4. Lavinia
LAVINIA
Iam not ashamed to admit that I have always been nosy.
Even as a child, I was the sort to press my ear against the wall beside the telephone cradle, tracking the rise and fall of my mother's voice the way a sailor tracks the weather.
I'd linger in the upstairs hallway long after bedtime, sitting with my back against the baseboard in the dark, waiting to catch whatever argument or laughter drifted through the heating vent before I finally gave in to sleep.
It wasn't simply curiosity.
It was self-defense.
By high school, I'd convinced myself my gift was practically a superpower. I'd joke that if someone within two miles of Main Street had a terrible day, I'd feel the echo of it before they ever walked through my front door. It sounded impressive until I admitted the truth.
Some people become good at reading a room because they've never once felt completely safe inside one.
Which is why this thing with Grim is driving me absolutely insane.
It's not even the mystery itself.
It's the impossibility of it.
Until now, I'd never met a living person whose thoughts I couldn't brush against if I tried. Some minds were louder than others, certainly, but everyone carried something—a grocery list, an unfinished argument, a song stuck on repeat, the vague panic that they'd forgotten to lock the back door.
Grim carried nothing.
Not peace.
Not silence.
Nothing.
Every time I reached for his thoughts, it was like stretching toward an empty space where a person ought to be. The constant hum of everyone else simply . . . disappeared around him.
It shouldn't have been possible.
Which, naturally, meant I couldn't stop thinking about it.
By ten o'clock the next morning, I have wandered past the front window no fewer than seventeen times under increasingly ridiculous excuses.
I've straightened the display of potted herbs twice, watered the succulents that don't need watering, and reorganized a shelf of ribbon according to absolutely no logical system.
From the amused look Jasper keeps giving me, I suspect I resemble a child waiting for the ice cream truck.
Unfortunately, the street remains stubbornly ordinary.
Delivery vans block the curb.
Mrs. Garcia's spaniel christens the hydrangea planter for what is surely the third time that week.
A tourist in bright yellow rain boots photographs the mural on the old post office from six different angles.
No Grim.
I am elbow-deep in a basket of forget-me-nots when Mrs. Garcia herself sweeps through the front door wearing a plastic rain bonnet and carrying a canvas tote that proudly declares World's Okayest Grandma.
She sets her purse on the counter with theatrical purpose before leaning toward me.
"Did you see him?"
I look up innocently.
"See who?"
She waves one hand toward the front windows.
"The new funeral director. Tall, dark, and . . ." She lowers her voice another notch. "I don't want to say sinister, but he looks like he could read your soul and still charge extra for the casket spray."
I laugh, mostly because it's safer than admitting I've spent far too much time wondering about him already.
"He's not the funeral director," Jasper announces, materializing behind Mrs. Garcia like an opinionated ghost. "Atlas says he's some kind of insurance investigator looking into whatever happened down at the docks."
Mrs. Garcia sniffs.
"Well, I don't much care what he investigates. Ever since he started showing up, we've had better attendance at funerals than we have in years. Last week's service was standing room only."
"That was because the mayor's dog ate those wolfsbane cupcakes," Jasper reminds her.
"Details."
Before the debate can gather any more momentum, Clover breezes through the door balancing a tray of slightly lopsided cronuts.
"Peace offering," she announces cheerfully. "Today's maple glaze staged a rebellion."
She spots Mrs. Garcia and immediately leans in.
"Have you heard about the mysterious man in black?"
Mrs. Garcia folds her arms triumphantly.
"I started this conversation."
"I heard he's a priest," Clover says. "One of those mysterious orders where they only wear black and spend all day talking to dead people."
Jasper frowns.
"I don't think priests usually carry themselves like that."
"Like what?"
He considers the question thoughtfully.
". . . He has really nice posture."
I escape to the back room before the laughter wins.
For the rest of the afternoon, Blackthorn Bay continues inventing Grim's biography. Depending on who wanders into the flower shop, he is an insurance adjuster, a government investigator, the mayor's forgotten cousin, a retired spy, or a mortician with unusually expensive tailoring.
The only thing everyone agrees on is that he isn't from around here.
I smile, nod, and listen while quietly adding absolutely nothing useful to the conversation.
If anything, I want answers even more than they do.
So, instead of obsessing over impossible men in impeccably tailored black coats, I throw myself into work.
The morning rush carries us straight through lunch before another funeral order lands on my counter. I reach automatically for purple snapdragons and white stock, barely glancing at the order form before I already know whose name I'll find.
Kilian Vane.
He and his late wife had been regulars years ago, back when Wednesday market days were still a ritual, not a memory. Every solstice he bought lilies despite insisting his wife hated them, and every year I smiled politely while pretending to believe him.
Tucked inside his customer file is a handwritten note in his careful script.
No lilies if I outlive her.
I have always wondered if he'd eventually change his mind.
Now I know he hasn't.
I am sorting through Queen Anne's lace, setting aside the stems with more green than blossom, when the bell above the front door chimes.
I look up . . .
. . . and nearly forget how to breathe.
Grim stands quietly in the doorway, rain beading across the shoulders of his black coat before slipping silently to the floor.
