Page 5 of Storm in a Teacup (Love in Edinburgh #3)

Linny

I squint up from the candelabra I’m cataloging as the bell over the door of the antique shop jingles.

My shoulders sag when I realize it’s only my Auntie Carolyn.

We haven’t had a single customer today. There are a lot of days like this, but we still manage to do fine overall due to frequent sales of big-ticket items. However, the days pass by much quicker when people actually come into the store.

“The café next door is really coming along,” Carolyn notes as she sets a box of bronze picture frames on my counter. Carolyn is sporting burgundy pants with a matching burgundy blouse, white permed hair holding a red clip-in flower. She owns one of those flower clips in every color.

“They’re supposed to open in a couple of days,” I comment, glancing at the box of frames.

We’ve had this conversation before. We’ve had this conversation practically every day since the café started to move in next door.

Auntie Carolyn will walk by it on her way into the store, remark on the progress they’ve made, and I will offer their opening date, which has been posted on their light blue front door for the past three months.

“When is Melanie’s wedding?” Carolyn asks me, another question that has been posed to me before.

“Six-ish weeks,” I answer. Mel’s wedding in Edinburgh is fast approaching. And yes, Carolyn has received an invite, so she does know the date of the wedding.

Mel and her fiancé Julien met in Edinburgh about three years ago.

Mel was visiting me, and Julien was visiting Atti.

Julien and Atticus are cousins as well, which means, yes, my ex-fiancé will indeed be in the same wedding as me.

They asked him to be a groomsman before we broke up—otherwise, Mel may have fought against it, family or not.

Mel has already promised we will not be paired to walk down the aisle.

Anyway, since this is where they met, it’s where they want to get married. I support it. Edinburgh is a magical city.

Carolyn taps her pink pearl fingernails on the counter.

“Aye, right. I can’t keep track of the schedules of you youngins.

I’ve a few more loads in the car,” she says, gesturing at the box of picture frames.

I do hope she means loads of general stuff and not loads of picture frames.

They do sell, but they also take up room.

She pivots on her heel, giving a wave to an invisible someone in the corner, and exits through the jingling front door.

I swear, Carolyn enjoys collecting ghosts almost as much as antiques.

With a black pen, I write a price down on a paper price-tag, then loop the string around one arm of the candelabra, setting it aside as I move on to the first picture frame in the box.

We end up getting one customer soon after Carolyn comes back in with her loads of picture frames.

A regular. Evelyn is an elderly woman who lives across the street and often putters into the shop when she’s looking to fill her day.

I’ll take it, especially because I am convinced that little old Evelyn’s dearly departed husband tags along with her everywhere she goes.

Whenever she enters the shop, it sounds like two people entering instead of one.

Carolyn claims to have seen the husband, and I believe her. Auntie Carolyn has always considered herself somewhat of a medium, so who am I to argue? Can’t judge anyone’s sight but my own.

Frankly, I’m not entirely positive Evelyn isn’t a ghost herself.

Soon enough, Evelyn wanders back out the door without buying anything, which is to be expected.

Carolyn follows shortly after, always leaving the shop a half hour after we close for the evening.

I’ll likely be here for another couple of hours in an attempt to dwindle down my task list. So many picture frames to catalog and price, along with some polishing of silver and another chair to gently reupholster.

I turn on a table lamp to give me extra light.

This shop can get pretty dark once the sun stops shining through the windows.

Or on rainy days. Or always. It’s a pretty dark shop.

We’ve added light where we can, lamps around the store and brighter overhead lights, but an antique store tends to get so filled with things that those things start to absorb the light.

It’s alright. I make due since I’m used to it.

It’s past 10 p.m. by the time I finally decide to be done for the night. Carolyn has long given up on scolding me for staying so late. What else have I got to do? I live just upstairs, so it’s not like I have a long commute in the dark streets waiting for me.

I pull on my coat before setting the alarm system and exiting the front door, locking it behind me.

Before opening the door to my flat, I glance at the café next door.

It’s dark inside—unsurprisingly, considering the time of night.

I stare for a moment longer, unsure of why it’s drawing my attention, before I shake my head at myself.

It’s a great time to go to bed. I push open my door as my warm bed, a cup of tea, and my cat are all calling my name from upstairs.

…

The next day, I’m in the back of the shop while Carolyn is up front dealing with customers.

