“Yeah,” he laughed. “Yeah, I have. Hope I’ve unwound enough to sleep. These races—you either crash afterward or are too wired to sleep. Tell Charlie I’ll text him if I’m on my way tomorrow.”
“I will,” she said. “It was nice of you to text him. Thanks.”
“Of course I would. You’re friends of mine. Bye, then.”
Eleven
Grace was putting out her fall sidewalk displays, though the first holiday, Halloween, was weeks away. September was growing ripe, football season was in full swing, leaves on the surrounding hillsides were changing, fall rains were cold and unpredictable and people had begun to decorate their front doors with stalks of Indian corn and fall wreaths of colored leaves and pinecones.
Grace and Troy had each begun winter projects. Troy had hired a stonemason to finish the outdoor hearth. It wasn’t too complicated because the foundation and gas pipe were already installed. It was too complicated for Troy, however. Between Grace and Winnie they had convinced him not to play with gas or electricity. So the fireplace man was called.
Putting a metal frame over the base and building around it with the stone Grace and Winnie selected appeared to be a simple process, though time-consuming, and work stopped for rain because of the outdoor location of the fireplace. There seemed to be activity around that project every day.
During the construction of the fireplace, Grace couldn’t stay away. She closed the shop twice a day to check on the progress; Troy used his lunch hour to drive home and look things over. The mason was an older, seasoned man in his sixties who had told them to expect at least ten days for the construction, did not show up every day and was not open to suggestions. His name was Keebler, like the cookies. It was never clear whether that was a first name, last name or only name. And he was highly recommended and grumpy as all hell.
“But what if I don’t like it?” Grace asked him.
“You’ll like it,” he said. “Everyone likes my work.”
“And if it doesn’t seem to fit? The appearance of it, I mean.”
“You picked the stone. I reckon you can start over. My schedule is a little tight.”
It was obvious if they didn’t like the work, they’d be buying a second fireplace. But he’d done Cooper’s and it was beautiful. They all held their breath and watched the slow evolution of the outdoor hearth.
Meanwhile, Grace was trying to find a manager for the shop. She interviewed a few women from the area and it was taxing. She came close to hiring one just based on her enthusiasm, but in the end her lack of experience just wouldn’t do. Even though the best assistant money could buy had been Ginger, a woman with virtually no experience other than a love of flowers and other beautiful things and a fierce desire to be useful.
She was having an interview that afternoon and she was very hopeful. Ronaldo Germain had owned his own shop in Grants Pass, which he lost to the woes of recession. The last thing she expected was a slim blond man named Ronaldo. But it was rare for a man she didn’t know to come into her shop, so when he entered she stood from her place at the worktable and said, “May I help you?”
“Ronaldo Germain, here to see the owner,” he said. And he looked around her shop, his nose definitely in the air. As if her adorable little shop was somehow inferior!
For a second it occurred to her to say the owner wasn’t available today. She didn’t have a good feeling.
“I’m Grace Headly, Mr. Germain,” she said. “This is my shop.”
“Lovely,” he said insincerely.
“Come into the back,” she said. “I’m working on a piece and we can chat while I finish. I’ve already read through your very impressive résumé.”
He followed her and when they were in the back room he said, “Call me psychic, but I think I see the reason you’re in the market for a manager. You’re not one of those modern mothers, planning to bring the baby to work, are you?”
“You don’t like children? Babies?” she asked.
“Not in the workplace, no, but it’s your business, not mine.”
“Right. Well, I saw in your cover letter that you owned a shop that fell on hard times and had to sell. Are you employed as a florist now?”
“I am a barista,” he said, again the lift of the chin.
It was really at that point that Grace realized she’d struck out again. So, Mr. Lovely had lost his shop and now worked in a coffee shop yet looked at her shop with obvious disdain. But she continued with the conversation, now a little out of curiosity and a little out of fun. She wasn’t going to hire him but she wasn’t forgiving him for commenting first on her pregnancy and second on her plans for child care. It was her business, after all.
“Tell me, Mr. Germain, what led to you working in the floral industry?”
He sat down at an angle to her and folded his hands on the tabletop. “It was sheer luck,” he said. “I started to work with flowers through a friend who owned a shop and then, a few years later, opened my own. I discovered there’s a need for more creative designs, particularly for formal weddings. You do create for weddings, don’t you?”
“Of course. I won’t be serving weddings in December and January unless I find a skilled and talented florist, however. For obvious reasons. And then, of course, I will often be bringing my baby to work. Because I want to.” She smiled indulgently.
He glanced at her arrangement. He sniffed. “You might want to trim the stems on those mums and find a better color for the orchids. Is it supposed to be a birthday arrangement or something for the house?”
She ground her teeth and narrowed her eyes. “The customer was very specific. It’s for an open house—anniversary. Fall-themed anniversary, thus the rust and gold mums, yellow oncidium, dried maple leaves, curly willow and larkspur.”
