Chapter 4
Elsie
If I had the chance to choose a last meal before my time on earth is up, hopefully a long time from now, I’d choose the grilled chicken and pesto panini from Captain’s Corner.
“Bury me with this sandwich, please,” I mumble around a too-large bite. I’ve been coming to Olivia’s mom’s restaurant for nearly half my life and I never get tired of the food.
“And me with these fries,” Grace adds. “And the mozzarella sticks.”
Olivia rolls her eyes, but the grin on her face gives her away.
She’s proud of her mom and I know how much she loves that when it comes to eating out in Port Myles, Captain’s is always our first pick.
These four walls with the big windows overlooking the bay have been witness to it all over the years: all the times we’d rehash our breakups and fights over giant slices of cheesecake, the celebratory dinners for new jobs and other wins in our lives, the drunken convos over shared plates of fries after leaving our favorite bar down the street.
Nights like those have become few and far between as we’ve gotten older, but these old redbrick walls remember. I feel it every time I step inside.
“So,” Olivia begins, dipping a fry into some kind of aioli that’s so good I’d lick it straight from the little steel cup. ”How did it go?”
I knew this conversation was coming, but I sigh anyway, not ready to face reality yet.
“It was perfect,” I admit. “I love that building.”
“Then why do you look like someone spit in your panini?” Grace asks.
“Because it’s a lot bigger than I actually need and I can’t afford it.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I feel anything but casual about it.
I want that space. Badly.
“Sorry, babe,” Grace says. “That sucks.” Not one to mince words or say anything she doesn’t mean, I knew she wouldn’t beat around the bush about it.
Ever the planner, Olivia offers, “I’ll go through local listings tonight and send you some others you might want to check out. Let me know your budget and how far you’re willing to go from Main Street, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her I’ve been scouring the local real estate market for months now, and available spaces to buy or lease in this town are borderline non-existent. Maybe if one of us has some hope, I can live in denial for a bit longer.
“Thanks. I appreciate the help.”
“Hi girls,” a sing-song voice calls out from behind me.
Olivia’s mom, Gail, weaves her way through the packed tables and stops behind Olivia’s chair, resting her hands lightly on her daughter’s shoulders.
A small smile flits at the corners of Olivia’s lips and she looks so at ease, so content.
Something tugs at my chest at the sight of it.
I would have supported Olivia if she had decided to stay out in California with her brother like they’d always planned, but I’m so glad she changed her mind and came back home.
I know that home can be wherever you make it, but for Olivia – and me, for that matter – home will always be Port Myles.
And for her fiancé, Cam? Well, home is wherever Olivia is.
“Hi, Gail,” Grace and I say in unison.
“How’s lunch?”
“If I ever get married someday,” Grace tells her, “I don’t want a wedding cake. I want a tower of these fries with aioli dripping down the entire thing.” To emphasize her point, she licks some off her fingers with a loud smack.
“Gross,” Olivia laughs, tossing a napkin at her.
“I never get tired of feeding you girls,” Gail says fondly. She pulls out the fourth chair at our table and sits, snagging a fry off the plate we’ve been sharing. “What are we talking about?”
“Elsie was just telling us about the –”
Before Olivia can finish that thought, my phone rings. The chorus of Edison Lighthouse’s “Love Grows” rings out through the dining area and Grace immediately starts belting out the words.
“And nobody knows,” she sings, horribly off-key, “like meee.” She throws her hands in the air as she draws the last note out and I grab my phone from the table, answering without looking to see who it is.
“Hello?” I say through a laugh. I’ve been changing my ringtone weekly since I was in college and Grace loves it. Sometimes she’ll call my phone when we’re hanging out just so she can hear what this week’s song is. If it’s one that she knows, it warrants a performance on her part every single time.
“Hi, Elsie,” a deep, friendly voice responds. I pull the phone from my ear to check the screen and see Mr. Davis’ name. My stomach dips.
Has he found someone else to buy the building already? The guys who looked at it after me, maybe?
