Siren's Storm by Lisa Papademetriou Read Free Book Online

Jameson said. He was handsome in an aging-daytime-TV-star kind of way: tall, gray hair slicked back, tanned skin, brilliant smile. “We’re still working everything out, but it looks like we can offer same-day delivery.”
    “People are going to go nuts for this sauvignonblanc,” Will’s dad said. “Are you sure you don’t want some, Will?”
    “It’s really delicious,” his mother said quietly.
    “I’m about to hop on the bike,” Will told them.
    “One sip?” Mr. Jameson laughed.
    Will just smiled a tight smile. The truth was, he hated wine. Beer, too. But he didn’t want to explain that to Mr. Former Soap Opera Star.
    “My teetotaler son.” Will’s dad rolled his eyes. “Where are you headed?”
    “Just into town.”
    “You remember you’re working a shift later?” Mrs. Archer asked.
    “How could I forget?”
    Mr. Archer waved his hand at his son and said, “Go on, get out of here! Have fun!” He gave a false, hearty laugh that made Will want to be sick. Will waved and headed for the motorcycle. He yanked on his helmet and kicked the bike to life. It started with a roar, and Will revved it a couple of times before pulling out of the driveway.
    He tore up the road, breathing easier with every inch of space between himself and his father. Will resented the elaborate act Mr. Archer put on for others. He didn’t understand it. And it made him furious that the act seemed to take up all of his father’s energy. He barely spoke to Will when they were alone.
    Will parked the bike and stored his helmet, then made his way over to the storefront. He stared at the sign on the door for a long moment, tracing theornate gold letters with his eyes: Worthington’s Fine Antiques. Will ran his thumb beneath the wide canvas strap slung across his chest, hitching his messenger bag higher onto his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of his face in the glass door. Beneath his tan, his complexion seemed dull and gray. His night had been filled with dreams. He’d been surfing with Tim, laughing and tumbling in the waves. It wasn’t until he woke up that the dream seemed nightmarish. Tim was dead, and somewhere perhaps a green-eyed girl was, too.
    Finally Will touched the brass handle and pushed his way in.
    The proprietor, an older gentleman, was arranging something in a glass display case as Will stepped into the cool, dim store. The man popped his head over the edge of the counter. “I’ll be right with you,” he said, then disappeared again into his antiques-lined gopher hole.
    Will took the opportunity to look around the store. To his left was a large desk. It was ornately carved with the heads of lions and other exotic animals. The feet were bird claws clutching round balls. The desk was enormous, and was designed so that people could sit at either side. Fascinated, Will inspected it from all angles.
    “It’s a nineteenth-century partners desk,” the man explained, coming up behind Will. “They could face each other and argue over budget items, presumably.”
    “There’s no price on it,” Will pointed out.
    “This item sells for forty thousand dollars,” the man said.
    Will laughed. “Well, I guess it’s good I already have a desk.”
    The owner smiled, which made his prim appearance seem more approachable. Now he was just a lanky man with tiny round bifocals and khaki pants, rather than the proprietor of the kind of store that sold desks that cost more than Will’s father’s car. “Is there something I can help you with?”
    “Well …” Will dug in his bag and pulled out something wrapped in a brown paper bag. The man peered closely as Will gently removed the flute and held it out for inspection. “Do you know anything about this? There’s one like it in your window.” Will gestured over his shoulder.
    The man scurried behind the counter and yanked on a pair of white cotton gloves. Then he reached for the flute and handled it very carefully. “This instrument is quite an antique.”
    “How