Summary:
In a tiny Vermont town two men are about to discover the joys of falling in love all over again.
Taliesin Wadleigh has lived in Couton-on-the-River for his entire life. Six of those twenty-six years were spent with the first man who had ever captured his heart. Those times were the happiest of his life and then, without warning, his fiancé was taken from him. Physically at least. Spiritually Carmichael is still in that whimsical shop with his beloved. Having a charming spirit close at hand to share late night tea with has helped heal Taliesin’s aching heart and he’s happy spending his days selling antiques to tourists and avoiding the outside world and all those who inhabit it. Or so he tells himself…
Then a tall, handsome stranger walks into his shop and Taliesin, as well as Carmichael, senses that their life – and perhaps their afterlife – is going to change dramatically.
When Eason Dunne retired from professional baseball two years ago he had plans. Amazing plans. Happy plans. Two years after he hung up his cleats all those glorious ambitions have fizzled. He’s now divorced and flitting from one project to another hoping to find…something special. Inheriting an old inn in some one horse – pardon him one moose – town in Vermont was not at all something special. Lacking anything else of meaning in his life he makes the trip from Las Vegas to Couton-on-the-River to try his hand at innkeeping. It’s in this little tourist trap that he wanders into the local antiquity shop and meets the eclectic, bespeckled, adorable owner. A man with somewhat offbeat taste in furnishings, a cross-eyed cat, a seemingly haunted radio, and one rather protective ghost. Eason isn’t sure what to make of the situation or his attraction to the skinny man in the bow tie but when danger threatens Taliesin both the men who love him are going to have to work together to save him.
Spiritual Whispers is a standalone small-town gay paranormal romance with a lovely age gap, a quirky antique shop owner, a disillusioned retired baseball player, a ghostly protector, a lazy shop cat, lots of tea, the occasional moose, and a happy-ever-after.
Original Review October 2023:
Paranormal stories may not be VL Locey's go-to genre for storytelling but that doesn't mean she isn't good at it, it just means when she ventures down that rabbit hole it was a story the characters were ready to clue her in on. With Spiritual Whispers, Taliesin and Eason had a whopper of journey to share.
This is a lovely, fun, heat-filled, slightly spooky tale of moving on. I say slightly spooky because the ghostly visits from Taliesin's love, Carmichael, are not scary at all, a bit mischievous once Eason enters the picture but not scary. Though to be completely honest I can't deny my first reaction probably wouldn't be much different than Eason's freakout. On the surface, Taliesin and Eason appear to be an opposites attract scenario which is true in part and yet they are perfectly suited. From business associates to friends to lovers, the chemistry is there from day one and watching it grow is just one of the things that makes Spiritual Whispers such an enjoyable treat.
There are tendrils of drama in their journey which are wonderfully meshed within the fun side. Some authors will rely on those dramatic tendrils a little too heavily which is fine if the story needs them but when they aren't needed it can weigh down an otherwise enjoyable read. Locey pulls at those tendrils just enough to further weave an intriguingly fun web. I loved how the author balanced all the elements and emotions which made Spiritual Whispers such a delightful read.
Chapter One
Taliesin
I was pretty sure exactly what had spurred Winston to sit on my face.
Generally, three possibilities lead to having a cat butt in the face at the crack of dawn. My old, fat tiger cat was hungry. My old, fat tiger cat was hungry. And my old, fat tiger cat was hungry.
“Winston, honestly, it’s too early,” I groaned, pushing a furry ass off my forehead, then attempting to roll over. With the twenty-pound tom on the blanket, moving was difficult. I huffed and lay there, staring at the window of my bedroom, blinking blindly at the small electric alarm clock on my bedstand. The numbers were unreadable. Slapping at the stand for my glasses, I yawned, the sound of rain hitting the window finally reaching me through the thunderous purrs.
I lay there for another moment, Winston resting on my chest, whiskers tickling my scruffy chin as he watched me with his cross-eyed stare, and reminisced. Rainy fall days had always been Carmichael’s favorite. Autumn really made the man insanely happy. He’d bounce around the shop humming those silly old songs from the twenties that we played all day long at Afterlife Antiquities. He’d always said he’d been born in the wrong era. He had a passion for all things from the turn-of-the-century to the forties. The shop was packed full of delightfully different furnishings, knick-knacks, clothing up on the second floor, and various odd and disarming tidbits that tourists filing into Couton-on-the-River, Vermont, to leaf peep gobbled up.