“– to talk to you about something,” he finishes as I bring the phone back to my ear.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I’ve been thinking since you left this morning and was hoping to run an idea by you,” he says. “I know the building is awfully big, and buying it wouldn’t be cheap. I’d love to see it end up in the hands of someone local, though. If you’re interested, I’m hoping we can work something out.”
“I’m interested.” I hesitate, unsure how to break the news to him. “I just don’t think it’s going to be financially possible for me right now.”
Or ever, I add silently. My dad pays me well, but not monthly payments on a four-thousand-square-foot building well.
“Which is why I’ve been thinking,” Mr. Davis continues. “What if I lease it to you instead of selling? The building isn’t costing me anything other than taxes. I’m not opposed to hanging onto it for a while longer if it means it can bring in some new business around here.”
“You would do that?” I ask, my voice a little wobbly. I’m afraid to get my hopes up, terrified to grab onto the lifeline he’s throwing me.
“Aw, hell, Elsie,” Mr. Davis chuckles. “I don’t think there’s much the people in this town wouldn’t do for you.”
The pang in my chest catches me off guard. “This town is everything to me,” I tell him honestly.
“Which is exactly why I want you sticking around and setting up shop here. If I can help make that happen, I’m going to do it.”
I let out a breath as I mull it over. The building is big.
I can’t picture my storefront anywhere else, but I also can’t visualize how I’d utilize all the space inside.
I want my shop to feel warm and cozy, someplace where people can easily wander in off the street, take a look around and find something that calls to them.
I don’t want it to feel like a department store, a place so big they need to wander aisles to find what they need.
They’re more likely to leave empty-handed that way.
“You still there?” Mr. Davis asks.
“I’m here.” I look up then, noticing Grace, Olivia and Gail leaning in close, straining to hear both ends of the conversation.
“What’s happening?” Grace whispers loudly.
“It’s Mr. Davis,” I mouth back. “About the building.”
Grace smacks Olivia’s arm, wide-eyed and excited, and Olivia grins, holding up crossed fingers on one hand. Gail reaches over to squeeze my arm, having no clue what’s going on, but wanting to be supportive anyway.
“I’m thinking about the size of the space,” I continue. “It’s big. I would need a lot of flowers to fill the space.”
Mr. Davis chuckles. “I’ve thought about that. If I found someone else who was interested, what do you think about splitting the space and leasing just a portion of it? We could work out the logistics on how much space you’d need, but I –”
“Part of it?” I interrupt. I know I’m being rude, but I need to make sure I’ve heard him correctly.
Because it sounds an awful lot like opening my shop in my dream location is starting to be an actual possibility, and I need to make sure I’ve understood him before my heart and my hopes start sprinting toward the finish line.
I can practically see the Main Street storefront already, with its pastel-colored door and floral arrangements in the big windows and –
“That’s right,” Mr. Davis confirms. “If you don’t need the full space, we’ll work something out.”
We’ll work something out. Had sweeter words ever been spoken?
“I’m absolutely interested in that idea,” I tell him, fighting to keep the giddiness out of my voice.
I look up again to see my best friends beaming at me.
My biggest supporters. My backbone all the times I haven’t been able to find my own.
I can finally feel mine starting to form, inch by inch, as I reach for this dream of mine.
The hopes I’ve always stored securely in a tiny, locked chest in the back of my mind, where they couldn’t disappoint anyone if I didn’t give life to them, didn’t give them the air to breathe and grow.
They’re growing now, and I can’t stop them anymore.
I don’t want to stop them anymore. I’m tired of pretending I’m happy working for my dad, fitting neatly into the role everyone expects me to play.
I’m especially tired of watching my siblings pave their own futures while I’m too scared to fight for my own.
The girl with the flowers, people in Port Myles always call me.
I used to love the nickname. Over the years, though, my chest began to ache every time I heard it.
The girl with the flowers spends her days chained – metaphorically, obviously – to a desk in a dingy office in the back of her dad’s hardware store, crunching numbers and drowning in spreadsheets.
