5. Lavinia
LAVINIA
Icatch myself thinking about him again, which is becoming something of a problem because there are no deliveries scheduled for today, and I'm running dangerously low on rational explanations.
Not that a rational explanation would help much.
Grim simply doesn't fit.
Not in this town. Not in my carefully organized little life. Not in the old stairwell behind Belladonna Blooms where the afternoon sunlight gathers like warm cream across the steps. He feels like someone dropped into the wrong story entirely.
Then again . . .
Maybe that's why he showed up.
I've always believed people are drawn to the places that don't quite make sense. The edges. The forgotten corners. The awkward little spaces where life doesn't fit together neatly. Sometimes that's where the best things decide to happen.
Belladonna Blooms sits across from the courthouse and kitty-corner from the post office, tucked inside what used to be an old dental office before I painted it sage green and carved the sign myself.
Time and weather have softened the lettering, but I rather like that.
It gives the place character. The bell above the door has become equally weathered, clinging valiantly to the hope that someone will walk through it.
Today, however, it has very little to do.
The shop is quiet, save for me, the ghosts of old flower orders, and an unopened crate of rather tragic-looking ranunculus that spent entirely too long on a delivery truck.
By every reasonable measure, I am a florist.
I have the hands for it—thin fingers, root-knuckled joints, and nails permanently decorated with a respectable line of dirt no matter how often I scrub them.
I inherited my mother's eye for seeing emotion before it ever reaches someone's face, and my father's inability to stand still for more than five minutes.
If I'm not rearranging ribbon displays, I'm rotating succulents because one side seems lonelier than the other.
It's a perfectly ordinary morning.
Which is probably why I keep thinking about yesterday.
Not because Kilian's funeral was unusual.
Not because Grim was there.
Because nothing about him behaves the way it ought to.
He knew exactly which flowers belonged with Kilian before anyone explained a thing. He somehow anticipated every question before I asked it, though never in a way that felt intrusive. It was more like watching someone who had already lived through the conversation a hundred times before.
Then there was the little boy.
Children usually either adore strangers or avoid them entirely, yet he'd slipped his hand into Grim's as naturally as breathing.
And the elderly woman at the crosswalk . . .
She'd looked at him, smiled, and somehow found the strength to keep walking.
That's what stays with me.
People don't leave Grim feeling drained.
They leave feeling . . . lighter.
My phone buzzes against a bucket of leftover tulip stems.
Clover
Have you seen him yet?
I laugh before I can stop myself.
No, I text back.
Then, after staring at the screen far longer than necessary, I add:
Not yet.
I hate that she will immediately understand the difference.
The morning drifts past at its own leisurely pace.
An elderly couple wanders in to buy potpourri, though Mr. Henderson accidentally asks whether I carry "funeral arrangements" instead.
His wife spends the next five minutes apologizing while he insists flowers are flowers and everyone ought to stop making such a fuss.
Jasper arrives shortly afterward carrying a paper bag of bagels and his latest conspiracy theory.
"I've figured it out."
"I'm almost afraid to ask."
"The anonymous obituary writer . . ."
"Yes?"
". . . is also the sock thief."
I blink.
". . . Go on."
He launches into an explanation involving unmatched laundry, suspicious knitting circles, and the disappearance of several left socks sometime around Easter. I understand perhaps twelve percent of it, though I nod encouragingly because Jasper appreciates an attentive audience.
By noon, the bell jingles again and Clover backs through the door balancing a bakery box against one shoulder.
"You still haven't eaten the bagels."
"I was waiting until they qualified as antiques."
She snorts before spotting the ranunculus.
"Oh . . . those poor things."
"They've had a difficult morning."
"So has Daisy. Called in sick." Clover sets the pastries on the counter before continuing without taking a breath.
"The new guy at the bakery isn't even pretending to work, Mrs. Keller accidentally ordered forty-seven cinnamon rolls, and the entire town has decided your mysterious funeral man is the most interesting thing that's happened all year. "
I smile despite myself.
"Really?"
"The high schoolers are calling him 'The Ghoul.'"
I wrinkle my nose.
"He doesn't look anything like a ghoul."
"No." Clover considers it. "'Soul Reaper' feels a little too dramatic, though."
I laugh.
"Just a little?"
She pops open the pastry box.
"Rumor has it he bought a latte around ten this morning. Tricia swears he paid with cash so crisp it looked freshly printed."
"Jasper thinks he's an undercover IRS auditor."
I stare at her.
"No one in Blackthorn Bay makes enough money to deserve an IRS auditor."
"That's what I said."
She hands me a pastry before smiling knowingly.
"I like him."
"You've spoken to him once."
"I know." She shrugs. "He's polite. Quiet. He looks at people when they talk instead of over their shoulders."
I hesitate.
"You didn't see him last night."
"No?"
"He was . . . good with Marigold."
"My cat?"
I nod.
"She didn't hiss."
Clover gasps dramatically.
"Well."
"Exactly."
"That's practically supernatural."
We both bite into what claims to be an apple pastry before simultaneously making identical faces.
"This tastes . . ." Clover begins.
". . . like stale cinnamon and regret."
She points at me.
"Exactly."
We laugh until tears gather in our eyes.
When the laughter finally fades, Clover studies me over the edge of her coffee.
"So . . ."
