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But Jake had given me some things to think about. Berta wasn’t reliable. If I wanted to keep working with Gia, I’d need to figure something out so she could rely on my deliveries. If I wanted local customers to buy a subscription from me, I’d need a viable delivery system. In her current state, Berta wasn’t it.
I couldn’t afford to restore her or purchase a new van, so my only option was slowly paying for repairs as I went. I didn’t have the money for it, but I could put off planting the farm if it meant that the deliveries were still an option.
I needed to spend some time going through the estimate and figuring out what should be done first. Maybe Jake could help with that.
Thinking of seeing him again did something weird to my insides. There were flutters in my stomach, as if butterflies had taken up residence.
I shouldn’t be drawn to him, but I was. There was something about his gruff manner, contrasted with his desire to make clients feel comfortable in his garage when he obviously wasn’t a people person, that had my heart tugging for him.
He was such a contradiction. A beautiful contradiction. But I didn’t fix people anymore. I’d done enough of that in my dating past. If and when I dated again, I would be with a guy who didn’t have baggage or skeletons in their past. And Jake seemed like a guy with a chip on his shoulder and a past to back it up.
I just needed to ignore my instinct to get closer to him, to figure out what made him tick, and stay far away from any emotional entanglements. That should be easy, because he didn’t seem to like me.
I irritated him with my optimistic outlook and my stubbornness to keep Berta on the road. But then, he didn’t know me or understand how important the van was to me.
My grandmother believed in me when no one else did. She understood me. She supported me. And now she was gone, and I was left with this void. I felt like I was bobbing in the water with no life jacket. No way to get to the other side.
When I returned to the shop, I flipped the sign fromBe Right BacktoOpen. I hated stepping out and closing the shop in my absence, but it was necessary until I could afford to hire help.
I kept an eye on the front door while I worked on orders in the back. I needed space and time to create arrangements, decide on the perfect combination of flowers and colors, and anticipate what clients would want each season.
Sometimes it felt hopeless because it was more convenient to order online from one of the many services there or pick up a bouquet at the grocery store. But I needed to convince customers that my bouquets and blooms were more beautiful and lasted longer. That I had expertise far beyond someone working the flower counter at a grocery store.
It wasn’t so much expertise. I hadn’t worked in a garden center, but I’d learned from Grandma. She’d been a natural with plants too. She said I had a gift for putting the right blooms together and for nurturing the plants. I just needed to share it with others. I just wasn’t sure how to do that if no one was walking through my door.
The door remained stubbornly closed through the afternoon. My stomach was rumbling, and my muscles were stiff from leaning over the counter for so long. I stretched, trying to work out the kinks, when I heard the door open and the tinkle of the bell above it.
“How can I help you?” I asked, before realizing the customer was my mother.
She wore her usual blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, holding a designer purse on her shoulder. Her face was pinched as her gaze traveled over my refrigerated cases and the few arrangements I’d placed on the countertops.
I tensed for negative comments.
“You’re still doing this,” Mom murmured to herself.
I crossed my arms over my chest, wishing I could hide in the back or that I’d hired someone else to deal with front-end customers so I could avoid her. “Doing what? Running my business?”
Mom rolled her eyes. “If that’s what you call it. Doesn’t it need to be profitable to be considered one?”
That stung, and I drew in a sharp breath. No matter how many times I braced myself for her opinions, they never failed to slay me. She was good at sussing out my weaknesses and attacking them.
“How long are you going to do this?” she asked, stepping up to the counter and focusing her laser-sharp gaze on me.
“This is my dream.” I had no intentions of giving up or walking away. It would take more than a little debt to stop me. But she was great at chipping away at that confidence.
Mom gave a very unladylike snort. “Money is not earned from dreams, but hard work.”
“Hard work comes from living our dreams.” I repeated one of Grandma’s favorite sayings, knowing we’d had this argument a million times, and she’d never capitulated.
Mom continued without acknowledging my statement. “Cora’s planning on opening her own medical practice with a few other doctors.”
“I know.” I was proud of my sister. Unfortunately, her success amplified my perceived failures. It didn’t help that she was following in my father’s footsteps by becoming a doctor.
“Everyone needs doctors,” Mom said, standing taller.
“Just like everyone needs something beautiful in their life. That’s what I provide.” I tried to drum up my enthusiasm for making people happy with my creations, but it fell flat. It always did when I was in my mother’s presence. She had the ability to cut through me faster than a knife.
Mom scoffed. “Flowers don’t heal people.”
