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“Okay.” Not at all the information I asked for, but he’s clearly up to something shifty, so I want him out of the store as fast as I can. I ring him up, and he leaves, only to have another person walk in right away. They’re familiar too. The same thick pants, heavy boots, and stained hands. And blue fingernails? That’s odd. They’re wearing a sweater, and I’m sure that under it is one of those Ford’s Garage embroidered shirts.
“Taylor,” I say, realizing I’ve met them a few times when they’ve come to help out with the soap box cars. “Back for more?”
Their dark eyebrows jump up. “Umm … yeah, I—”
“How many people do you need flowers for?”
“Oh, no, these are … I’m buying for … for someone else.”
I give them a doubtful look.
“Ford. They’re for Ford. He said something about a cousin’s uncle’s classmate’s, uh—aunt? Grandma? I lost track.”
“Right …” Something’s going on here. I gesture to my dwindling supply. “Not a lot to choose from at the moment. What’s catching your interest?”
Taylor’s gaze sneaks to me and away again. “Which do you recommend?”
“Depends what it’s for.”
“No, like, if you could look around and be likethosejust by looking at them, which would you go for?”
Umm … today is getting strange. But it’s my job to humor my customers, so I lead Taylor over to the biggest bunch I have, which is a mix of purple orchids, white roses, and calla lilies. “They’re probably my favorite.”
“Perfect. They’ll do.”
“Do you want them wrapped?”
I’m expecting ano, so when Taylor says, “Sure,” I’m thrown for a second. Still, if these are for the grandma’s uncle’s cousin’s dog or whatever Ford said, he probably wants them to look nice.
Taylor pays, and I swear I note Ford’s name on the card they use, but I let them go without questioning any more. As soon as the shop is blissfully clear, I grab my phone and open my messages.
Me:Is everything okay?
I don’t get a response, which I try not to let bother me too much. As it creeps closer to closing time, the steady stream of people slows down and seems to be back to my usual number of customers.
Five o’clock can’t arrive fast enough, and as I’m crossing the shop to lock up, the door flies open and Ford steps inside.
Heavy boots, grease-stained jeans, a presence too big for my shop.
Exactly like that first day I saw him here. With one difference.
He’s holding the big-ass bunch of orchids.
Ford’s big, soft eyes look almost worried. “Ah, hey.”
“Hi …” A smile pulls at my lips as I take in the flowers. “What are you doing?”
“Groveling.”
A laugh escapes me. “What for?”
“Last night.” He cringes. “What happened with Molly—”
“Wasn’t your fault.”
His mouth drops. “Come again?”
“Wait. You didn’t think I was mad about that, did you?”