I need to be working on our finances, but I’ve been distracted by the slowly growing box of chipped and broken teacups I keep back here on the shelf.

I keep meaning to price down the intact ones to sell them off and trash the ones beyond repair, but haven’t gotten around to it.

I force myself away from the teacups and settle down in front of the computer, pulling up that dreaded spreadsheet. A few rows in, the bell above the door jingles, alerting me of someone’s entrance. My focus remains on the numbers I’m inputting. Carolyn’s got them.

That is, until I hear her call, “Melinda!”

Ugh. She is the only one who calls me Melinda. Nothing against the name, I’ve just gone so long not using it that I don’t know how to respond to it.

I make sure my spreadsheet is saved before I push myself up from the desk.

“What’s up?” I ask, brushing aside the curtains that separate the back from the front.

I spot Carolyn before I notice the man standing behind her on the other side of the counter.

When I do, I stop in my tracks. He’s tall and lean with light brown skin, wearing a soft gray sweatshirt and black trousers.

Striking streaks of silver disrupt his black hair, and his dark eyes are familiar.

“You,” I say, tone accusatory.

He cocks his head to the side for a moment of confusion before those familiar eyes light up. “You,” he mimics.

It’s the man from six months ago. From the bench. What is he doing here? How did he find me?

Carolyn, utterly oblivious as always, looks between us, her smile lines crinkling. “Melinda, this is the owner of the café next door. He’s brought us some pastries. Though he almost let Fergus out when he came in.”

What? He owns the café?

I deal with Carolyn’s ending comment first. “Fergus can leave whenever he wants—he always comes back.”

Carolyn’s mouth pinches. Fergus is her favorite ghost who frequents our shop. She doesn’t want to lose him—I think he reminds her of her late husband. And she is a sucker for a kilt, which he supposedly wears.

The man from the bench’s smile tightens. “Is Fergus a cat?”

“No,” Carolyn and I answer together.

He waits for a moment before he understands that’s all the information he’s going to get.

He shifts uncomfortably. “Erm, I brought pastries and an invitation to our soft opening.” He holds out a paper that I gingerly accept, eyeing a flyer of the same light blue as the door to his café, Somewhere Special.

“You’re Isla’s brother?” I ask incredulously, still not willing to believe that this meeting is an instance of perfect chance.

I knew the co-owner of the café’s name was Ben, but that is a perfectly common name.

When I saw the back of his head, I had no idea I’d recognize his face.

His hair is graying, so I figured he was older, but he’s got to be late twenties, early thirties.

I hadn’t noticed his hair when we first met in the dark.

“That I am.”

“Did you know I worked here?” I question, keeping my line of suspicion.

He beams widely. “I did not. I only knew a bonnie ginger-haired lass worked here. Couldn’t have guessed it was you. ”

Carolyn—finally taking a bit of a hint—says, “I need to retrieve something from the back. Excuse me. It was a pleasure, Bennett.”

As she slips through the curtain, I ask, “Bennett?”

“Full name. Bennett Pyeon.”

“She’ll never call you Ben now.”

“That’s okay.” He regards me with half a smirk as he adds, “Melinda.”

“Linny. Jenkins.”

“I like Melinda.” He looks me over. “But you do seem like more of a Linny.”

“Thanks.”

He smiles again, then gestures to the flyer I still hold in my hand. “You really should come. It’s tonight before the real opening tomorrow. My sister is going to sing. She’s good enough that strangers often pay her. There will be free pastries, coffee, tea, and wine. Whatever takes your fancy.”

I analyze the flyer. “Did you make the pastries?”

“Aye. That’s my role in the café. Isla takes care of the rest. Not that I don’t try to unsuccessfully assist. She continuously tells me how hopeless I am at the business side of it all. And I agree. I’m better in the kitchen.”

“The perfect house-spouse.”

“Yes!” he cackles. “I’ve said the same thing!”

That gets a smile out of me. “Well, this is a really weird coincidence, but it’s nice to see you again.”

“You too.” He gnaws his lip for a second before saying, “I’d like to thank you for that night. It’s ridiculous, but I really needed to snog a random woman on a bench.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah, well, I needed it too.” We observe each other for a moment—his eyes are too intense, too focused on me. I need to break this. “I’ve got to get back to work.”