If not for the proprietor’s name on the little shop’s window, Philip might have let it all go.
His curiosity and confusion at the unfamiliar name he’d seen scribbled in Grandfather’s tight handwriting all those weeks ago. The same name that had rasped from white lips, not even a whisper, that summer night in the hospital.
If not for the little shop and the glare of the sun on the storefront glass and the name staring back at him now, he might have forced himself to forget the letter he’d found, faded and crinkled, and the murmurs he’d honestly thought at the time might be a deathbed confession. Perhaps would’ve been if his grandfather’s eyes hadn’t closed and that flat line on the monitor not appeared.
A late-autumn breeze came sweeping in, wrapping Philip in a chill that hinted at the coming winter and rooted his feet to the sidewalk outside of—he glanced up, taking in the artsy sign above the windows—Bits & Pieces.
An antique shop, perhaps, considering the assembly of trunks and chairs and what looked like an old shutter, painted and repurposed into a wall shelf, on display behind the glass.
He barely spared the items a second look before his gaze scooted down once more.
Proprietor: Indi Muir.
Unusual first name, sure, but it was the last name that set the months-old memories to unspooling. And what else could he do but follow the threads through the little shop’s front door? After all, he’d never been able to say no to a mystery.
Philip stopped just inside, the bell overhead trilling as the scents of cedar and stain—and hmm, vanilla?—enveloped him. Good grief, the place was crammed full. Not with people but with things. Just tons and tons of things. More chairs. Accent tables. Vintage lamps. So many knickknacks his eyes didn’t know where to land.
And color—it was like a rainbow had fallen from the sky and melted all over everything in the room. Wasn’t just an antique store, it seemed, but some sort of restoration shop where old stuff was given new life. Furniture reupholstered or stripped and stained or repainted. He’d watched enough HGTV in the hospital with Mom to know that was shiplap on the walls. Not original, certainly, because a building this old would have plaster walls and—
His thoughts cut off as the sound of voices drifted from a back room. First, a man, his words too mumbled and low to make out, and then . . .
“You can’t possibly be serious, Ben. You just . . . you can’t. I don’t understand it.”
How could a tone sound so lilting and melodic even as it sagged with distress? Was that Proprietor Indi Muir speaking? He angled around a waist-high bookcase, the male’s muffled response lost to him. As it should be because he hadn’t come in here to eavesdrop.
But what had he come in here to do? Find the owner and—what? Interrogate her about her last name? I know this is a total longshot, Ms. Muir, but I’m just wondering if you might have a relative named Maggie Muir. Apparently my grandfather knew someone by that name and I have all these questions.
Right. As if he’d managed even once in his entire thirty-two years to get out a single intelligent word to a pretty woman.
Not that he knew what Indi Muir looked like. The voice sounded pretty, that was all. But he didn’t even know if it belonged to Indi Muir. Could belong to anyone and he . . .
Well, he’d apparently finally gone off the deep end. Because here he was awkwardly standing around thinking about how he couldn’t talk to women when he was supposed to be at the college. And after that, he was destined for a stuffy dinner party with a bunch of faculty members who still saw him as a kid. Never mind his ten years of teaching and writing or his spot at the head of the table at every history department meeting.
Grandpa’s spot.
Grandpa? Where had that come from?
Grandpa had stopped being Grandpa the day of Dad’s funeral when he’d presented Philip with his first tie and told him to sit up straight in church. By the time they’d gone down to the basement of St. Mary’s for tasteless sandwiches and potato salad after the service, the older man had morphed into Grandfather and he’d been Grandfather ever since.
Shouldn’t be here. Really shouldn’t be here.
And yet, his feet carried him closer to the back of the shop, where a green and white flowered curtain covered a doorway he assumed must lead into a stockroom or breakroom or whatever sort of room a store like this had need of.
“Just hear me out, Indi. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
Ah, so it was Indi Muir talking to the man. Ben, she’d called him, hadn’t she?
“If that’s the case, then I’d really hate to see what actually trying to hurt me would look like. Because I can’t think of a single thing that could be worse than this.”
“I can.” The man’s voice raised a notch. “Going through with something I know isn’t right would be worse. Walking down an aisle when I’m not ready to make those kind of vows would be worse.”
