’d met so far, I’d be hard pressed to nail down his age. Some things about him made me think young. Some things about him made me think old.
His clothes indicated that his days were occupied by some kind of business, albeit not a formal one. He wore boots that were, no doubt, made with loving care by Thomasin Cobb, jeans, a mock turtleneck, and tweed jacket.
“Thank you. It’s, um, Ms. Hayworth.”
“Of course. My mistake. Please call me Fie. Are you here for lunch?”
I smiled. “Yes. Maggie MacHenry recited enough of the menu to make me want to live here.”
He laughed. “Please. I’m eating alone. Will you join me?” I hesitated. “Just neighborly lunch. I have gossip.”
“Just lunch and gossip?” I grinned. “Well then. I’m your girl. And please call me Rita.”
Fie Mistral looked toward the bar where a couple of rustic-looking gents were engrossed in conversation. They were turned toward each other, standing, each leaning an elbow on the bar, mug in one hand and one foot on the rung of a barstool. I had the impression that they were farmers.