Page 40

He blinks and drops his gaze. “Of course. I forgot…” He clears his throat and his gray sideburns stand out against the blush darkening his cheeks. “Whatever you need, I’m happy to help…Amanda.”

“Thank you, Mr. Tate. I’m sure I’ll be in touch.”

I leave the Law Offices of Tate and Tate, which makes me think of the expression ‘tit for tat’—a phrase that aptly describes this scenario.

My aunt’s scheme could very well be her way of telling me moving to New York was a mistake, which at this point in my life, I could be persuaded to see it that way if she were still alive and having this conversation with me.

But she’s not and now I’m a prisoner in her little scheme for the next year or more. The next task on my agenda is to let my roommate know that I’ll be gone for a while. Maybe she can sublet my room.

And then?

Check out the flower shop I now own and am required to run successfully for an entire year.

As I walk up the steps and unlock the back door of the shop, I’m transported to the past and the fragrant memory of flowers and greenery.

I spent most days after school helping Aunt Paula at the shop and always had a guaranteed job during the summer, which was a mixed bag of love and hate.

As in, loved having money to spend at the movies or at the mall but hated being stuck at the shop, working while my friends hung out at the beach.

But as I open the door, the putrid stench of rotted flowers assaults me, making me gag. Seems things have been neglected much longer than anyone realized. And let me tell you, the smell of rotting greenery is like none other.

The culprit is a large garbage can of discarded flowers and clippings that clearly never made it to the dumpster before Aunt Paula’s sudden departure.

With my hand over my mouth and nose, I drag the can outside, walk a few steps away, and inhale the humid mid-morning air that carries a hint of the beach in its scent.

For a moment I’m tempted to lock the door and head in that direction—to the beach and deal with whatever else lurked in the flower shop of death tomorrow.

But I’ve never been one to put off what I can get done today.

Especially in light of the big picture. The sooner I get the place up and running again, the better my chances of making it through this next year so I can move on to my original plan.

Maybe even with a financial cushion to give me more time to make NYC notice my creative talents.

I snicker out loud at my own thoughts. What does that tell you?

“Mandy?”

I whip around and see a face that brings a flood of childhood memories that includes building sand castles on the beach and hanging out at the movie theatre on Friday nights. All the wonderful memories of growing up in Sarabella.

“Zane!” A flood of warm affection launches me into his bear hug.

“How are you doing?” He steps back but hangs onto my hands, giving me that look that requires only the truth. “I wanted to stop by sooner, but I had to fly out for a conference in California right after the funeral.”

Zane Albright is the quintessential surfer, who turned his childhood passion for the beach into a full-blown career.

He worked as a lifeguard at Mango Key Beach straight out of high school.

Not long after, he revamped the training program for the Sarabella County Lifeguards and now he’s Director of Operations.

“A conference full of lifeguards? That sounds like way more fun than a funeral.”

“Seriously, how are you?” Zane gives me his concerned, big brother look, which always made things seem better in high school. He’s also the only one who completely supported my dream of moving to New York.

“I’m okay.”

Overwhelmed by the concern I see in his eyes, I drop my chin, feeling the heavy weight of grief twisting around my neck like the string in my gym shorts caught in the dryer. I refuse to shed more tears over my aunt while I’m still wrangling the mess she’s left me to clean up.

Maybe it’s payback for all the years she wound up raising me while she waited for my mother—her little sister—to “hit it big” and come back to claim her daughter. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

His voice rumbles up in a deep baritone. “I know.”

I shield my eyes against the sun that’s now peeking over Zane’s sun-bleached head and blasting me with its brightness and heat. Sweat trickles down my back. Though nearing its end, summer is still very much present, as is the humidity.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the beach?” I finish my words with a laugh.

“Mom figured you’d need some help. She called me when you left Mr. Tate’s office.”

Sally is the owner of The Pink Hibiscus, a super cute clothing boutique, and has been my Aunt Paula’s best friend since they opened their shops around the same time.

Supporting each other in their businesses translated into a close friendship in other areas of life, which meant Zane and I pretty much grew up together.

“How did she know when I left his office?” I know the answer to this question, but I still have to ask.

“She told him to call her when you left.”

The small town grapevine was alive and well in Sarabella.

I look over my shoulder at the can of putrid death oozing its noxious smell like an evil gas looking for a new victim.

Who knows what else lies in store for me inside?

Maybe giant cockroaches have invaded and set up shop.

Or one of those ornery raccoons Aunt Paula always complained about raiding the dumpster behind her shop because she shared it with Peppery Pete’s Wine and Cheese Shop.

Now there’s a rank smell in the summer.

Zane glances at his watch. “I can spare a couple of hours before I go on duty. How about I help you figure things out? ”

Gratitude nearly brings me to tears again. “Thanks. I can really use the help.”

He winks at me before grabbing the garbage can and tipping it over into the dumpster. His face scrunches up as he turns his head away, revealing his pure disgust, which says a lot for a guy who’s had to deal with red tide and rotting fish.

Therefore, I am vindicated that I nearly barfed my own putridity at my first encounter with what shall forever be referred to as ‘The Can.’ God only knows—Him and my Aunt Paula, that is—what else lies in wait for me in the place.

Somehow having Zane’s help to navigate the unknown jungle inside boosts my lagging confidence that I might be able to handle what lies in store.

In that store. I go back inside and scan the back room, which used to be a kitchen when the place was a residence.

A plant cooler sits where a refrigerator used to go and a work counter and stool filled the place where a stove might have once stood.

At least that’s what I imagined as a child when I helped my aunt.

The cabinets needed some paint and small repairs—one seemed to be missing its door—and smears of green, yellow, and red stained the wood table.

Evidence of who knows how many floral arrangements crafted over the thirty-plus years my aunt owned the shop.

The storefront itself is spacious and thankfully free of giant cockroaches and angry raccoons.

Aunt Paula didn’t have much set up display-wise, except for a rickety greeting card display near the counter, a bookshelf with various mugs and decorative pots displaying plant themes, and a table near the front door that touts several dead flower arrangements, an emaciated cactus, and a few orchids that still have blooms—the only things still living in the place.

Three glass-front coolers line the wall to the right, one unlit. The flowers and greenery in the buckets inside have either dried out or drooped over the sides. I can only imagine the stench waiting inside to greet me. Although the baby’s breath seems to have persevered.

Does baby breath ever die or does it just dry out?

Zane comes alongside me, toting the can he just emptied. “How about I empty the coolers while you water what’s still living over there?”

He must have seen the look of horror on my face as I stared at the contents. “Thanks. Not sure I can handle any more of that smell.”

I open the front door to create a cross breeze, giving up the air conditioning for some hot but fresh air. Outside, I turn around to look at the sign above the door.

Bloomed to Be Wilde.

If you’re thinking of the Steppenwolf song, you’re on target.

My aunt loved that song. So much so she modeled the name of the flower shop after the title, using the spelling of our last name, which aptly describes the women in my family, it seems. Aunt Paula said it was the family motto, which my mother seemed to have lived up to in spades.

And here I stand, the new owner of her legacy.

I glance upward and sigh. Aunt Paula had to be loving this.