Antique Charming
Natalie-Nicole Bates
Antique Charming
Copyright 2011
By Books to Go Now
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First eBook Edition –September 2011
Printed in the United States of America
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Antique Charming
She heard it again.
The same time as last Friday night.
Three taps at her front door.
Lizzie muted the television, tossed the blanket off of her body and scurried out of bed. She slipped her robe over her shoulders and tied it securely, determined to find out who in the world would knock at her door at three in the morning. By the time she had reached the door the week previous, no one was there. The street had been dark and still.
It had to be a mistake. She had only recently closed sale on the long abandoned funeral home, determined to restore it to its once former glory. She had only been living in the upstairs flat for a few weeks.
As she hurried down the staircase, each step beneath her feet creaked in protest. There was no one visible through the peephole. She unchained the door and opened it just enough to peek around it.
No one was there, just like the previous week.
The street was dark and quiet. Not even the whisper of a wind could be detected. Only the cold dampness of the October night raised a chill on her skin.
Who was playing this weekly joke on her? Could it be the ghosts of some departed soul who had passed through the halls of Nichols Funeral Home sometime during the past century? A small smile crossed her lips as she prepared to close and lock the door. She was a third generation Funeral Director. Did she now believe in ghosts?
Before the door could close, a hand poked into the slight space and seized her wrist. A cry rose in her throat and she jerked backward, but the hand held tight and the door flung open.
The man emerged, shrouded in darkness. He was an ethereal creature, tall, and dressed in anonymous black. Only a streetlight glowed behind him.
“I’m home,” he announced.
In a panic and with her heart now beating double-time, Lizzie pushed her free hand into his chest in an attempt to push the stranger out the door. “Get out!” she growled.
He caught her other wrist and held her firm, his hands icy from the cold October night.
“I’m home,” he repeated.
There was such a vehement strain of desperation in his voice that Lizzie stopped her struggle. When she did, he let go of her wrists. Did he think he really was home, or was he just some disillusioned homeless man? Maybe if she stayed calm and explained things, he would quietly go away.
“No, you’re not home. This is my home. I bought this place a few weeks ago. I plan to refurbish the funeral home and reopen it for business in the next few months.”
“Please,” he implored and slid past her into the foyer. He closed his eyes and rubbed circles on his temple with his fingertips. “I’m cold and I’m tired. I would like a bath and bed.”
As he reached for the banister of the stairs leading to the flat, Lizzie grabbed the sleeve of his long sleeved shirt. “Wait, you just can’t come into my home. Who are you?”
He stared down at her in the dim light of the foyer. His eyes shined, but she couldn’t see the color. “I’m Adam Nichols.”
A thread of impatience in his voice led her to believe that he thought she would know him on sight, that she should be expecting him.
Nichols, she thought silently to herself. As in, Nichols Funeral Home, the original owners of the now defunct funeral home she owned. This was very bad. Maybe Adam really did think he still owned the funeral home and the flat.
“Adam, you need to understand that you and your family no longer own the funeral home or the flat. I do.” She tried to sound gentle but firm.
A trace of a smile played on his lips. “You must be my new lady assistant. What is your name?”
It was obvious he was either delusional or worse…he really did think he still owned the place and that she was playing some sort of game with him.
“I’m Lizzie Morton.”
He ran a gentle finger under her chin and held her brown eyes to his. “You’ll do just fine, Lizzie.”
Her response stuck in her throat. Before she could release it, he broke their eye contact, to her relief, and began to climb the stairs. Lizzie could do nothing but follow.
If he really was a descendant of the Nichols family, surely it could all be straightened out with a telephone call to the realtor in the morning.
Until then, maybe it was best to let him have a bath and let him sleep in the guest bedroom. Adam didn’t seem malicious, just tired and very confused, and he seemed to know his way around the flat.
At the top of the stairs, Lizzie turned down the hallway and entered the bathroom. Turning on the taps of the antique claw foot bathtub, she adjusted the water