“The bride walks down the aisle, Ben, not the groom.”
Sudden understanding at what he was hearing thumped through him. He took a step backwards, but the moan of old hardwoods creaked underfoot and he froze. The couple currently on their way to not being a couple would know someone was here now, right? But then, they hadn’t heard the bell over the front door when he walked in.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to do the honorable thing? I could’ve dragged this out. I could’ve kept pretending.”
“So you were pretending when you proposed? When you told me you loved me and wanted to spend the rest of your life with me?”
What was wrong with Philip? He shouldn’t be listening to this. Shouldn’t have even come in the store, not when the chances were next to none that this Muir he was eavesdropping on was even slightly connected to his grandfather’s Muir. After all, that letter he’d discovered in Grandpa’s bedroom, the one addressed to a Maggie Muir in Muir Harbor, Maine, was almost fifty years old.
Grandpa. Again.
Well, if the man he’d known as Grandfather had ever sounded anywhere near as soft and affable as the man who’d written that letter the warmer title might’ve fit.
Affable. Ha! The writer of that note had been downright lovesick.
And he just couldn’t square it. Couldn’t for the life of him imagine Professor Ray Camden writing anything so wordy and tender. Either Grandfather had changed, hardened through the years, or he wasn’t the man Philip had known his whole life. Probably both.
“ . . . deliberately choosing to misunderstand me. It’s not that I don’t love you. I just don’t want to marry you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” For the first time, a tremble entered the woman’s voice.
Indi, her name is Indi.
He liked it. Liked the rhythm of it paired with her last name. The kind of name that waltzed off the tongue—or, well, would waltz, he assumed, if he ever had a reason to say it out loud. Or maybe not. If he tried to say it to her, if she was anywhere near as pretty as her voice and her name or, most likely, even if she wasn’t, he’d stumble over the syllables like a toddler just learning to walk. Er, talk.
But what reason would he ever have to say the woman’s full name out loud to her face anyway? How weird would that be?
And why was he still standing here? You’re an idiot, man. Get out.
“If you’re worried about the store, don’t be. I’ll still help. I can write a check right now. Enough to pay for a billboard—”
“The store? Did you actually just say that? Are you actually standing there, having just called off our engagement, offering me money?”
Philip turned on his heel. He’d leave. He’d pretend he’d never seen that name on the front window. Or if his curiosity got the best of him, he’d settle for Googling. Yes, he’d Google Maggie Muir and Muir Harbor and maybe even Indi Muir, just for the heck of it, and—
“Please don’t walk away, Indi.”
“You’re the one who’s walking away. I’m just ending this conversation before it gets any worse.”
Philip bumped into a dresser, heart picking up speed as realization whooshed in. The voices were growing closer and now he could hear steps and—
They were going to rush through that curtain any second, weren’t they? And he didn’t have a chance of reaching the front door before they saw him, not with a maze of furniture complicating his path, and when they spotted him, they’d know he’d overheard them because his cheeks would turn red. Because they always, always did. Because he was Philip West, forever incapable of anything even slightly close to a poker face.
All this flew through his muddled brain in the milliseconds before he made the decision.
A stupid, stupid decision.
Even as he scolded himself, his legs scurried, carrying him around the dresser and toward the oversized wardrobe next to it. He yanked on the ivory knob and flung himself inside.
Dark crowded around him the moment he tugged the door closed, and then, the voices again. And footsteps. More creaking of the floorboards.
An absurd move, maybe, but at least he’d made it inside in the nick of time. They hadn’t spotted him. If they had, someone would’ve yanked the door open by now. And then he’d have no choice but to dig a hole and bury himself alive. Or move to Bolivia, maybe. Certainly never step foot in this shop again.
“I don’t want to hear any more. Please, just leave.”
He inhaled, the smell of varnish nearly overpowering, a tiny sliver of light slanting in between the wardrobe doors. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to stay in here too long. Hopefully after Ben-the-dumper took his leave, Indi Muir would return to the backroom. Hopefully he could sneak out undetected.
Hopefully she’d be okay.
