After a few seconds of thinking and more looking at me (I squirm) he says the five words I absolutely did not want to hear. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“What? Ugh. Why can’t you just tell me?” I try to picture myself walking up to him, asking that question. Would he laugh like he did a few minutes ago, like he’s comfortable with me? Would he smirk, like that first day? Or would the question annoy him? Keagan seems to think there’s something important about the sweaters, more important than just style, but I don’t really want to ask Levi.
Keagan rolls his eyes at me. “Because, Bee. He wears the sweaters so people will ask about them.”
“But you could just answer it for him.”
“And steal all his joy? Nope.” He drinks the last of his beer and tosses the bottle in the trash. “If you want answers, you’ve got to step it up. And trust me—you won’t regret it.”
I am saved from (possible) humiliation by my brother begging me to take him home. Andrea is already by the car, and they’re both pissed—with alcohol and anger.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice that they were gone, that they’d gone off somewhere, arguing. No, not arguing—fighting. Tom’s face is red, his hands are fists, and I don’t know how to respond except nod and follow him. I say goodbye to Keagan as we head out the door, apologizing for the quick departure, promising, at his persistent request, that I’ll come hang out at the shop one day soon. And as I put the key into the ignition and look back at the house and start the car, I can’t help but feel like I left something unfinished. Like there was something more waiting for me inside.
Once I drive onto the main road, I roll down the windows to escape the stifling tension radiating between Andrea and Tom. I’ve seen them fight before, but never like this. Tom is fuming, and Andrea looks like she couldn’t care less if he lived or died. I slip the charging cord into my iPod and start the music, hoping some happy songs will lighten the mood, and that I won’t feel so stupid for not asking the one simple question I am dying to know the answer to.
Chapter 8
On Tuesday, I end up working in the flower shop alone. It’s slow, and there are too many loose flowers and no walk-in customers to take them off my hands. We don’t even have deliveries—imagine that! And since no one is here to make a mess for me to clean, I sit at the front desk and twirl my newly trimmed hair in my fingers, messaging Gretchen, hoping that something will happen so Tracy has to come in to work.
I sit idly for an hour before my gaze is drawn to the cooler by three tiny yellow roses, the last of their dozen, sitting alone amidst a dozen red and a dozen purple. They’re several days older than the rest, which means Tracy will likely throw them out before she can use them.
What’s the worst that could happen? I ask myself. Tracy telling me off for using a few bad flowers? I’d never do it again and she’d forget about it in less than an hour.
I glance at them several times, my heart thudding, before taking matters into my own hands. Leaving the front desk, I enter the cooler and gather the roses hastily, along with some leftover stock, a couple of mums, and leather. I grab a vase to go with it, too, something tall and yellow, one of the mismatched vases somebody donated to the shop. Tracy won’t miss it, and if she does…well, this arrangement is just an experiment. Tracy can dump the flowers if she wants.
Laying everything out on the table, I start by cutting the leather stems. The first time they’re too tall, and the second time they’re too short, so I grab another bunch and cut them to an almost perfect length. Because I don’t want to try again and mess it up, I organize the leather into the vase around the edges to create a frame, and then start on the rose stems.
A few minutes later, I take a big step backward so I can see the full piece. As adorable as it is, I’m almost tempted to take it apart. What if it’s not as good as I think it is right now? What if Tracy sees it and hates it? What if I come back to work tomorrow and want to pretend I never made it?
But…look at it, Bee, I argue with myself. I set the arrangement at the back of the cooler, away from customers but exactly where Tracy puts her ice coffee every morning. With any luck, it will make her smile.
With a glance at the clock, I realize I’ve spent an hour on this arrangement. I hurry to clean up the leaves and petals that now grace the worktable and floor, then finish the last items on the checklist. At six o’clock sharp, I lock the front door behind me, my hair whipping in the oceanside wind, my mouth curving with a smile.
I don’t see Tracy at all the next day when I open the shop later in the morning at her insistence. I do see all the signs of her early morning escapades: freshly brewed coffee in the kitchenette, new flowers in the cooler, ribbons strewn across the tables. To my surprise, the arrangement I made is no longer at the back of the cooler, but in the front.
Tracy made a few adjustments, adding pink spray roses to complement the yellow—and she’s selling it at a discounted price because the flowers are older—but it’s there. And when the arrangement sells at noon, the buyer complimenting it again and again, I find the flowers I want next, make myself at home at the worktable, and I do it again…
…and again and again and again. Every new day, Tracy puts the arrangement at the front for a discounted price, and by closing it sells. On the fourth day, when Tracy comes by the shop in the evening for weekend wedding prep, she immediately checks the cooler’s front display.
I know she’s looking for my arrangement, but she won’t find it. It sold twenty minutes ago to an elderly lady looking for something small to brighten her kitchen.
Tracy waves, but passes right by me. “Meet me in the back in five minutes, young lady.”
Hands jittery, I close the cash register and finish hanging ribbons on their rack before joining Tracy at the worktable. She gives me a once-over, as if deep in thought, arms crossed over her chest. I take a drink of water while I wait, pretending I’m not vexed by her seriousness.
Then she asks, “Do you want a promotion?”
I almost spew water across the table. I choke it down, coughing. “Um.” I cough again, covering my mouth until it passes. “What…what do you mean?”
Tracy taps her fingernails along the worktable. “You have a real gift, Bee. I want you to be my on-call designer. I need help with designing throughout the week so I can focus on weddings. I’d pay you more, of course. And train you.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, split between shock and excitement.
“How about thank you and yes. Those will do the trick.” She pauses, then adds, “If you don’t mind.”
If you don’t mind. As if! But of course, I try not to seem too overeager. (I fail.) “This is…amazing.” My eyes are bugging out, I just know they are. “Seriously, you think I’m that good?”