Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Griffin
Thank heavens that bird-hatted lady took off. I can’t fathom how Aunt Clara tolerated everyone knowing her business.
Ruby is already back to fluffing a vase of roses and humming a song I don’t recognize.
Even though it’s obvious she’s nervous, there’s something light and effortless about her.
I watch her flit about the room, trying to figure out what the sensation is filling up my chest. I settle on heartburn.
A mix of coffee on an empty stomach plus this decidedly unusual business manager with whom I’ll need to work.
I feel for the envelope in my pocket, the one Aunt Clara left with explicit instructions. A letter expressing her final wishes.
Griffin, my dear nephew, if you are reading this, know that I write these words with love.
Oopsie Daisies has always been my pride and joy, but despite my best efforts, it isn’t turning a profit.
I want you to go to Silver Pine and try to save the shop.
Not only for the books or for the bottom line.
But for the heart of it. Give it your all for thirty days.
If it still can’t stand on its own, you’re free to walk away…
My jaw tightens. I drop the envelope back into my pocket and clear my throat. Ruby is now cutting what looks like paper hearts.
“You’re obviously busy. Can we set an appointment to speak in the morning?”
Her hands freeze mid-cut. She looks up, the edges of her lips turning downward. “You’re staying in Silver Pine?”
She doesn’t sound thrilled about it.
“Yes. We have business to attend to.”
Ruby exhales, resigned. “Well, I don’t really have a schedule. I sort of do things as they come up.”
Shocking that this business is on its last legs.
“Perhaps you can set some time aside after you close. Say, seven o’clock?”
“Well…”
She is definitely preparing to dodge. I put on my negotiating hat. “I’ll buy.”
She considers. “See you at The Blue River Bistro at seven.”
I nod goodbye and step outside, pulling out my phone to video call Logan.
When my brother’s face pops up on my screen, he’s sweaty and mid-treadmill, as usual. He squints.
“Bro… are you seriously wearing a Brioni in a town with one traffic light?”
“Hello to you, too.” I one-handedly close my coat around the suit. “What’s wrong with my Brioni?”
“Nothing, if you’re headed to a board meeting, not a florist-slash-post-office-slash-ski-shop.”
“This is who I am, Logan. I show up prepared and professional.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, slowing the treadmill, “small towns don’t care about predictable. They care about real.”
“Real doesn’t require abandoning good tailoring.”
Somehow, even in our forties, we still bicker like teenagers.
Logan smirks. “Tell that to the woman who runs the flower shop. Bet she smelled city-boy on you from a mile away.”
My jaw tightens. “Her name is Ruby,” I say. “And she won’t be a problem.”
Logan laughs like he knows better. “Sure.”
I change the subject and give him a rundown of the morning. I came here on impulse after being blown off, but the thought of driving all the way back to Denver feels daunting.
“Looks like I’ll be here for a while. Have Jean go to my place, pack up some of my clothes and toiletries, and send them by car service. And make sure to send all the tax forms you can find on Oopsie Daisies. Everything. Something tells me they aren’t easily accessible here.”
“On it,” Logan says. “You tell the manager you’re likely to close it?”
“No chance yet. I’m meeting her tonight, but I think she senses what’s coming.”
“What about Aunt Clara’s last wish?”
When the estate lawyer handed me the letter, I was flummoxed. How am I supposed to resurrect a failing business I barely understand, in thirty days? Clara asked for something enormous. Bigger than she ever asked of me while she was alive. She had to know that.
I see the bird hat lady chatting with someone across the street, probably sharing whatever intel she gleaned from me.
“Honestly, I don’t know. This small town may be more than I can handle for a full month.”
“Try not to stand out like a sore thumb. I’ll tell Jean to toss in some sweaters.”
“No sweaters.”
As we sign off, my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since I left Denver hours ago. I head back to the café across the street. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a quiet corner and a sugar-free hot meal.
The woman who worked here earlier is gone. Behind the counter, a woman with a cloud of white hair and a no-nonsense stare looks me up and down. Her name tag reads, Mae.
I point to the mini easel on the counter. “I’ll take the soup and sandwich special.”
“Coming right up.” Then, “You’re the guy auditing Oopsie Daisies?”
I pause, blink. I’ve spoken to only two people since arriving. “Griffin Renshaw,” I say, not answering her question. “I’m the owner, not auditor.” It’s like that old game of telephone where words get distorted when passed around.
Her demeanor slightly shifts. “I know the shop’s been struggling but people around here love Oopsie Daisies. In case you’re thinking of shutting it down, it’s not what Clara would have wanted.”
I’ve been in town half an hour and I’m already in the running for least popular man in Silver Pine.
“You knew my aunt well?” I ask.
“Of course. She left us a year ago. Half the town made the trip to Denver for her funeral.”
Come to think of it, there were plenty of guests I didn’t recognize.
“That was nice,” I say.
“She was one of us.”
She doesn’t need to add “and you’re not.” The message is clear. Anyone who sells the shop will be persona non grata.
I mutter something about needing to eat, then take a seat. I can practically feel the letter burning a hole in my pocket.
Mae brings over my order without a word. Fine by me. The less chitchat, the better.
When the bill arrives, I ask about places to stay.
“Winter’s a tough time for a last-minute booking.”
“Any suggestions?” I ask.
Mae says, “The owner of Paws and Claws Rescue rents out the apartment upstairs. Not fancy, but clean. And the rent helps the animals.”
I stifle a sigh and thank her. I pay the bill, find the address on my GPS, and walk over.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of a storefront painted a bright turquoise, paw prints marching up the door, and a sign that reads: “Adopt, Don’t Shop!
” I pull a pack of tissues from my pocket and step inside where I’m assaulted by a chorus of barking and the powerful scent of Eau de Wet Dog.
Behind the counter, a woman in a faded hoodie is coaxing a kitten out of a laundry basket. She glances up, eyes narrowing at my suit and briefcase.
“Can I help you?” she asks, like she isn’t sure if I’m here to adopt a puppy or sue one.
“I heard you have an apartment for rent?”
Her face softens. “You must be the city guy.”
Seriously?
“I’m Harper. The place is upstairs. One bedroom, tiny kitchen. You’ll share the stairwell with a couple of rescue cats but they’re harmless. Mostly.”
I glance at the staircase, ignoring the itch in my throat. A tabby sprawls across the third step, tail flicking like a warning.
The first sneeze hits. Then five more.
Harper frowns. “Allergic?”
I nod. “Cats. Figured I’d give it a shot.”
A dog howls out back like a wolverine.
I head for the door. “Not going to work,” I say between sneezes.
Harper gives me an empathetic smile. “Maybe try Geraldine’s Barn and Grill.”
“You mean bar and grill?”
She shakes her head. “Farm to table.”
I leave that one alone.
“They’ve got a small guesthouse. Make sure they give you a room upwind.”
I head out, still sneezing, certain I’m being Punk’d.
Aunt Clara, I hope you’re happy. Because I’m pretty sure you’re laughing your head off right now.