The voices grew muffled again. They must be nearing the front of the shop. Seconds later, he heard the jingle of the bell over the door and clamped his lips to keep his sigh of relief from giving him away.
He strained to listen for her footsteps, for any telltale sound or lack thereof to let him know he was safe to make his escape. Not long now. Any minute and he’d be back outside in the cold Maine air and he could pretend he’d never let a wayward whim get him into a scrape like this and—
The wardrobe door pitched open, light flooding in, stealing every last startled thought from his clearly malfunctioning brain save one:
She was as pretty as her voice.
And then, exactly as he knew it would, the name tripped instead of waltzed as it slipped nonsensically free.
“I-Indi Muir?”
Wait, the creeper in the closet knew her name?
And what in the world was he doing in there? Why hadn’t she heard the bell when he entered Bits & Pieces?
And how—how?—in the world was Indi ever going to tell her family about Bennington Foster’s graceless exit from her life? Another failed relationship. Another broken engagement. At least she hadn’t been the one to call it off this time. But did that make it better or worse?
Better, please let it be better. She’d wrecked so much the last time.
The man in front of her cleared his throat, and Indi’s focus snapped to attention once more as her grip tightened on the shoe she’d pulled off just before yanking on the wardrobe door. One dumb compliment from Ben a month ago about how much he liked her in heels and she’d felt obligated to wear them more often than she would’ve otherwise. But for once, those spiky extra three inches might come in handy—that is, if the stranger wedged into the antique wardrobe proved dangerous.
She huffed to blow a dislodged curl away from her forehead. “You looking for Narnia or something?”
The man lifted one hand and then stared at it as if he didn’t know what to do with it now that it was in the air, eventually settling for running it over the front of his rumpled white oxford. His navy blue tie hung loose, a sign he’d fidgeted with it one too many times.
“Narnia. Ha. That’s, uh, very . . . funny. I-I loved those books as a kid.”
“So did I. Especially the one where—” What was she doing? Her fiancé had just dumped her and a weirdo was hiding in the wardrobe she couldn’t manage to sell, and she was making small talk?
The man’s eyes were trained on her shoe. “Are you, um, going to hit me with that?”
“Maybe. If the situation warrants.” Or she could just throw it at him.
Gosh, why hadn’t she thought to do that to Bennington? She should’ve plucked off her shoe and chucked it at him the moment she’d realized where that backroom conversation was headed.
“I don’t think it will. Warrant it, I mean.”
“You don’t think it will? Or you know it won’t? You’re not a very confident criminal, are you?”
“I’m not a criminal at all.” He straightened and bumped his head on the top of the wardrobe, then winced.
Honestly, any other day and Indi might laugh at the peculiarity of this. But if she let a squeak of laughter out now, there was no guaranteeing it wouldn’t turn into a sob in the next moment. Dumped. Just like that. Before her family had even had a chance to meet her fiancé.
“I’m not a criminal,” he said again. “I-I only hid in this thing. I didn’t attempt to steal it.”
“Well, I wish you would’ve. It takes up way too much floor space.”
The man just stared at her for stilted seconds before finally opening his mouth again. “I suppose I should explain. Not that I have much of an explanation. Nothing that makes any sense, that is. You see . . . I . . . when I heard . . . when I realized . . .” He shook his head, clearly frustrated at his inability to finish the sentence.
“Oh brother, you might as well come out.” She lowered her shoe and stepped backward, the movement uneven considering her one bare foot.
The man cleared his throat. Again. Smoothed down his tie. Again. And finally, he stepped free of the wardrobe.
Holy buckets. The man was . . . he was . . . tall, for one thing. But also far more handsome than a nutcase who hid in antique furniture had any right to be. She’d never seen eyes that color of gray—rich and deep and frankly, remarkable. His mussed dark hair had the slightest bit of silver at his temples, which only increased his attractiveness, even though it had to be premature. Because the rest of his appearance told her he couldn’t have more than a few years on her. Even the tiniest gap between his two front teeth was somehow charming, and how was it possible she could tell he had dimples even though he wasn’t smiling?