With the pitter-patter of precipitation on the panes, I let my eyes close as the memory of Carmichael’s strong arms soothed the loneliness away. If only we’d known he would go so soon, we would have moved up the wedding. But fate was unkind that way. We’d dilly-dallied. We’d postponed several times so that his children could come to terms with their father falling in love with a much, much younger man.
Even though Carmichael had lost his wife Penelope to cancer years ago and then came out to his two grown children before leaving the UK, his two daughters loathed me. They felt that I’d been using my youthful charms to bewitch their father in some sort of internet gigolo scheme. As if I had any charms! And we’d not even met online. We’d met years after he’d settled in Vermont, far away from the painful memories in their Cotswold cottage. Charms. Pfft. It was preposterous. I was a beanpole ginger with wild curls and a wickedly terrible myopia. Oh, and there were my freckles and the fact that a good New England wind could blow me down the main street of Couton-on-the-River. Yep, I sure was beguiling. Not. The fact that Carmichael had left me this shop was still a source of contention with the girls, but there was nothing they could do legally. They’d tried, God knows, sapping me of most of my funds, which made buying new antiquities difficult. Guess they figured if the courts wouldn’t help them, they’d just keep burying me in legal fees until I had to sell. To them.
Winston patted my face with his paw. I blinked at him. “Right. Yep. I’m on it.”
He proceeded to walk down my middle, stepping on my full bladder and my left nut. So all in all, a typical Monday in Couton-on-the-River. I heard Winston patter across the floor and out to the living room to use his scratching post. Still suffering from the effects of another midnight tea, I snuggled under the covers, inhaling the smell of wisteria fabric softener on the beautiful white chenille bedspread Carmichael had so loved. Eighteen months ago it had smelled of him and me but now all traces of his scent were gone on the bedding. Sighing deeply, I willed away the melancholy, but the rain and wind blowing outdoors didn’t help. Without warning, the blanket was tugged from under my chin. I smiled at the ceiling as the faintest trace of that familiar sea-faring scent tickled my nose.
“Okay, I’m up. I’m up.” I kicked off the covers, let my feet fall to the smooth wooden floorboards, and rubbed my hands over my face. Knowing that would be the last I’d hear from the other side for the rest of the day, I blew out a breath and found my glasses. Once they rested on my nose, the rest of the world came into sharp view. The small bedroom piled with to-be restored or priced items, many of which had been here when Carmichael had died, the four-poster bed of dark walnut, the huge armoire that held our suits, the Cheval floor mirror in the corner, and the old window with the Queen’s lace scalloped topper. I moved to one of several throw rugs. My feet grew cold quickly and I ran a hand over the chilly pane as if I could swipe away the droplets magically. “Please rest. You expended too much corporeal energy last night,” I whispered to the empty room. If he heard me or not, I couldn’t say.
Winston reappeared, rubbing around my bare ankles. With a smile, I left the window and padded to the cramped bathroom to piss and wash my hands. I’d shower after breakfast to give the ancient water heater time to warm enough water to bathe in. I slid my feet into my slippers, pulled a smoking jacket on, and made the bed. That habit I’d picked up from Carmichael. For a man who lived among so much clutter, he insisted the bed was always to be made. Not wishing to disturb anything we’d shared, I simply did as he did.
Leaving the bathroom, I slippered my way into my living quarters. It was a congested area that doubled as a living room/dining nook/kitchen space that kicked off awkwardly from the rear of the shop. I sighed when I spied the pink rose Royal Albert tea set and pot sitting in the sink, still dirty from last night’s midnight tea.
“Sorry,” I said to the ether. Carmichael was rather fastidious about his tea sets. He would have never let a rare set like that sit overnight with tea in it. He claimed doing so would stain the fine porcelain. Given that he had spent nearly forty years in the antique business, I generally deferred to his vast knowledge. What I knew about Balmoral vanities, drop-leaf tables, and Blue Willow dishes could fit into one of the sterling silver thimbles that were on display in the main showroom. I was more of a button, bow tie, and hat man, but since losing my fiancé, I was learning fast. I had to. Antiquities were hot commodities, especially in a tourist town that sat about forty miles from Manchester, Vermont. There was a woman in Manchester who ran a huge shop that pulled in triple the sales that I did. Her name was Cruella. Not really. It was Davina Crook, and her last name suited her. She had oodles of cash and always outbid me at the sales we attended.
“I’m going to use electric today,” I mumbled to whoever was listening. I could picture him scowling at me as he always did when I took the lazy way out.
