Early Monday morning, as Kate walked into As Time Goes By, she was amazed by how warm and welcoming it felt.
The antique shop looked nothing like the dark, hole-in-the wall stores she’d explored in her travels. This space was large and bright—laid out like a private house. The wood had a polished glow. The fixtures gleamed. And there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. Or that sickly scent of mildew and mothballs that haunted some antique shops like a spectral presence.
Instead, she smelled furniture polish, vanilla candles, and a lingering waft of perfume. Expensive perfume.
Rosie emerged from the back room carrying a tan leather day planner in one hand and a gold pen in the other. “Hey there, Kate! So glad you stopped by.”
Kate smiled. “I know this is small, by comparison,” she said, holding out the large, white bakery box. “These are my grandmother’s special holiday cookies. I baked a fresh batch this morning. My way of saying thank you.”
“No need, but we never turn down cookies,” Rosie said with a twinkle in her eye. “Especially my better half. Andre, we have a guest!”
Andre Armand stuck his head through the burgundy curtain at the back of the store. His face lit up in a broad grin. “No returns!”
“No chance!” Kate replied.
“She brought cookies. How about some coffee?” Rosie called.
“Ah, bien! Let me prepare a fresh pot.”
“This place is beautiful,” Kate said, her head on a swivel. “And it’s so sunny and bright. Usually antique stores are—” she started before catching herself.
Rosie laughed. “I know, right? Like someone’s dusty old attic. And that’s exactly what we didn’t want. I mean, I love antiques. But I don’t want to spend my days working in the dark picking my way through cobwebs and doilies. And that’s not the atmosphere that makes customers happy, either. We wanted it to be like visiting a friend’s house—a friend with really good taste.”
“That’s it exactly,” Kate admitted. If Evan’s mother ever found this place, she’d pick them clean in less than an hour. Right down to the delicate silver candlesticks.
Andre came out of the storeroom minutes later with a French press and three exquisite porcelain cups and matching saucers balanced on a shiny silver tray.
He set the tray on a chocolate-colored ottoman between them.
Kate picked up the cup and brought it to her lips. The coffee was strong and black, enclosed in china so fragile it reminded her of an eggshell.
Andre opened the bakery box. “Oh, magnifique!”
“My grandmother used to serve them at Christmas,” Kate said. “But Maxi says we could use a little of the holiday magic right now.”
He plucked a sugar-dusted treat from the box and popped it into his mouth. “Oh, bon! Très, très bon!” he said happily.
Rosie nibbled on a cookie. “Oh, this is good.” She quickly polished it off and reached for another.
“Anise and almond,” Kate said. “As a kid, I nicknamed them pickle cookies, because they’re shaped like those little cocktail pickles.”
“Ha, I like that,” Andre said, plucking several more from the box and putting another in front of Rosie.
“They’re sweet but not too sweet,” his wife said, smiling. “Luscious.”
“There’s a lot of butter in there,” Kate said ruefully. “I think that’s why my grandma pretty much only made them at the holidays. If we’d had them in the cupboard year-round, that would have been dangerous. The almonds give it a certain richness, too.”
“I’m glad to have something good to associate with anise,” Rosie said blissfully. “Something yummy and happy.”
Andre nodded and put another cookie in his mouth, crunching contentedly.
“What do you mean?” Kate asked, retrieving a cookie from the box.
Rosie shook her head. “It was just something Muriel mentioned. Another habit of her lovely boss. He was a smoker. But he didn’t want anyone to know. So he was always sucking on these anise breath mints. According to her, he positively reeked of them.”