Definitely not smiling. Oh no, that was pure embarrassment on his face, his cheeks almost as red as the fabric she’d chosen for the tufted chaise nearby. The chaise she probably would’ve dropped onto by now for a good old-fashioned cry if she hadn’t happened to catch a glimpse of this man disappearing into the wardrobe just as she came barreling through the storeroom curtain.
“It’s not that I don’t love you. I just don’t want to marry you.”
Goodness, she’d said almost the exact same thing to Bryce seven years ago. Had he, like her, forgotten how to breathe the moment after hearing those words? Had the shock of it made him too go numb?
The numbness probably wouldn’t last, though. At some point, the emotion would crash in and then the panic as she imagined telling Maggie and Neil and Lilian. I guess I’m not getting married, after all.
She couldn’t stand the thought. Dreaded the sympathy and the worry and worse, the cementing of her place in the family. She could handle being the youngest, but the flightiest? The wobbliest? The one not quite steady enough to rely on?
Why did her gaze have to pick that moment to land on the mirror with the gilded bronze frame on the opposite wall? The last thing she wanted to see was her own reflection—messy light brown spirals having long since tumbled free from her ponytail, pale skin, and evidence of the paltry tears she’d allowed back in the storeroom in the red rimming her eyes. Lovely.
“For what it’s worth, he’s obviously a buffoon.”
Her attention darted back to the man. Still here. Somewhere in her cluttered thoughts, she’d assumed he would simply slink away after finally coming out of the wardrobe. But no, he was still standing there watching her. His hair was even more tousled now. He must’ve run his fingers through it when she wasn’t looking. What had he just said?
“I-I didn’t mean to overhear. I’m truly sorry that I did. And that I hid like that.”
Oh. Oh. Was that why he was blushing? Not because he’d made the zany decision to hide in a wardrobe, but because he’d overheard her complete humiliation?
Something clicked inside her then. Some sort of emotional survival instinct that demanded she lift her chin and straighten her shoulders. But that was hard to do with one shoe on and one shoe off. So she shook off the left heel and squared her posture, tipping her head to look the stranger from the closet right in his ridiculously appealing gray eyes. “What can I help you with today?”
He blinked, cleared his throat for the third time. “Um . . . I-I don’t . . . what?”
If there was one bright spot in this awful, horrid day, it was the amusement that managed to wiggle in at his obvious discomfort. “You must’ve come in here for something. Are you looking for a particular piece? Or just browsing?” Maybe he was on the hunt for a gift for someone—a girlfriend or wife, mom or sister. She didn’t get many male customers.
She didn’t get many customers at all. Not here at her Augusta store. At least her original shop back in Muir Harbor was thriving. But replicating that same success here was a hurdle she couldn’t seem to clear. She’d been so sure opening a second store was the right move. But if things didn’t pick up soon, her broken engagement wouldn’t be the only thing she’d have to confess to her family.
A sale. She needed to make a sale today. Just one measly sale and maybe then she could convince herself everything was going to be okay. “I’m running a special this week,” she blurted, pushing a curl behind her ear. “Thirty-five percent off all furniture.”
One corner of the man’s mouth rose at the same time as he lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. “You really want to get rid of this wardrobe, don’t you?”
A whole sentence without stammering, and darn it, she was right about the dimples. “Got a truck? I can help you load it right now. I’m stronger than I look.”
Those gray eyes peered at her for a moment. “I don’t doubt it, Indi Muir.”
It was the second time he’d said her full name and for the second time, she wondered how in the world he knew it. And seriously, what was he doing here? Who was he? What sort of person eavesdropped on a breakup and hid in a closet and then just . . . stayed? She opened her mouth, ready to bullet one question after another at him, even if it did cost her a sale.
But the blare of her phone stole her opportunity. Ben? She whipped it from the pocket of her jeans, gaze immediately connecting with the screen.
Not Ben. Her sister’s name and photo lit up the screen. Rude, perhaps, to answer it when she was with a potential customer. But Lilian usually texted, rarely called. Which meant this might be important. Besides, did the man from the wardrobe really count as a customer at this point?
She tucked her phone to her ear. “Hey, Lil.”
“You have to come home. Right now. No, not home. The hospital. They’re taking her to the hospital. She’s already in the ambulance.”