He doesn't speak immediately. Instead, he stands quietly inside the doorway, allowing the little bell above it to fall silent.
His gaze drifts around the shop, taking in the flowers, the shelves, the buckets crowding the worktables.
There is nothing intrusive about the way he looks.
If anything, he reminds me of a naturalist studying an unfamiliar landscape, patient enough to let it reveal itself.
I realize I'm staring.
Again.
"So . . ." I say, leaning one hip against the worktable. "Back for more coffee?"
His mouth hints at the smallest smile.
"No, thank you. I'm here on behalf of the Vane family. They wanted me to see the arrangements before tomorrow."
"Oh."
I nod, pretending that's a perfectly normal request from a perfectly normal man whose thoughts continue to refuse to exist.
He walks slowly past the display buckets before stopping near the Japanese anemones.
"You have Anemone japonica."
It isn't a question.
I blink.
"You know your flowers."
"My mother kept a garden."
There is something in his voice that makes me look at him more carefully. Sadness, perhaps, though not the raw kind. It has been softened by time, polished smooth around the edges until it feels more like remembrance than grief.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
He gives the slightest shake of his head.
"It was a very long time ago."
The answer is simple enough, yet something about it lingers in my thoughts.
I gesture toward the buckets.
"Would you like to choose anything? We're using violets and snapdragons, but there's still time to add something more personal."
He studies the flowers for a long moment before looking back at me.
"No."
His gaze settles on the arrangement already waiting near the cooler.
"I think you've already honored him well."
The compliment catches me off guard.
"Thank you."
We stand closer than either of us seems to notice. He smells faintly of cedar and rain, the sort of clean scent that reminds me of walking through the woods after a storm. For the briefest moment, I have the odd sensation that he's studying me just as carefully as I've been studying him.
"You really do attend every funeral," I say.
It's less a question than an observation.
"I do."
"Why?"
"It is my work."
"And what exactly is your work?"
He is quiet for so long that I assume I've pushed too far.
Then he says, "I observe. I remember. I make sure no one is left alone at the end."
There is no mystery in the way he says it.
No attempt to sound important.
It's simply the truth.
I could ask another dozen questions, but something tells me I wouldn't receive another answer.
Instead, I tie the final ribbon around Kilian's bouquet and carry it to the counter.
"You don't owe me anything."
He accepts the arrangement carefully, as though flowers deserve the same respect as the people they honor.
Our fingers almost touch.
Almost.
The smallest spark dances across my skin.
Not painful.
Just . . . unexpected.
He inclines his head.
"Thank you."
Then he's gone.
Jasper appears beside me so suddenly I nearly drop the scissors.
"That guy is the weirdest thing to happen around here since the fox wandered into the elementary school."
I watch the door a second longer.
"I don't think weird is the right word."
"What is the right word?"
I honestly don't know.
By the time I lock the shop that evening, the rain has softened to a fine mist that turns every streetlamp into a hazy golden halo.
Instead of heading upstairs, I find myself walking toward St. Aloysius.
The church doors stand open.
Inside, tomorrow's flowers already frame the altar, filling the sanctuary with soft color and the faint perfume of fresh greenery.
Near the front pew, I spot Grim.
Beside him stands a little boy I assume must be Kilian's grandson.
The child chatters happily while pointing at one of the bouquets, and Grim gives him his complete attention, listening with a patience that would put most adults to shame.
The little boy slips his hand into Grim's without the slightest hesitation, continuing his very serious explanation of something involving butterflies.
Grim nods solemnly, as though every word matters.
The child beams.
Something inside my chest quietly melts.
Children have always been excellent judges of character.
I linger only a moment before Grim looks up.
Our eyes meet across the sanctuary.
He doesn't wave.
He simply offers the faintest smile.
It feels strangely like being included in a secret.
Not wanting to interrupt, I slip back outside.
Belladonna Blooms is dark by the time I return to lock up.
I flip the sign to Closed, gather my keys, and glance through the front window.
Across the street, beneath the glow of a streetlamp, stands Grim.
He isn't watching the shop.
He's watching the intersection.
Curiosity gets the better of me.
I step outside.
"Should I be worried you're following me?"
"No."
His answer comes so matter-of-factly that I almost laugh.
"Then what are you doing?"
He nods toward the crosswalk.
Only then do I notice the elderly woman making her careful way across the street, grocery bags hanging heavily from both arms.
She pauses halfway across.
For just a heartbeat.
Grim inclines his head ever so slightly.
The woman straightens, adjusts her grip, and continues with renewed determination until she reaches the opposite curb safely.
Only then does Grim relax.
I look from him to the woman and back again.
"You're not what I thought you were."
"No."
His expression softens.
"I'm rarely what people expect."
I study him for another moment.
"Well . . . if you're going to keep wandering past my flower shop, you could always come inside for tea like a normal person."
A smile touches his face.
"I might."
"I'll consider that progress."
"So will I."
He inclines his head in farewell before disappearing into the evening mist.
I watch until I can no longer make out the dark silhouette of his coat.
For someone whose thoughts I can't hear . . .
He is becoming surprisingly easy to understand.