“Hmm,” he mused, taking a slanted view. “I’d opt for some coral Asiatic lily. And Queen Anne’s lace. Maybe miniature gerbera.”
“That would be very pretty,” she said. “And not what the customer asked for.”
“I’m sure the customer would like it,” he said. “I can assure you, after ten years in the business, I can make a decent bouquet.”
“Of course,” she said. “I have a digital program that shows the price of each stem and stalk and illustrates their images on a computer screen. That way I don’t have to guess when the customer says, ‘Oh, just give me something pretty my wife would like.’ Though sometimes, depending on the customer, something pretty at the right price is safer.”
He stiffened. “No one has such a program.”
“I do. I helped design it with a programmer when I started out in flowers in Portland. The software writer was a friend of mine. We worked on it together. It’s wonderful. And it’s patented.”
“And you use this for events? Weddings? Funerals?”
“Not funerals. People either have specific desires or are too emotional to listen to a lot of explanation. I use the program for weddings mostly. Sometimes for event centerpieces or arrangements for businesses. I can email images to the prospective client along with a bid. It’s very convenient.”
“Are there a lot of business events in this, ah, Thunder Point?”
“Not so many, no,” she said. “I’ve been known to cover much of Coos County and beyond for specialty arrangements and accessories. Bandon Dunes plays host to many business meetings and special events and they seem to like my work.”
“Who helps you now?” he asked.
“My last assistant just left to get married. She’ll be living near Portland, which leaves me shorthanded. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, Ronaldo.”
“Well, I was hoping for a management position and a larger shop, but I suppose this will do. If you’re willing to let me have a free hand with some design. Computer program or not, there’s no substitute for artistry and exp
erience.”
“Really?” she asked.
“Sometimes people have to be encouraged to take a few risks for the sake of beauty, for innovation and creativity.”
“Is that so?” she asked. “Most of my customers, ninety percent of my customers at least, are more interested in deciding what they want and not paying a dime extra for it, no matter how creative. It’s enough of a challenge to keep the price within their budgets.”
“Well, maybe I’ve spoken out of turn, but my shop was much larger and served a much wider area. My clientele were looking for something very special.”
“How lovely,” she said.
She asked him a few questions about how he was accustomed to handling billing, repeat customers, what vendors he used for ordering fresh stock, that sort of thing. She wondered if he was accustomed to the upkeep of his own shop or if he hired a cleaning crew and, no surprise, he didn’t do any of the cleaning himself. He had assistants who helped with everything. It sounded as if he didn’t like the grunt work.
Finally she couldn’t think of another question. “Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Germain. It was a pleasure to meet you, and it was nice of you to take the time. I’ve had a number of applicants so I’ll be in touch.” She stood and put out her hand, but it was of course dirty and green from the stems and florist’s tape.
“Have you had any applicants who are professional florists?” he asked, also standing.
“Actually, no. Not a one. But my last assistant, who was amazing in every respect, was trained by me. So of course there was never any controversy—we were always on the same page.”
“You speak as if you’re already convinced we won’t work together well,” he said.
“I think that idea began with no babies in the workplace,” she admitted.
“I’m much more flexible than I let on,” he said.
“Ah, but I’m not looking for flexibility so much as an assistant who sees things the way I do. Still, let me consider all the data, taking into account your amazing résumé, and I’ll be in touch. It’s a very small shop, Mr. Germain. Small and simple and hopefully beautiful, and my clientele has been happy so far. And it’s a profitable store. I wouldn’t want that to change.”
“And if you don’t find a productive assistant before...” His gaze dropped to her belly.
“I’m not worried,” she said. A lie. She was worried. If she didn’t find good help, she would have to close the shop for a while. That would probably mean rebuilding her entire customer base when she opened up again. “Thank you again.”
He shook her hand. “When will you make a decision?” he asked.
“In a few days,” she said. “Have a lovely day, Mr. Germain.”
Grace sat again at her worktable, but her heart was a little heavy. That was a disappointing interview. A person like that would never do in Thunder Point. The last thing her friends and neighbors would tolerate was someone who believed he was too good for them. And while her experience in the flower industry had been relatively brief, she’d seen his like before—the artsy-fartsy flower shops that tried too hard to be different, to be chic. Oh, she was familiar with the high-end market, the regionally famous, upscale resorts and hotels, and they were especially appreciative of a hard-working florist who was more eager to please than to be congratulated for her artistry and high prices. Even the fanciest markets wanted good work from talented people and the best price. After all, hadn’t Grace grown up with one of the richest women in Northern California? She knew class, she knew style. She knew pretention.
Twenty-year-old Justin Russell came to the shop an hour later for his deliveries. “How you getting by, Grace?” he asked.
“Excellent,” she said. “You?”
“Also excellent,” he said. “You have a lot of deliveries today?”
“Just five, but they’re all out of town. Take the delivery van. I’m going to close the shop for an hour or so and walk across the beach to check on the fireplace man.”
He looked at her doubtfully. “You want to use my car?” he asked.
