Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

Nathaniel blushed. “That’s very kind of you. Perhaps someday I could paint a small portrait of the exterior of Hodgepodge you could hang in the shop.” He looked around at the blank walls.

“I’d love that,” Jilly said with enthusiasm. “I’d also be happy to hang any other paintings you might have. They could be for sale here.”

His eyes brightened. “Really? I’ve had no luck finding a patron in London. You’d be doing me a great service. That is…” He looked around. “Do you get many customers?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. And I must confess that’s one reason I’d like to hang your paintings. Perhaps they’ll attract more clients. At the very least, your canvases would make the shop far more attractive.”

“So true,” echoed Otis. “‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’” He paused for dramatic effect. “Shelley said that. In fact”—he preened—“I’m an expert at all sorts of poetry. Shall I show you his work?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Why not?”

“Um, I believe Otis meant to ascribe that quote to Keats.” Jilly cast an apologetic look at her assistant.

Otis reddened. “Oh, yes. Keats. Doesn’t he wear outrageous cravats? And his hair à la Brutus?”

“I’ve no idea,” Nathaniel said. “He’s an amazing poet, that’s certain.”

“Tell me about yourself, Nathaniel,” Jilly asked. “What brought you to Dreare Street? Have you always lived here?”

His cheery face took on a rather grim cast. “I arrived here two months ago as the student of a great painting master. He was planning an exhibit for me, which he claimed many well-known art collectors would have attended. But he died three days after we arrived. Lady Duchamp allowed me to continue renting his studio if I paid the same amount plus a quarter more—for the master’s dying so inconveniently on her property. I must say the place has wonderful light.”

“I didn’t realize Lady Duchamp owned your building.” Jilly was aghast at the old woman’s callousness and unbridled greed. “So what happened to you after your friend died?”

Nathaniel’s eyes darkened with sadness. “All his connections disappeared, and I was left to fend for myself. I’ve been trying ever since to find another patron.”

Jilly sighed. “I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend and are having a rough time of it. Do you—do you believe the rumors that Dreare Street is unlucky?”

“Yes.” Nathaniel chuckled.

His answer was so flatly delivered, Jilly couldn’t help laughing herself.

“Well,” she said, leaning closer to him, “perhaps if we keep talking to each other here at the store, Lady Duchamp won’t notice that we’re all cheering up. Please do come by any time. I’ll look forward to chatting with you.”

“I shall.” He gave her an infectious grin. “Thanks again, Miss Jones. It does get awfully lonely on Dreare Street.”

A wonderful picture of Susan and Nathaniel together flashed in her mind. He was a man with a compassionate heart, and she was a woman who could benefit from some tender understanding.

They’d be a perfect couple, she decided. But she’d put away her brilliant idea until later.

Nathaniel spent a few minutes quietly browsing, and Jilly couldn’t help feeling pleased at how engrossed he was in the books.

“I can’t pick a book out today,” he said. “There are so many interesting ones. I’m leaning toward the one about the canals in Venice, but I’ll come back again very soon to take another look. How’s that?”

“I’d love if you visited every day,” Jilly replied. “Consider Hodgepodge your home away from home.”

“Why, that’s very kind of you,” he said, looking genuinely moved.

When he left, Jilly realized that was exactly what she did want: a home. A family. A sense of belonging. Hodgepodge could provide that for her and for other people on the street. She simply had to stay the course.

Stephen came back inside with the piece of wood that would become her new ledge, and her heart lightened.

“I’m only here a moment,” he said breezily.

Her heart promptly sank. “All right, then.”

He was on his haunches now, testing the ledge beneath the window. She tried to ignore how manly he was, how focused he was on his craft and on making a ledge for her shop. He didn’t have to try so hard—she wasn’t even paying him, and one might even say he’d been coerced—yet he was making a tremendous effort.

Which was quite charming of him.

Think of something else, of someone else!

She smiled. “Do you need my help, Captain?”

“No, thank you,” he replied politely, although she noticed he didn’t even look at her.

Blast. When he was near her, she couldn’t concentrate on other things. His golden hair glinted—who could look away from that? And his hands. They were strong hands with tapered fingers. They looked quite capable.

How would they feel around her waist?

Think of something else! “Captain—”

He paused in his work and cast a glance at her over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Oh, dear. She could tell she was interfering. “Nothing.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”

A beat passed. “I’m not,” is all he said. He tossed her a quick grin, lowered the ledge to the floor, and stood.

Her heart raced even more. What had he meant by that? And was he going to come over to the counter to speak to her? Because if he was, she was backing up.

She cast a furtive glance around for her dusting cloth.

But she didn’t need it. He came nowhere near her.

“I’ll be working outside again,” he said.

She felt that odd disappointment settle over her when he went out the door.

However, she couldn’t think about why he affected her so because a few seconds later, a long, pale woman entered the shop. Jilly had seen her before, coming out of her fine home on Dreare Street with two long, pale children, a boy and girl of about fifteen, and her florid-faced husband, a man who appeared to take life very seriously in his tight cravats and multilayered black cape.

“Welcome to Hodgepodge,” Jilly promptly stated. “May I help you find something?”

When the woman turned to her, Jilly was shocked by the desperation she saw in her eyes. “I’m your neighbor, Lavinia Hobbs.” The woman swallowed. “And if I don’t find a receipt for the perfect soup, I’m afraid —”

“What?” asked Jilly, her heart lurching and her pulse racing.

Mrs. Hobbs lowered her hand. “I’m afraid we’ll have a very dismal dinner.”

“Oh.” Jilly let out a small breath.

Was that all?

She noticed the lady’s eyelids were red-rimmed. Jilly daren’t ask her why, but she wanted to show she was concerned. “May I help you search?”

The woman nodded, misery surrounding her like a cloud. “I’d be grateful to find a receipt for turtle soup.”

“Come with me.” Jilly’s tone was warm but brisk. “That should be no trouble.”

Mrs. Hobbs followed silently. Jilly did her very best to cheer her by thumbing through several volumes on cookery with her. After ten minutes or so, her pale neighbor did appear in better spirits. They’d found a delicious- sounding receipt for turtle soup in one book, which Mrs. Hobbs decided to purchase.

At the counter, while Jilly wrapped the volume in brown paper, Mrs. Hobbs smiled thinly. “Thank you for the scones. I was quite surprised to receive such a token of generosity. Of course, Mason was quite suspicious of it.”

“Mason?”

“My husband. He thought you wanted something.” Mrs. Hobbs waved a hand. “His family is so grasping, you