Chapter 3 Esme
ESME
The alarm went off at five-thirty, jolting me awake.
I lay in the dark for a moment, listening to Madison’s breathing from the other side of the room.
Technically, the apartment only had two bedrooms, but I’d managed to turn the closet into a little haven for Madison.
A small bed with drawers underneath for her toys and books worked better than I’d thought it would.
However, she was still small. A few more years and she wouldn’t fit in the bed. I put that aside to worry about later.
I slipped out of bed, pulled on leggings and a fleece, and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Trevor lifted his head from his bed by the radiator and thumped his tail twice.
“Morning, buddy,” I whispered. “Give me five minutes.”
Our morning routine unfolded as usual. I got Madison dressed and ready for school, made breakfast for her and Robbie and got them on their school busses.
They went different directions, since Robbie’s STEM school was in the next town over.
But once they were gone, Trevor, who always escorted me on the walk to the bus stop, and I headed to work.
Soon, I was deep in flower orders.
A woman came in to order an arrangement for her mother’s seventieth birthday. She spent twenty minutes choosing flowers, telling me stories about her mom’s garden, how they talked every Sunday, how her mother had driven up from Sacramento last month just to help her paint the nursery.
“She sounds wonderful,” I said, wrapping the stems.
“She drives me crazy,” the woman said, laughing. “But I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
After she left, I stood at my counter and let the feeling pass through me the way I’d trained myself to do.
Acknowledge it, don’t fight it, let it go.
My parents lived in Seattle. We’d only spoken a handful of times since my divorce.
The last time we had, my mother had told me I was being selfish for keeping the kids so far away.
Before that, she’d told me I was foolish for turning down Jeff’s offer to reconcile.
Before that, she’d told me the divorce was a mistake I’d regret for the rest of my life.
She’d been wrong about all of it. But being right didn’t make me feel any better.
I picked up my scissors and went back to work.
There was a standing weekly arrangement for Ink & Anchor, our town’s bookstore.
The owner, Dorian, liked something simple on the counter by the register, mostly greenery with a few seasonal stems. Delphine had asked for a large, dramatic arrangement for an event at her gallery.
Gillian had asked for a small bouquet for her front counter at the dance and Pilates studio.
Lila always ordered a bouquet for her interior design studio, mostly because she knew I needed the money. Or that was my guess anyway.
It took me an hour to put the four arrangements together.
When they were ready, I went out to the alley where I kept my bike locked up.
It was a Dutch-style cargo bike I’d found on Craigslist three years ago.
Seafoam green, heavy as a tank, a wooden crate bolted to the front rack and panniers on the back worked surprisingly well for my flower deliveries.
The crate held two arrangements if I packed them tight with towels, and the pannier could handle a third.
A delivery van would have been faster, but a delivery van cost money I didn’t have.
Plus, the bike kept my legs strong and my gas budget at zero.
I got the arrangements tucked into the crate and basket. Trevor was already waiting, tail going, excited for our adventure.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
He knew the routine. He’d trot beside me on the quieter streets, and, when I went inside to deliver, he’d sit by the bike like a very cute, earnest security guard.
We set off.
It was foggy this morning. The street was empty except for a delivery truck idling in front of the grocery store and old Mrs. Jones sweeping the sidewalk in front of her yarn shop. We waved at each other.
I pedaled north on Harbor, past the still-dark windows of the ice cream shop and the toy store with its perpetual display of kites.
The fog was thick enough that the streetlights wore halos, but I could feel the sun behind it, warming up, getting ready.
By ten it would burn off and the sky would turn a pale, washed October blue.
Ink & Anchor was my first stop. The bookstore sat mid-block, wedged between a surf-and-skate shop and a place that sold handmade candles.
Dorian Flynn had inherited it from his mother, who’d run it for thirty years before she passed.
He’d kept everything—the creaky wood floors, the rolling ladder, the cat who lived on the top shelf of the mystery section.
He’d only changed one thing: he’d added a small coffee bar in the back corner, which was either brilliant or desperate, depending on the week.
The lights were already on. Dorian was always up and at it early. I leaned my bike against the lamppost, told Trevor to stay, and carried the arrangement inside.
He was behind the counter, unpacking a box of books. He looked up, smiling. “Morning, Esme.”
“Morning. Weekly delivery.” I set the arrangement on the counter beside the register, turning it so the mums faced out. “What do you think? I went a little more autumnal this week.”
He studied carefully, as if it were of utmost importance that he say just the right thing. “It’s perfect. The dusty miller is a nice touch.”
“I thought so.” I straightened a stem. “You have anything new for me to read?” Dorian understood my affinity for romances.
He reached under the counter and pulled out a paperback. “Just came in yesterday. I put a copy aside for you.” He slid it across to me.
I picked it up. A novel I hadn’t heard of, with a cover illustration of a woman in a garden. “What’s it about?”
“A woman who inherits a flower farm in Cornwall. Right down your alley.”
