Chapter 11
Declan
I blink and opening day is half over. The morning flew by with a steady stream of people filtering in and out, most here for walk-in tattoos and piercings, but some just nosy and wanting to check out the shop or introduce themselves.
Part of small-town living, I guess. Sean seems to enjoy all of the chatting and introductions, so I don’t complain.
I play nice when I have to – or my version of nice, anyway – and focus on doing some kickass flash tattoos.
We have a binder of small designs for people to choose from, quick designs we’re familiar with and can probably do with our eyes closed.
Some artists love flash tattoo days, some hate ‘em. I fall somewhere in the middle. It can sometimes be a nice break from the bigger, time-intensive pieces that require more expertise. Sean and I plan to do maybe one day like this per month, if the demand for it is there. If we don’t draw big enough crowds to make it worth our while, we’ll scale back to every other month.
So far, we haven’t been hurting for customers. I wouldn’t have expected this big of a turnout in a small town like this, but the line of people stretches out the door and down the front of the building, all the way to Elsie’s front door.
At the reminder of Elsie next door, I can’t help myself; I lift my machine from the sparrow I’m inking onto someone’s collarbone and look through the window between our shops.
I’m just in time to see Elsie toss her head back in a laugh, her hand clutching the forearm of a woman who looks like an older version of her blonde friend.
I’ve lost track of the number of times today that I’ve been distracted by the brunette next door.
Again and again my eyes wander to her end of the building, watching as she charms customers and shows off her flowers and receives too many hugs for my liking.
Every person who walks through her door seems to love her.
I’m not surprised, but I’m in awe watching her.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone so universally liked.
I’ve even heard her name a handful of times in our own shop, though I couldn’t discern what they were saying over the noise of our machines, music and the constant chatter around me.
“Finished already?” the woman reclined in the chair in front of me asks. Her voice snaps me back to the task at hand and I reluctantly turn back to her tattoo, the nearly finished sparrow taking flight across her collarbone.
“Almost,” I tell her, getting back to work.
I’ve been surprised by some of the people who have come in to get inked today.
One of the guys from the Chamber of Commerce rolled up his crisp white shirt sleeve and got a lobster tattooed on his forearm, and a sweet older woman who introduced herself as Pastor Nancy had Sean tattoo a tiny butterfly on the inside of her wrist.
When I finish the sparrow, I take a minute to check my supplies and see if anything needs replacing before I start my next one.
At the station next to mine, Sean is bent over a woman’s back as he inks a design behind her shoulder.
On the other side of me, closest to the piercing station, is Maya, the artist we poached from the shop Sean used to work at in Portland.
She chats with a guy who looks like he’s barely out of high school as he flips through the design book.
She’s a new artist, barely finished with her apprenticeship, but she does some damn fine work.
I’m glad she was so willing to come work for us when Sean approached her about it.
I believe her exact words were, “Hell fucking yeah, I will.” It helps that she did her apprenticeship under Sean and practically worships the ground he works on.
I can’t even blame her for it. The fucker does some of the best tattoos I’ve ever seen, though I wouldn’t admit it to him. No need to make his big, bald head any bigger.
In the back corner of the shop, Eddie stays just as busy with people wanting everything from ears to noses to – sorry, Elsie – their nipples pierced. We had debated hiring a second piercer, but Sean and I are both licensed as well, so we figured we can step in to help him out as needed.
I’m sanitizing my chair when my next client approaches, a man who wants the outline of Maine tattooed on his inner bicep. We added a bunch of Maine and New England-themed tattoos to our flash design binder and I’m glad we did. They’ve been our bestsellers today by far.
While I wipe his arm down and get my supplies situated, the man, who introduces himself as Todd, begins chatting away like we’re old friends.
“My wife said I’ve got enough tattoos already, and you know, I might have agreed with her, but I said, ‘Listen, Linda – I’ve got to support a new local business. It’s the right thing to do.’ And before she could argue, I left.”
“Wow.” Chatty people like this, they don’t need much encouragement to keep going. A well-timed “wow” or “that’s crazy” can keep them on a roll through an entire appointment, I’ve learned over the years. I don’t see any other tattoos on him, but I don’t ask about the others.
