Chapter 2
Elsie
My Nana used to tell me that falling in love with possibilities would either break your heart or change your life. “If it’s a man with only possibilities to offer,” she’d remind me, “run the other way and don’t look back.”
Nana was always falling in love with possibilities, and they seemed to be everywhere when she was around.
The old dresser someone had left by the side of the road for trash pickup, with knobs missing and a drawer that wouldn’t fully close.
Produce and herbs at the farmers’ market the next town over that I’d never heard of and even Nana wasn’t sure how to cook with.
The backyard overgrown with weeds at the house my parents moved into when we arrived in Port Myles, with grass higher than our knees and so many pricker bushes and thorns, we’d come out of it looking like we’d gotten mauled by a tiger.
For all we knew, there could have been one in there.
But when Nana looked at it, she saw the possibilities.
She saw the flowers that would someday thrive there, the deep purple dahlias and cotton candy-colored peonies that she’d have growing by the end of that summer.
She saw the vase of baby blue hydrangeas, picked fresh from the garden that afternoon, that would sit in the middle of the table when we gathered for Sunday dinners.
I inherited my love of flowers from her, though I don’t always have the same optimism.
But as I walk through the old building on Main Street that I’d passed by hundreds of times and never given much thought to, it’s Nana and all the possibilities that I find myself thinking of.
“Be careful of the floor near the big window. That spot where it sinks down just a bit,” Mr. Davis calls out from the doorway. “Can’t guarantee you won’t fall right through.”
My eyes sweep the old dance studio and land on the spot he’s talking about.
The hardwood floors are worn and faded with age from all the years of so many feet stomping around on them.
In front of the window that parents used to sit in front of to watch their kids during class, the floor has a noticeable dip where it sinks down several inches lower than it should.
“I’ll be careful,” I assure him.
I can’t remember how long ago the studio closed, but the dust and general mustiness of the place suggests it’s been a while.
Despite the level of TLC that would be needed to get this place functional again, I see the possibilities.
The first floor is bigger than I would need, spanning nearly half this block of Main Street.
Half of it is taken up by the old lobby and a smaller room that used to be a private studio, and the other half is the big, open studio space.
A wall with a giant window and a door splits the two sides.
As I wander through, peeking my head into the tiny bathroom in the lobby and the office at the back of the studio space, I’m fighting hard to keep my excitement over the whole thing at bay.
I’m going to open my own flower shop. No matter how many times I repeat it to myself, and despite all the months I’ve thought about it and learned everything I need to know, it’s still surreal.
The evening business classes after work.
The long Saturdays spent being pricked by thorns and scolded by the old woman who taught my floral design classes.
The stacks of books I’ve pored over while studying things like greenhouse temperatures, flower sourcing, soil pH levels and business marketing.
All of it – the months of secrecy when I didn’t yet want my family and friends to know what I was up to, the pennies I’ve pinched to build up my savings – have led to this. Looking for a space to open my shop, right in the heart of the town I love.
Surreal doesn’t begin to cover it.
“You doing okay over there?” Mr. Davis calls out from somewhere behind me. I’d zoned out, staring out the small window to the backyard enclosed by ivy-covered redbrick walls.
“I’m good, Mr. Davis.”
“Please call me George,” he reminds me for the third time since we first spoke last week. I can’t help it; I knew his daughter in high school and can remember having study sessions in his kitchen after school. He’ll always be Mr. Davis.
“I’ll try,” I tell him anyway.
As we wander through the rest of the space, we start talking logistics: the price he’s looking to sell the building for, renovations that would be needed, the plans I have for my shop.
“I’ll be honest,” I tell him, seated on the bench in front of the building after checking out every square inch of the first floor. “It’s bigger than I’d need, and I’m not sure I could afford it.”
It’s an understatement, but my eyes are stinging and I don’t want to tell him that actually, I love this old building, and suddenly I can’t picture setting up my shop anywhere else.
But it’s massive, and I don’t think I could afford it even if I ate nothing but those thirty-cent ramen noodle packets every meal for the next six years.
Mr. Davis scratches his chin, staring at the motorcycle in front of us with a faraway look in his eyes.
“I understand. You take some time, give it some thought, and give me a call when you’ve made your decision, yeah?” I nod and he continues. “I’ve got a couple other fellas checking it out today, but if you want it, you’ve got first dibs.”
My heart swells. Some days I don’t feel worthy of the kindness this town has shown me at every turn, which is why I always try to repay it tenfold. I make a mental note to deliver a bouquet of gerbera daisies to Mr. Davis and his wife later this evening.
Before I can thank him, motorcycle man and another heavily tattooed guy – slightly shorter, with a buzz cut and a friendly smile – stop on the sidewalk in front of our bench.
“Ah, speak of the fellas and they shall appear, or something like that,” Mr. Davis says.
“Hey, George.” The shorter guy reaches out to shake Mr. Davis’ hand as he rises from the bench.
Not knowing what else to do, I stand with him.
“This is Declan.” He gestures to the man next to him, now clutching a coffee with The Grind’s logo on it.
The paper cup looks comically small in his large, tattooed hand.
“Hey,” Declan grunts out. Not one for many words, apparently.
Unfazed by his gruff demeanor, Mr. Davis gives him a cheery, “Nice to meet you.” He turns to me and says, “This is Elsie. Elsie, this is Sean and Declan. Declan’s new in town, but Sean here grew up in Port Myles. Might have been a bit before your time, though.”
“Ouch, did you just call me old?” Sean jokes, clutching his chest and mock wincing.
Ignoring Declan, I tell Sean it’s nice to meet him.
I don’t look at the man who earned several of my motherfuckers before 9 a.m. on a Friday, but I can feel the weight of his eyes on me.
Probably sizing me up and finding me lacking, because he seems like the kind of guy who has a type, and I’m sure I’m the furthest thing from it.
Before I can get sucked into conversation with the three of them, I make my excuses to leave, assure Mr. Davis I’ll call him soon and hurry back to my car.
I’m not sure what makes me turn back just as I’m about to step off the sidewalk in front of my old Honda.
When I glance back the way I came from, I find Declan watching me.
He towers over the other two men, one hand shoved in the pocket of his black jeans as he leans against the old parking meter that hasn’t been functional in at least a decade.
Even from here, I can see the smirk on his face before he takes a sip of coffee and turns away. It’s like he’s taunting me, but I’m not sure what for.
Motherfucker.