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I’m still hot from my walk, so the blast of cold air is welcome. I drop the old flowers into the trash—May’s right, they do stink—and rinse out the crystal vase. It’s got a fairly decent sized chip from when eleven-year-old Caleb thought bouncing a golf ball off the counter in a wine shop was a good idea, but I’ll never get rid of it.
I don’t have many memories of my mom, and those I do are a little foggy. But I do remember her painstakingly arranging yellow flowers—her favorite color—in this vase every week. Using the same vase makes me feel close to her, even if I like to change up the flower colors a bit more than she did.
The flowers don’t need much arranging—Pauline is a genius like that, creating “plop and drop” bouquets that look good without any fussing. I admire the gorgeous flowers once more as I carry the vase back out into the shop. All three customers have left, and May’s disappeared, so it’s just Robyn, who makes a very big show of putting away the enormous wine tome she’s reading before giving me her attention.
She’s the type of woman who’s in her late twenties but looks older—on purpose, I’m pretty sure. She always, and I do mean always, wears a black blazer over a white button-down, paired with black slacks. Even in the middle of summer. Her straight brown hair is cut to her chin, and she once informed me she has it trimmed every twelve days, precisely, to maintain “the line.” Completing the look is her trademark brownish-red matte lipstick that somehow emphasizes the fact that she never smiles.
I sense that she’s gearing up for a complaint and try to beat her to the punch. “Any takers on the Franciacorta?” I ask, knowing that spreading awareness about the excellent Italian sparkler is one of her pet projects of late.
Robyn shrugs. “He said he’d be back later to pick up a bottle.”
I feel my heart sink a little bit. They never come back later to pick up the bottle. I wish I could say that losing one customer doesn’t matter, but even though the store’s better off than it was a year ago, we can’t afford to let our few customers leave empty-handed.
“Some ladies bought your cocktail picture,” she says. “I had to ring them up, because May decided to take an early lunch.”
“Hey, that’s great,” I say, ignoring the swipe at May. “I’m glad that picture found a good home.”
She shrugs. “How can you possibly know it was a good home? They could have been murderers.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s the hallmark of murderers. Buying leopard-print-themed watercolors while out shopping with their friends.”
“I didn’t really get it,” she says, missing or ignoring my sarcasm. “Drinking out of a patterned cocktail glass is almost as bad as drinking out of a patterned wineglass. You can’t properly assess the color, and if you can’t assess the color, your nose doesn’t know what to expect.”
I glance at my watch. “Isn’t it your lunch break?”
“Past,” she says, grabbing her purse. “May couldn’t be bothered to check the schedule, so I had to cover.”
“I’ve got this,” I say, because really, it doesn’t take much to run a shop with zero customers. “Take an extralong one and enjoy the sunshine. It’s a lovely day.”
“I’ll be back in exactly one hour,” Robyn says.
“Fantastic.”
I pick up my phone, settling on the stool with the intent to write to Sir when the bell jingles.
Praying it’s a customer and not Robyn back to inform me that it’s not a lovely day and that she doesn’t enjoy the sunshine, I stand, ready to offer assistance if needed.
The man stops to inspect the Bargain Bubbles bin at the front of the shop. Usually people rummage a bit to see the different labels and prices, but he studies them without moving.
Then he turns toward me, and my welcome, customer! smile freezes before it can start, because I find myself staring into a familiar pair of aqua eyes.
My dear Lady,
Where do you fall on serendipity? Fate? Destiny? Or is it all mere coincidence?
Yours in inquiry,
Sir
* * *
To Sir, with careful consideration,
Hmm. I don’t believe in coincidence…
But I’m learning the hard way that while serendipity may be real, it’s not always pleasant…
Lady
Four
You found me, is what I think.
“You,” is what I say.
The surprise in his eyes tells me he’s as shocked to see me as I am him. The slight line between his thick dark brows tells me he’s not quite sure what to do about it. He looks around, as though wanting to verify he’s where he’s supposed to be. “Hello. I’m looking for the owner.”
Ugh. You don’t own a shop without quickly learning that “I’m looking for the owner” almost always means a complaint or a tacky sales pitch.