“One must make real tea properly,” he would say and then insist I use the kettle on the stove so I wouldn’t overboil the water, which would remove oxygen. He would add, “When you get to my age, my sweet, you learn that taking time to do things with love is the only proper way to live.” After, he would kiss me softly and supervise the tea making from the breakfast nook.
“It’ll be Earl Grey,” I offered to the silent little apartment, knowing that would placate him. “Hot,” I added, then winked. I’d often teased him about being my version of Captain Picard. They resembled each other greatly, from the suave British accent to the balding head to the love of history and antiquities. Carmichael would usually preen a bit after the comparison was made, and rightfully so. Sir Patrick Stewart was incredible.
Making a mental note to clean the teapot and cups before I opened the shop, I brewed a cup of Earl Grey, toasted a bagel, and then fed poor starving Winston. The old tom dove into the dry food in his dish as if he’d not eaten in months. Which was simply not true. His dish was empty because he was a piggy. Still, I adored the old man. Guess I really did have a thing for mature men, be they furred or balding.
Winston and I ate in companionable silence as a cold September rain beat on the windows. Afterward, I showered, shaved, and got dressed in a blue checkered suit with a white shirt and blue bow tie. I’d always loved skinny suits and bow ties. It was my esthetic. I raked my fingers through my wet curls—combing was impossible as I’d forgotten to condition the snarled mass of ringlets—and splashed on some sandalwood bourbon cologne. It stung a bit. I put on my wristwatch, checked the time, and entered Afterlife Antiquities via the woefully empty storeroom. I placed some bills and coins into the register and pulled up the playlist of songs from bygone eras on my phone and fed it through the stereo system via Bluetooth. That was one small concession I’d gotten Carmichael to make. He’d used cassettes for years for background music. I took pride in bringing computers and a small bit of tech to our store. It sure made bookkeeping easier.
Breathing in the smell of lemon furniture polish and fine wood, I made a quick sweep of the store to check for dead mice. Winston had a habit of leaving partially eaten rodents lying around, which skeeved out the customers. The ground floor held most of the antiques left in stock. We carried anything from a massive parlor organ and hand-crafted wardrobes to small trinkets and fine jewelry. Upstairs we had a small nook filled with antique clothing, ties, shoes, hats, and more hats. There was a small sitting area with two armchairs and a round table. In the corner was a maple stand that held a cathedral style radio circa 1931, the tubes on their last legs, but the teakwood veneer was still in perfect condition. I ran my fingers over the burnished knobs that controlled the volume, tone, and the lighted dial for seeking stations.
That was where we had midnight tea when the ether was conflux to supernatural communications. I’d found Carmichael here dead that day, sitting in the armchair on the left, reading one of the dusty old books that he loved so much, a cup of Earl Grey still steaming as it rested on its China saucer. He’d not been gone thirty minutes, citing his need for a break on that particularly busy early summer day. When I called him down for lunch, he’d never replied, so I went looking. Sometimes he would nap up there, but this time...well, this time he wasn’t asleep. The aneurysm had been painless, according to our local doctor. Which was a small blessing.
The rattling of the door pulled me from my memories. I patted the radio, straightened my bow tie, and hustled down the stairs to unlock the front door. I’d been expecting a slow morning due to the cold and rain. Peering around the sign that had our hours of operations on it, my gaze went up, up, up and locked on a woefully sodden man with a face of a battle god, scarred, yes, but masculine and beautiful. Dark hair plastered to his head and his shoulders drawn up by his ears.
The fine hairs on the nape of my neck rose as our eyes met through the wet glass.
“He’s so beautiful.” I sighed, my breath fogging the glass.
Mr. Handsome and Soggy jerked his wet hand at the door in a “Are you going to open the door or what?” gesture. I gasped at my rudeness, threw the deadbolt, and yanked open the door. A chilly wind whirled around me as rain blew into the shop.
“I’m so sorry, I—” I began. The door then flew out of my hand and slammed shut. My gaze flew around the shop. “What are you doing?!” I spat to the specter who had to be hovering nearby. Obviously, I got no reply. It wasn’t the proper time for communication across the void. Stunned by Carmichael’s behavior, I rattled the knob to no avail. “What on Earth?!” I growled, jerking on the knob with all my strength. It creaked open an inch. Mr. Handsome and Soggier said something that sounded rather snippy, and then the door crashed shut yet again. The deadbolt locked tightly a second later. “Why are you being such a temperamental turd?!” I shouted as I battled with the lock, to no avail.
Wasn’t this a fine way to start the day?
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