I want a space to call my own, where I can surround myself with flowers and be a small part of the big moments in people’s lives.
The colorful bouquets for first dates and anniversaries and spontaneous just-becauses.
The centerpieces at holiday dinners, and celebrations of a new life or another trip around the sun.
The white lilies to lend a bit of comfort to those in mourning.
I want to give back to the community that has given me nothing but love and kindness since the day we moved here thirteen years ago, in the only way I know how.
“Let’s get together over a cup of coffee and hash out the details,” Mr. Davis suggests. We discuss availability and plan to meet Sunday afternoon when he and his wife are done with church and the brunch that always follows.
The moment I say goodbye and set my phone down on the table, my friends pounce.
“What did he say?” Olivia asks at the same time Grace demands, “Is it yours?”
Gail smiles, still fuzzy on the details but encouraging just the same.
“Mr. Davis is willing to lease instead of sell, and he said we can split the space since it’s bigger than I need,” I explain, hand shaking slightly as I reach for my glass of water. “We’re going to meet for coffee to work out the details.”
Before I can bring my glass to my lips, a set of arms are thrown around me across the table. I quickly set my glass down to avoid spilling it. “I’m so fucking happy for you,” Grace shouts, never one to care about things like inside voices or the many eyes looking on curiously around us.
Olivia piles on and some of the breath squeezes from my lungs as my best friends in the world hold on tight, keeping the fragile bits of my heart together like always, my hopes and dreams tucked in safely along with it.
Calming my shores, even when they don’t know it, didn’t realize I needed it in the first place.
I’m the sweet one, the kind one. The one everybody in town gets along with.
The one every woman over the age of fifty with a single, young relative – be it son, or nephew, or even neighbor – wants to set said relative or neighbor up with.
The one who never argues, never toes the line she’s expected not to cross.
I don’t begrudge the people in this town for viewing me a certain way when I’m the one that laid the foundation for their expectations, but it doesn’t mean my knees never wobble and my back doesn’t bow from the weight of it all.
I might not be the meticulous planner and go-getter Olivia is, or have the unwavering confidence Grace does, but I’ve learned that people gravitate toward kindness.
I have no shortage of people in this town who care for me, but these two are the ones holding me together, the anchor keeping my ship steady when the waves threaten to pull me out to sea.
Some days I feel tired to my bones with the weight of it all: my parents’ expectations, the fear of taking a risk and letting people down, the role at my dad’s business and in this town that I’ve been playing for so long.
I don’t know if it’s even possible to shed the weight of their expectations and my fear of letting people down, but I’m finally ready to try.
“I love you guys,” I whisper. Barely loud enough to be heard over the noise of laughter and silverware clanging and meals being enjoyed, but they hear me. They always do.
“Love you back,” they whisper in unison, squeezing just a little bit tighter.
“Can someone please explain what the hell is going on?” Gail chimes in.
We break apart, laughing, and settle back in our seats just in time to see her snag a fry off Grace’s plate.
“You’re lucky I love you,” she warns. “That’s a punishable offense.”
Before Grace can start waxing poetic about her love for the fries and all the unholy things she’d like to do with the aioli, I tell Gail the story of the big, old, redbrick building on Main that might find new life, one full of flowers and color and, if I’m successful, many happy customers.
It’s too early for my hopes to be as high as they are, yet I can’t help the feeling starting to expand in my chest. The dreams I’ve kept tucked tightly in there are gaining new life and starting to grow.
My ideas for the shop are like ivy, spreading through all the cracks and crevices in my heart and expanding outward, covering everything in its wake.
I’m tired of pretending I’m okay with a life half-lived. I want a life full of color, of beautiful blooms and bouquets crafted with my own two hands. There are bound to be some thorns along the way, but I’ll take those, too, if it means I get to bring these dreams of mine to life.
I don’t know yet where those dreams might take me, but finally, finally, I’m ready to find out.