Her sister’s words tumbled over each other, and Indi’s grasp on her phone tightened. “What? Slow down.” Was that panic in Lilian’s voice? Lilian never panicked. Home. Hospital. Ambulance. She . . . who?
Her breath left her lungs as the face of the woman who’d raised her rose in her mind.
“It’s Maggie,” Lilian confirmed. “She collapsed. Neil said . . . he doesn’t think she was breathing and . . . you have to come, Indi. Now.”
“O-okay. I will. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Lilian was talking again—but she couldn’t register the words. Not with the fear coiling inside her, not with the sound of a siren in the background of the call. Not Maggie. Please, God. You can’t take her from us. You can’t take her from me.
“A-are you okay?”
She whirled to face the man from the wardrobe again. When had Lilian ended the call? When had Indi stuffed her phone back in her pocket?
When had she given the tears permission to finally escape? “I . . . I . . . Maggie.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “Maggie? Maggie Muir?”
She should probably wonder why he was looking at her like that, gray eyes wide. She should wonder why he’d just said Maggie’s name in the same peculiar tone he’d said hers earlier. She should wonder all over again who he was and what he was doing here.
She should move. Grab her heels, her purse, her car keys. Get to Maggie as soon as she could. Because Maggie could be . . . might already be . . . no. She shoved on a shoe even as she scoured the store for her purse. She’d left it behind the cash register counter, hadn’t she?
“By the way, you never said which Narnia book was your favorite.”
What? The man’s face was blurry through her onslaught of tears. She struggled to slip on the second shoe, her whole body trembling.
“You started to say earlier, but then you cut off.”
He moved closer to her, the concern in his expression breaking through her clouded vision. He’s trying to calm you down. The strange, blushing man from the wardrobe is trying to help.
She sniffled then took a ragged breath. “The Magician’s Nephew. That’s my favorite.”
“Mine too. I’ve always loved a good origin story.” He reached up to pull his tie free and held it out to her. When she didn’t take it, he nudged it closer. “I don’t have a handkerchief.”
Understanding mingled with disbelief. “I can’t blow my nose on your tie.”
“You really can. I don’t like it. I hate wearing the thing.”
He was . . . he was . . . she didn’t know what he was. She only knew she had to leave. Now. Another sob wracked her body as she bolted toward the counter and reached for her purse. She had her keys out in seconds. She needed to lock up before she left. Turn the Open sign to Closed. And oh, the lights—
“I’m not sure you should be driving.”
Still there. “I have to go. I’m sorry. It’s a family emergency. If you’re really interested in the wardrobe, I can hold it for you.” Why was she even taking the time to say this?
“I-it’s just . . . you’re shaking. You’ve already had one shock and now . . . I just don’t think it’s safe.”
She slung her purse over her shoulder. “I don’t have a choice. It’s not as if I can walk. Muir Harbor’s almost an hour away.” The words scrambled from her as she wound her way to the front door.
“Muir Harbor.”
There was that tone again. But she didn’t care anymore. And if he wouldn’t leave, fine, he could just stay here. He could make off with every last piece of furniture in the place if he wanted. She had to get to Maggie . . . had to see her before—
“I can drive you.”
She stopped at the front door, streaming tears nowhere close to slowing. “What?”
“I know you must think I’m bananas—hiding in that closet like I did. And I know you have no reason to trust me.” He cleared his throat. Fourth time. “But I’m a safe driver. I can get you to the hospital in one piece.”
He was right. She had no reason to trust him.
But he was also right that she was shaking and crying and probably in no shape to drive. She swiped the back of one hand over her eyes. Should’ve accepted his tie. “You’re a complete stranger.”
“My name’s Philip West. I’m thirty-two. I’m a history professor. I teach at Thornhill College here in Augusta. More importantly, I’ve never had so much as a speeding ticket.”
And The Magician’s Nephew was his favorite Narnia book. Why that fact should be the one that pushed her over the edge, she didn’t know. And it didn’t matter. All that mattered was getting to Maggie.
Maggie, who’d given her everything.
“Okay, Philip.” She handed him her keys. “But we’re taking my car.”
Read the rest of Indi and Philip’s story in A Seaside Wonder, releasing in early 2022.