I already know that tone.
"What?"
"What are you doing tonight?"
I don't answer, not because I have plans, but because Grim said he'd return the vase, and I haven't quite decided how I feel about that.
It's a vase.
People return vases every day.
Normal women do not spend the better part of an afternoon wondering whether a man will keep his word about borrowed glassware.
Unfortunately, I appear to have misplaced "normal" somewhere around yesterday's funeral.
By three, the rain starts again, as though the sky can't quite commit to a proper storm.
Traffic on Main Street dwindles to almost nothing, leaving the town wrapped in that sleepy gray hush that only arrives on rainy afternoons.
Lamplight glows behind windows hours before sunset, the grocery store parking lot sits mostly empty, and wisps of fog curl through the vacant lots where wild apple trees are still trying to remember what it feels like to be useful.
I'm adjusting the Grandparents' Day display—muted bluebells, creamy stock, and the earliest chrysanthemums—when the bell above the door rings.
I know it's him before I look up.
The door is still swinging shut behind him, yet he remains just inside the entrance as though uncertain whether he belongs in a flower shop during daylight.
Today he's traded the raincoat for a simple black shirt beneath his coat, dark trousers, and shoes so impeccably polished I'm half tempted to check whether they're still under warranty.
He cradles the vase carefully in both hands.
It's spotless now, save for a single white petal clinging stubbornly to the inside of the glass.
"Ms. Graves."
My heart performs something between a hiccup and a medical emergency.
"You know," I say, folding my arms with exaggerated seriousness, "I was beginning to think the vase was simply an excuse."
He blinks.
"It was."
The answer arrives so matter-of-factly that I stare at him.
"You . . . admitted that rather quickly."
"You asked."
I laugh before I can help myself.
"Well, now you've ruined the mystery."
"I wasn't aware there was one."
"Oh, there definitely was."
He considers that with complete sincerity.
"I'm still learning."
Lord help me.
"There is," I continue solemnly, "a very sophisticated vase return system."
His brow furrows.
"Oh?"
"Bright yellow bin. Right outside the shop. Big sign that says Borrowed Vessels."
He actually turns his head toward the front window.
For one glorious second, I think he's going to go looking for it.
Then the tiniest smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
"You were teasing me."
"I was."
"I don't always recognize it."
"I noticed."
"I'm working on it."
"I'll make it easy on you."
"I'd appreciate that."
There it is again.
That impossible sincerity.
No embarrassment.
No awkwardness.
He simply says exactly what he means.
"I'm not very good at returning things," he admits. "Usually . . . they're left behind."
Something in the way he says it catches me off guard.
Not sad.
Just true.
"No," I murmur more to myself than to him. "You really don't fit anywhere, do you?"
"If you'd still like the vase back . . ."
"I would."
I take it from him, our fingers almost brushing.
Almost.
The smallest spark skitters across my skin.
He notices.
I know he notices because his eyes flick briefly to my hand before meeting mine again.
Neither of us says anything.
Instead, I clear my throat.
"If you'd like some tea, you're welcome to stay. I have to finish the window display, and arranging flowers is considerably less lonely when someone else is pretending to supervise."
"I wasn't aware I was supervising."
"I've promoted you."
"To what?"
I pretend to think.
"Assistant florist."
His expression remains perfectly serious.
"I don't have any experience."
"I've hired worse."
To my immense satisfaction . . .
He almost laughs.
Almost.
"I'll stay."
While the kettle begins to warm, I return to the window display, acutely aware that he's wandering quietly around the shop.
"See anything you like?" I ask.
"I'm not sure what's in season."
"Technically?" I smile over my shoulder. "Nothing."
He looks genuinely puzzled.
"We cheat."
"We adapt," I correct. "Flowers don't always bloom when people need them. Sometimes we preserve them. Sometimes we substitute. Sometimes we simply choose something beautiful and hope it says what words can't."
He nods slowly.
"That makes sense."
I catch his reflection in the window.
He's watching me.
Not the flowers.
Me.
"What?"
He seems almost surprised I'd noticed.
"You smile while you work."
My hands stop.
No one has ever said that to me before.
"I do?"
"Quite often."
Heat creeps into my cheeks.
"I've never noticed."
"I have."
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable.
It's simply . . . full.
After a minute, he says quietly, "You had another question yesterday."
Not a question.
An invitation.
I think about asking whether Jasper's latest theory regarding mercury rings has any merit. Or whether he really knew Kilian loved dandelions.
Instead . . .
"You're not from here."
He shakes his head.
"I've never lived anywhere long enough."
"But you keep coming back."
He studies the rain beyond the window.
"People come to small towns hoping to disappear."
A faint smile touches his mouth.
"Or hoping someone notices they haven't."
"And you?"
"I came because I was needed."
Another pause.
"I stayed because it's quiet."
He considers that.
"Or perhaps the other way around."
I study him for another moment.
"Can I ask something slightly ridiculous?"
"You may."
"Do you own another color?"
He looks down at himself.
"So far . . ."
"No."
I laugh so hard I nearly stick eucalyptus where chrysanthemums ought to be.
"You know . . ."
"I don't think you realize when you're funny."
"I'm funny?"
"Occasionally."
"I'll have to be more careful."
"You absolutely should not."
For just a moment . . .
He looks pleased.