putting the snapshot back, she picked up her suitcase and carried it upstairs. The single bedroom was large and mostly white, with a four-poster brass bed and an adjoining bathroom in the same color scheme. The look was clean and uncluttered without being harsh.
Steven’s clothes hung neatly on the rack in the walk-in closet. There were shirts from Savile Row, cashmere jackets, custom-made suits and designer ties. Shoes and boots in various styles and colors were on an upper shelf.
Glad that she hadn’t packed much, she hung her clothes in the facing rack. Then, remembering that she had a date with Denise Baxter, she stripped and went into the bathroom to shower.
“Believe it or not,” Denise said, taking her role of tour guide seriously. “New Hope started as an industrial town, with mills that were busy manufacturing paper, quarrying stone and grinding grain.”
She unwrapped a sandwich and gave half to Grace. “But even in those early days,” she continued, “the beauty of Bucks County did not go unnoticed. Soon artists began settling along the Delaware River and New Hope became an artists’ colony.”
“I can see why,” Grace said. “The scenery from North River Road is nothing short of spectacular.”
“And it only gets better.”
As she ate her tuna salad on rye, Grace took in the many shops along Main Street, all filled with an assortment of merchandise—candy, antiques, rare books, gourmet food, garden decorations. Business owners had welcomed fall with planters of colorful mums outside their doors and huge corn stalks wrapped around the telephone poles.
“Some of the architecture is beautiful,” she remarked. “Do any of those buildings come with a pedigree?”
“Lots of them. For example, the Logan Inn we passed a moment ago is on the National Register of Historic Places. In fact, New Hope itself is registered as a National Historic Site. That big stone house over there—” she pointed “—is the Parry Mansion, and was once the home of Benjamin Parry, a wealthy mill owner.”
“I’ve already counted five art galleries. Wasn’t Steven worried about the competition?”
“All the time. The one that concerned him most, though, was the Haas-Muth Gallery, just up the street from the Hatfield Gallery. The owner is an artist, but he doesn’t just display paintings. He also sells Oriental rugs, which brings a lot of traffic. Steven was thinking of doing something similar, not with rugs, but maybe with antique clocks.” Her voice turned a little somber. “He never had the chance.”
“Who is that?” Grace asked, nodding in the direction of a twin-spiraled church.
“Father Donnelly. He’s our pastor. He first came here as a young priest many years ago, but the church likes to move their people around and he was sent to another parish. Now he’s back.”
She smiled at the handsome, fortysomething man watching them approach. He wore black pants and a black jacket with a white collar peeking through. “Hello, Father. Were your ears ringing? I was talking about you.”
“I’m flattered.” He rested his gaze on Grace. “You must be Miss McKenzie.”
She extended her hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Father.”
“Welcome to New Hope. I hope you’re recovered from that unfortunate incident last night.”
“Completely, thank you.”
“In that case, you might find time to attend Sunday mass?” His eyes shone with youthful mischief as he talked.
Grace wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but how could she refuse such a gracious request? “I’ll make a point to do that,” she promised.
“You’re incorrigible, Father,” Denise said. “Always trying to garner more parishioners.”
“That’s my job, Denise, as well as my pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to make my hospital rounds. You both have a good day.”
“There goes a good man,” Denise said as the pastor walked away. “He’s been a huge comfort to me. He never
Steven’s clothes hung neatly on the rack in the walk-in closet. There were shirts from Savile Row, cashmere jackets, custom-made suits and designer ties. Shoes and boots in various styles and colors were on an upper shelf.
Glad that she hadn’t packed much, she hung her clothes in the facing rack. Then, remembering that she had a date with Denise Baxter, she stripped and went into the bathroom to shower.
“Believe it or not,” Denise said, taking her role of tour guide seriously. “New Hope started as an industrial town, with mills that were busy manufacturing paper, quarrying stone and grinding grain.”
She unwrapped a sandwich and gave half to Grace. “But even in those early days,” she continued, “the beauty of Bucks County did not go unnoticed. Soon artists began settling along the Delaware River and New Hope became an artists’ colony.”
“I can see why,” Grace said. “The scenery from North River Road is nothing short of spectacular.”
“And it only gets better.”
As she ate her tuna salad on rye, Grace took in the many shops along Main Street, all filled with an assortment of merchandise—candy, antiques, rare books, gourmet food, garden decorations. Business owners had welcomed fall with planters of colorful mums outside their doors and huge corn stalks wrapped around the telephone poles.
“Some of the architecture is beautiful,” she remarked. “Do any of those buildings come with a pedigree?”
“Lots of them. For example, the Logan Inn we passed a moment ago is on the National Register of Historic Places. In fact, New Hope itself is registered as a National Historic Site. That big stone house over there—” she pointed “—is the Parry Mansion, and was once the home of Benjamin Parry, a wealthy mill owner.”
“I’ve already counted five art galleries. Wasn’t Steven worried about the competition?”
“All the time. The one that concerned him most, though, was the Haas-Muth Gallery, just up the street from the Hatfield Gallery. The owner is an artist, but he doesn’t just display paintings. He also sells Oriental rugs, which brings a lot of traffic. Steven was thinking of doing something similar, not with rugs, but maybe with antique clocks.” Her voice turned a little somber. “He never had the chance.”
“Who is that?” Grace asked, nodding in the direction of a twin-spiraled church.
“Father Donnelly. He’s our pastor. He first came here as a young priest many years ago, but the church likes to move their people around and he was sent to another parish. Now he’s back.”
She smiled at the handsome, fortysomething man watching them approach. He wore black pants and a black jacket with a white collar peeking through. “Hello, Father. Were your ears ringing? I was talking about you.”
“I’m flattered.” He rested his gaze on Grace. “You must be Miss McKenzie.”
She extended her hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Father.”
“Welcome to New Hope. I hope you’re recovered from that unfortunate incident last night.”
“Completely, thank you.”
“In that case, you might find time to attend Sunday mass?” His eyes shone with youthful mischief as he talked.
Grace wasn’t much of a churchgoer, but how could she refuse such a gracious request? “I’ll make a point to do that,” she promised.
“You’re incorrigible, Father,” Denise said. “Always trying to garner more parishioners.”
“That’s my job, Denise, as well as my pleasure. Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to make my hospital rounds. You both have a good day.”
“There goes a good man,” Denise said as the pastor walked away. “He’s been a huge comfort to me. He never
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