“Sammy Tucker!” the man yells about halfway through his tattoo, noticing Sean’s next customer approaching. I lift my machine and sit back, and he takes the opportunity to lean forward and shake the man’s hand.
“Hey, Todd,” the man says. “You remember my wife, Jenna?”
The two greet each other and Todd settles back in his chair, arm held back out for me to continue. The three of them chat animatedly while Sean and I work, and thankfully they need no input from us while they give updates about how they’ve been and gossip about mutual acquaintances.
I’m just finishing up the star where Port Myles would be located in Maine when a mention of Elsie has my ears perking up. I keep working, pretending I’m not listening.
“Isn’t she just the sweetest thing?” Jenna says. “I have a bouquet from her on my kitchen table right now.”
“Really?” Todd asks. “What for?”
“I was working on her car and finished up a few days earlier than expected. She was needing it to go pick up flowers from some local farms before opening day. She was so happy that I had it ready ahead of schedule.”
“Bet she brought you flowers the very next day,” Todd says knowingly.
I glance up to see both Jenna and Sammy smiling. “That evening, actually,” Sammy says.
Todd glances at me, noticing I’m tuned into their conversation.
“She’s the girl with the flowers,” he tells me, like that explains everything.
“Ah,” I say, because what the fuck else do I say to that?
“Getting flowers from Elsie Carmichael is, like, a thing in Port Myles,” Sammy explains. “It’s how she shows people she cares about them, how she thanks them, how she lets them know she’s thinking of them.”
“Help her out with her car? Flowers,” Todd says. “You break your leg? Flowers. You have a good conversation after running into her at the grocery store? Flowers.”
“I saw a woman just yesterday with a bouquet that looked like it was from Elsie’s garden,” Jenna says. “Beautiful peonies and marigolds.”
The wave of jealousy that washes over me is strong and unexpected. Hearing Elsie described by these people who know her so well does something to me. There are so many versions of her I haven’t met yet. I can’t help wondering if I’ll ever get the chance to.
There’s a long list of reasons I should stay away from Elsie Carmichael.
Top of the list is that I swore I wouldn’t be hooking up with anyone in this town.
Never mind the minor, annoying detail that I think I want to do more than just hook up with her.
I actually want to get to know her, which might be a first for me.
I don’t typically want to know people. Even Sean forced his friendship on me, like those burdocks that stick to your clothes and hair when you walk through the woods. I wasn’t looking for a friend, but I got one anyway.
I’m not in the market for more friends, but fuck, I think I’d take whatever Elsie wanted to give me. Like flowers.
I say none of this to our customers. “Sounds nice,” I say instead, and set to work cleaning up Todd’s tattoo.
The rest of the day is a blur of customers, quick tattoos, introductions to new people and more conversation than I’ve had in a long time. It’s mentally and physically exhausting, but the work itself is a blast.
I try to keep my head down, stay focused on the work and ignore people as much as possible. I also try, and fail, to ignore her.
Because it turns out that the window Elsie was so stressed about is both a blessing and a curse.
I can’t help glancing through it every spare moment I have, happy to catch glimpses of her as she works.
I catalog everything – the sips of tea between customers, the way she bites her lip when she’s arranging a bouquet, the way every single person who walks through her door seems to know and adore her.
I tuck away these small bits of her, the pieces to a bigger puzzle I’m trying to put together.
I ignore the knowing looks from Sean every time he catches me staring. He’s a perceptive little shit, always seeing more than I want him to. I think he clocked whatever it is I’m feeling for Elsie that day of the Chamber of Commerce meeting, though he hasn’t mentioned it yet. Hopefully never will.
As we work, Todd’s words keep nagging at the back of my mind.
She’s the girl with the flowers.
I’ve never received a flower in my life, never given a single fuck about them. But from Elsie? This ache in my chest tells me I’d do some questionable things to have her thinking about me, let alone enough to give me a hand-picked bouquet from her garden.
I may be nothing but thorns, but I’d happily take flowers from Elsie if she ever saw fit to give them to me.
Despite knowing I should stay away from her, being worthy of the sweet brunette who gifts flowers like pieces of her soul to everyone she cares about just bumped to the top of my to-do list.