TWO
WEEKS
EARLIER
* * *
Chapter One
Chase my dreams? Honey, I don’t even chase my tequila shots.
- Gwen Goode, ordering another round
I noticed the man who stepped through the doors of my shop immediately. Not because he was particularly striking — in fact, he was exceptionally ordinary in every regard, from his rumpled, off-the-rack business suit to the slight paunch of middle age circling his waistline to the scuffs on his season-old loafers. This was not the kind of man who generally commanded the gazes of strangers. And yet, my eyes snapped straight to him.
It could’ve been because he wasn’t my typical customer. Not that we reallyhada typical customer. The Gallows drew in an eclectic mix of hipsters (who never bought anything, just hovered in the stacks flipping through our oldest occult texts for hours on end), tourists (who bought everything, all the witchy trinkets they could get their hands on before they blew out of town), university kids (who parked their asses at my small bistro tables to study and sip free coffee refills) and, of course, the rare true believers (who walked straight past the shiny, tourist-trapping baubles to the vintage apothecary cabinets in the back, where we sold herbs and tinctures and all manner of weird, witchy accoutrements that were lesstrinket, moredouble-double-toil-and-trouble.)
The man who stormed through the front entrance with fury in his eyes fit none of those categories. That might’ve caught my attention even if he hadn’t banged inside with such force, it rattled two books off a nearby shelf and sent my pretty brass door-bells clanging like the report of a machine-gun. A pair of college students who’d cozied up to the curved emerald espresso bar, awaiting their turmeric-ginger lattes, nearly ducked for cover, startled by the sudden intrusion into the otherwise tranquil shop.
Despite its rather macabre name — and incoming irate customer aside — The Gallows was a warm, inviting space. I’d designed it not only to draw you in the door, but urge you to stay awhile. Wander the shelves. Peruse the oddities. The walls not covered by bookshelves or curiosity cabinets I’d painted soothing shades of green. The furnishings were luxe but still comfortable. The high ceilings were a thick, gold patina that matched the espresso machine — which, by the way, had cost a small fortune but looked straight out of an Italian cafe and, thus, was worth every damn penny in my humble opinion. The air smelled like incense and dried herbs and good coffee. Indie music drifted softly from the overhead speakers.
Totally zen.
But the man who darkened my doorstep that morning was decidedlyun-zen. He did not pause for a pumpkin spice latte or plunk his considerable girth down in one of my comfortable lounge chairs by the window display. He didn’t evenlookat the window display — which, frankly, peeved me. It had taken hours to get the books suspended midair with invisible fishing-line so they appeared enchanted. He could’ve at least spared a glance, after all that effort.
Alas, his eyes scanned the cafe area for mere seconds, quickly dismissing Hetti where she stood scowling behind the espresso machine as well as the clusters of coffee drinkers settled on my cushy armchairs and planted on my lustrous, gold-legged high top stools. They glided right over the selection of incense sticks and sage bundles, then down the two mahogany steps that led into the central part of the shop, which housed an ever-changing supply of mystical curiosities, and, finally, locked on something that made them narrow in a seriously unfriendly way.
That something, regrettably, was little oldme.
How the very sight of me was enough to trigger such a visceral reaction, I hadn’t the faintest idea. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t doing anything inherently offensive. I was simply standing behind a display case, restocking crystals. I did this at least once a week, sometimes more frequently during high season — which it currently was, with Halloween fast approaching. No matter how much I ordered, I could never seem to stock enough amethyst to appease the masses.
But I digress.
For a long, suspended moment, the red-faced stranger stood frozen at the threshold, glaring at me across the distance. I entertained a fleeting hope that he was here to see Madame Zelda, my resident psychic — perhaps irked by a reading gone wrong or in need of some emergency psychic counsel. Surely, he didn’t seem the type to let a woman in a turban twice as high as her head with penciled-on eyebrows tell him about his future. Then again…
Who was I to judge?
Like I said, The Gallows drew an eclectic crowd, and Madame Zelda catered to many interests. Palm lines. Tarot decks. Hell, I think she even had a crystal ball squirreled away in the small chamber at the very back of the shop where she conducted business.
As soon as the man’s gaze locked on me, though, I knew it wasn’t Madame Zelda he was after. His eyes were spitting pure fire and, as I watched, the hands at his sides curled into fists. I fought the urge to duck down behind the counter, for the first time in my life lamenting the shop’s cavernous, open-plan layout. Before I could even think about running for cover, he charged in my direction like a bull at a flag-waving matador, shoving aside unsuspecting hipsters in his wake, bumping past my table of New Age bestsellers. And I wasn’t even wearing red! (I rarely did, rosy hues tended to clash with my dark auburn locks.)
In what seemed like seconds, he’d thundered down the mahogany steps with so much force his bones must’ve rattled, then proceeded to stomp his way past the medley of spooky souvenirs and strange artifacts arranged in the display cases without even pretending to feign interest. When he careened to a stop in front of me, panting for breath and practically quivering with temper, I didn’t even have enough time to greet him with my usual ‘How’s it hanging?’ — admittedly, we enjoyed our gallows humor here at The Gallows — before he leaned in, planted his beefy hands on my freshly-polished display case, and hissed one short but surprisingly venom-laced word directly into my face.
“You.”
I blinked slowly. “Me?”
The man’s face, already red with rage, seemed to mottle further. This would’ve concerned me, however, I was slightly preoccupied by his hands. See, I’d only just finished cleaning the glass counter top and he was getting smudgy fingerprints all over it. And as much as I hated being accosted by strange men in my place of employment… I really,reallyhated to Windex.
“You fucking bitch!”
Again, I blinked. And, again, I repeated, “Me?”
I swear, I wasn’t trying to irritate him. I was genuinely curious. Because, hand-to-goddess, I was not a bitch. Seriously. Setting aside my slightly sarcastic streak when annoyed and occasional penchant for retail therapy when overwhelmed, I was a good-time girl. It was right there in the name!
GwendolynGoode.
I saw the best in people. Even the mean ones. I looked for silver linings, no matter how dark the cloud. I laughed my ass off, frequently. I persevered. I stayed upbeat. I never let the bastards grind me down. I kept my head, heels, and standards high, just like Aunt Colette had taught me, just like Coco Chanel had taught her. People liked me, for the most part. And even if they didn’t… they certainly neverstormed into my shopandyelled in my facein front of a crowd of paying customers when I hadn’t done a single thing to deserve it!