Chapter Five
Hema
Being a florist was so much more than I’d ever dreamed it would be.
When I first moved here, I worked different jobs and met people that way, but now I had a window into their worlds.
For example, old Mrs. Olson. When her husband passed away, he’d arranged for her to receive a rose every week.
This arrangement was made with the previous florist who had been located on Main Street.
When they shut down, five years ago, so did her rose connection.
When I opened the shop, the lady who helped me with the grant paperwork told me about it.
The lady was ninety if she was a day, and she’d been married to her husband for over sixty years.
That flower was her reminder that even though he wasn’t physically present, he was with her in spirit.
What could I do but call her up and tell her that I had her contract transferred to me and she could come any day and pick up her first rose.
I also offered to deliver, but she liked popping in.
Usually, like today, sometime during the morning.
Every time, she told me the same story about her Henry and the rose he gave her for her high school graduation and how he’d wanted to leave her this legacy.
I didn’t know what happened to the money for the flowers.
It most likely went down with the ship when the previous florist closed, but one rose a week wasn’t going to hurt my bottom line.
In fact, it was a very inexpensive way to give back to someone in the community who needed a little boost. Those five years without the flower must have been hard for her.
This was an example of that intimacy I had with people.
They came in with their happiness and sorrow and while I’d expected to take orders for all those things, I hadn’t known that I would be privy to so many of the details of their private lives.
Maybe I was just a friendly face. I sure tried to present one.
My van, parked out back, had a sign on the side, but when I had enough money, I would be getting it wrapped with a gorgeous floral display.
Also, I’d be hiring someone besides me to drive it.
Goals. Achievable ones, I believed. Especially with the orders from the surrounding towns that I had to deliver after closing three nights a week.
I climbed up on the stool behind the counter to check the website and see if I needed to change my route for the next trip.
As the door closed behind Mrs. Olson, the bell rang again, and I looked up to see three men crowding the doorway.
The narrow storefront seemed reasonably big, usually, or at least adequate.
I had a few customers in here all the time, but with these three, it felt as if there was no extra space at all.
They were all taller than average, broader shouldered, and they just seemed to fill up every inch.
“Hi,” I said. “Welcome. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. This is a very nice store you have here.” Spoken by the one who might be an inch taller than the others.
“Thank you. I try to keep things neat and clean.”
“Where did you find a muralist here?” he asked. “I’ve never seen one like it.”
“You like it?” Because never having been one before might mean nothing more than it sucked.
“Very much. Can we get a closer look?”
“Sure.” A little trill of happiness encouraged me as they approached the counter. “It’s a meadow back where I come from.”
“You come from a beautiful place,” the second man said. He was dressed all in black and had an air about him that I found intriguing.
“No, not really. That’s actually a vacant lot but in spring it had so many flowers, it almost looked like a meadow.
They all told me their names, and I led them around the shop, showing them the specialty products we had for sale as well as the various items. They were cordial and interested, asking questions about various flowers and other things.
Before I knew what I was doing, I’d shown them virtually every flower and plant, proud of my stock and my decor.
I had to recognize what I was doing. I never gave tours.
The shop was small enough to see it all from anywhere you stood.
The tall guy at the front looked a lot like the one who got away the other day.
That was a silly way to put it, but he had caught my attention, wearing a suit that day, possibly the only person in town who was.
My wolf was at the surface, enjoying them and wanting to rub against them. No reminder that we were here to live our life as a successful business person made her want them any less.
They were so sweet making all kinds of nice comments about the shop, and I found myself laughing a little and enjoying their company, wanting to keep them a little longer just because.
When I came here, men were the least thing on my mind, but I’d have had to be made of plastic not to be aware of how good-looking these men were.
And the fact that they were all talking to me, flirting a little maybe, went right to my head.
But I was enjoying myself, showing off a little, until I finally asked, “Why did you come in today? I presume not just to admire the flowers.”
The second man smiled and said, “No, we’re here to set up flowers for a wedding at the speakeasy.” And then I snapped out of the clouds.
A wedding. They were getting married, and I was making a fool of myself around someone else’s men. I felt so foolish.