“Sold.” I tucked it into the back pocket of my leggings, which wasn’t exactly designed for paperback storage but worked in a pinch.
This was the way it worked in Willet Cove. I brought flowers. He paid me with a book.
“Don’t forget to give this to my guy.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a jar of dog biscuits.
“Trust me, he wouldn’t let me forget. He knows it’s coming. You spoil him.”
“He’s a working dog. He deserves a little treat.”
I laughed, thanked him, and left. Trevor was sitting by the bike, vibrating with the effort of not chasing a seagull that had landed three feet away. I held out the biscuit. He inhaled it and then looked longingly inside at Dorian, clearly hoping for another.
“You’re shameless,” I told him. He wagged.
And off we went. South now, toward the gallery. The fog was starting to thin at the edges, and I could see the water for the first time. Flat, grey and still this morning. A few joggers passed me heading the other direction. A woman I recognized from Madison’s school waved from across the street.
I couldn’t help smiling. I loved this part of my day, moving through town with flowers in my basket and my dog beside me and the salt air on my skin. People probably thought I’d lost my mind, a grown woman riding around on a bicycle, but I didn’t care.
Delphine’s gallery didn’t open until eleven, but Delphine was already there. I could see her through the glass, rearranging a display wall in her tailored trousers and a cream silk blouse, looking like a movie star.
She saw me, coming quickly to open the front door to let me in. “Good morning, beautiful Esme.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “That is stunning.”
“You said you wanted a showpiece for your opening.”
“This is a masterpiece.” She guided me toward the front window where a low marble pedestal waited. I set the arrangement down and stepped back, pleased with my arrangement.
“Will you be able to come to the opening?” Delphine asked. “I’ll have wine and snacks.”
“I can’t. I have a date.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”
I gave her more of a rundown than I had to the group the night before about the doctor saving kids from cancer. “He seems promising.”
She studied me for a second, her dark hair glistening under the lights. “What about Grady?”
I shrugged. “You know that’s never going to happen.”
“I wish it would. For you.”
“Yeah, me too.” I didn’t say anything else. She knew it all anyway. The impracticability of a man like Grady. The fact that he obviously only cared about me as a friend. None of it had to be rehashed. Not when you were as close as Delphine and I were.
Rich in friends, I thought, as I said goodbye and headed back out to my dog and my bike.
Grace and Motion, Gillian’s studio, was just across the street from Delphine’s gallery, housed in a red brick landmark with white-painted window arches and a vintage-style hanging sign with pale gold lettering.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could usually catch silhouettes of dancers stretching at the barre or moms in leggings laughing after class.
A cheerful sandwich board sat outside the door, hand-lettered with the day’s schedule and an encouraging note that read You’re stronger than you think. So Gillian.
I locked the bike, told Trevor to stay, and went in. A Pilates class was in session. I could hear Gillian’s voice through the studio door, calm and measured, counting reps. I set the bouquet on the table, swapping out last week’s arrangement.
Outside, Trevor had made a friend—a toddler in a stroller whose mother was trying to get through the studio door. The toddler had Trevor by both ears and Trevor was enduring it with the saintly patience of a dog who had been grabbed by a little girl daily for four years.
“Sorry,” I said, gently detaching my dog. “He’s friendly. Obviously too friendly.”
“He’s a good boy,” the mother said, laughing. “We need a dog like this.”
I held the door for her, climbed back on the cargo bike, and headed for my last stop.
Lila Morgan Interiors was on the sunny side of Harbor. The storefront was painted a soft sea-glass blue with white trim and a hand-lettered sign above the window.
I leaned the bike against the wall and lifted out the last arrangement—white peonies and pale green hydrangeas. I left Trevor and took the last of the deliveries inside to Lila.
Her space was open and light-filled, with high ceilings, painted brick walls, and wide-plank, white oak floors.
The studio was like Lila’s portfolio in miniature.
Vintage brass fixtures. A reclaimed farm table she used as a desk.
Fabric swatches fanned across a side table like a deck of oversized cards.
The whole room smelled like linen and sandalwood.
Lila was at the table with her laptop open and a stack of paint chips in front of her. She looked up when the door creaked.
“Good morning,” I said, setting the vase on the console table by the entrance.
“Oh, those are beautiful. Is that the Annabelle hydrangea?”
“It is. Last of the season. Figured you’d appreciate them before they’re gone.”
Lila came over and adjusted the vase a quarter inch to the left. “How’s it going with the Morrison wedding pieces?”
“It’s been stressful, but Grady helped yesterday. He’s promised to come by today too. It’s nice to have free labor.”
“Is that all he is?” Lila’s eyes twinkled at me.
“Very funny.”
“Go. You have centerpieces to make.” She waved me off and went back to her paint chips, already lost in whatever room she was building in her mind.
Trevor was waiting by the bike, ears up, ready for the next stop.
“That’s it, buddy. Home.”
His tail wagged once, politely, then trotted politely next to the bike as I pedaled back up Harbor Street toward the shop, the October sun warm on my face and the sea air scented with woodsmoke.