Ravensdale (Rewriting)

Chapter One - The Desk

New York City

2012

Dora Harding had not expected to be in her best friend's antique shop that day. After all, she was supposed to be back at the florist's shop, trimming the stems of thorny summer roses and organizing all the colorful tulips, but she needed to come into the store after receiving that text about something incredible she needed to see.

It sounded cryptic, and it concerned her, especially after the trip he had made to London for an antique auction. His store was still struggling, even after a recent boost in sales. She was concerned he bought something that would bring him even more in debt.

"David," she called out, her voice echoing against the faded hardwood floor that groaned with every step. "I'm here!"

But there wasn't any response.

"David!" she said again, this time even louder. "Are you here? I got your text!"

Where was he? It was strange, considering he was constantly in the store, either at the front register, or talking to customers about the historical artifacts he bought at the random auctions he would frequent. Such was his way of life.

"David? Did you run off again?"

She walked toward the section of the shop where there was a plethora of books that had once belonged to people, but now collected dust in a random shop. Dora sometimes would imagine if the books had personalities, and if they did, what stories would they tell?

Dora passed by the rows of antique books that had that familiar, comforting scent. Books that aged with the subtle passing of time. It was the reason she was always happy at home — the scent of old books was something that she grew up with. She stroked the spines of the books and noticed one out of the ordinary. Was it new? It was a book about the artworks of her favorite painter, Sarah Greyson. She opened the book and began thumbing through the pages, stopping when she noticed one of her favorite paintings — one of a young girl sitting on a bench in a bustling park, wearing a dress a riveting shade of red.

"Dora?" A voice pierced through her thoughts.

"David! Where on earth have you been? I called your name so many times."

David stood there, staring at Dora with confusion, but he smiled anyway. "I've been in the back the whole time, Dora. I didn't hear you come in. Wasn't expecting you here until later in the afternoon."

"God, I love the way you say afternoon," Dora said with a smile. "Your accent sounds even heavier now that you've come back from London."

He grinned, shrugging. "Happens when you've been there nearly a month."

"Well, when you sent that mysterious text that I just had to come and see whatever new thing you got," she said.

He nodded, his grin turning into a full smile that reached his eyes. "I didn't mean for you to come here now, but it's wonderful to see you again. It's been a hell of a week."

David's dark blond hair was messy, and his face had a little stubble on it. The bags under his dark green eyes were puffy. She pulled him into a comforting embrace.

"I can tell. You look rough, Dave. Was London kind to you?" She asked, putting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"London is London. Belgravia, Westminster, Whitechapel, you name it, I was there."

"I so wish I could have gone with you." She crossed her arms, looked out of the window at the myriad of yellow taxi cabs and people walking on the sidewalk in huddled crowds. "I've never even been to London. I'm really jealous of you."