“The walking is a good idea, Justin. I’m not handicapped, just pregnant.”
“Right. But... Well, seems like you’re getting real pregnant these days.”
“That’s the idea, Justin. Then poof! I explode.”
He winced. “Don’t do that, okay?”
“Okay,” she laughed. “Your deliveries are all tagged and in the refrigerator. Lock the back door please?”
“Sure. If you’re not here when I bring the van back, I’ll leave the keys on your desk.”
She really wasn’t worried about the stone man or the fireplace, but after that lousy interview, she thought a little fresh air and perspective might help. She needed her jacket because the air on the beach was cool, though it was a beautiful, sunny, fall day. She walked up the beach stairs to the deck and Keebler turned to look at her.
“Looking very nice, Keebler,” she said.
He grunted.
In the living room she found Mikhail sitting in Winnie’s favorite chair, his feet up on the ottoman, reading his electronic book. She shed her jacket, hung it on the back of a dining room chair and gave him a kiss on the forehead. He reached up and patted her hand.
“How long has Mother been asleep?” she asked.
He glanced at his watch. “Better than hour,” he said. “Lin Su folds the clothes.”
As Grace went to her mother’s bedroom she passed Lin Su in the hall, pulling linens out of the dryer and folding them. They nodded at each other and Grace went to her mother’s room.
Winnie was resting peacefully, lying on her back, her eyes closed and the merest smile on her lips. Grace sat on the edge of the bed and her mother’s eyes fluttered open. Winnie yawned gracefully.
Grace pulled Winnie’s thin and frail hand to her belly to feel the movement and Winnie laughed. “She’s romping now,” Winnie said in a faint whisper.
“She’s wild. She takes after her grandmother, I think.”
“You were very active. I didn’t enjoy it as much as I should have. I wanted the pregnancy to be over so I could skate. I was so shortsighted.”
“Nah, that was just the place you were in at the time,” Grace said.
“Something is bothering you,” Winnie said.
Oh, indeed, Grace felt bothered. She had very little hope of finding the right person, someone like Ginger, to run the flower shop while she excused herself to have a baby, to spend the first few weeks with the baby. She feared she’d have to close the shop for at least a couple of months. And, oh! She’d worked so hard to build that store, to stock it, to learn to run it, to make it a good working shop that made money. She’d worked easily twelve hours a day, seven days a week. It was her whole life.
Of course, there had been no Troy then. All there’d been was the shop and her need to be independent, to succeed on her own. That was only a couple of years ago, before she reconciled with Winnie, before she fell in love with Mr. Hottie High School Teacher, before there was a baby in her.
She sighed deeply, pressing her mother’s hand on her belly.
“I love this baby,” Winnie said softly.
Why worry about a flower shop when you have everything in the world that matters? Grace asked herself.
“Mama, I’ve been thinking. We need a little more time together before the baby is here. I think we should read something together. I’ve never read some things that should be read. I have an idea—let’s pick a book and I’ll read it to you. An hour in the afternoon or something.”
“Fifty Shades!” Winnie said.
“Oh, Mother, I’m not reading that out loud! It has too many body parts in it. The private kind.”
“Prude. All right, let’s do something by that Higgins girl.”
“I was thinking
something even more tame. And old. A timeless romance. Deeply romantic, rich in language and titillating. Jane Eyre? Wuthering Heights?”
“I love Wuthering Heights,” Winnie said.
“We’ll do that! I’ll get us a copy and we’ll start tomorrow. We’ll have to think about when is the best time of day.”
“That would be lovely, Grace. Now what’s bothering you?”
She took a breath. “I had an unpleasant interview with an applicant. He acted like he was doing me a favor, applying for the job. He looked at my perfect little shop like it was a hovel.”
“You won’t hire him, then,” Winnie said.
“The shop will be hard to manage when the baby comes,” Grace said. “When you need more of my time.”
“Grace, listen to me. I’m not known for wisdom or unselfishness, I know that. But life is short. Hire more nurses if you must. Get a good nanny or sitter. But follow your heart while you can.”
“It’s not just a store to me, Mama. I love the flowers. I love taking my flowers to weddings and parties. I love sitting in my little back room at that scarred old table making beautiful arrangements, and though I don’t need the money from it, I love that I can earn it. It was the first thing after skating that made me feel competent. And I don’t expect anyone to understand, but I’m always happy when I’m doing my job. But I want to be a good mother. I want more than one child.”
“That’s because you haven’t had labor yet,” Winnie said, smiling. “Or colic or terrible twos or sass.”
Grace ignored her; she wasn’t worried about any of that. “I can scale back the hours. My drop-in sales are not the biggest—most of my business comes over the website or phone. But I don’t want to be forced to give it up.”
“It’s going to work out, Grace. If it truly makes you happy, you’ll find a way. There is always a way.”
Grace leaned over and kissed Winnie’s cheek. “A year ago you would have argued that the flower business wasn’t worth my time.”
“I’ve decided that I’d like to be missed when I go, after all.”