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“I still have the ones you sent me.” Isaac slowly walked towards me with his hands up in surrender. When he was sure I wasn’t going to attack, he wrapped his arms around me in a hug. “No one’s as awesome as you, Carmen,” he murmured into the top of my hair. “No one.”
Chapter 20 - Isaac
On Friday, I got a text from Dessie about our blind date while I was finishing up the bouquet and basket orders for morning delivery.
So hey, this is Dessie. Thought you’d want to add me as a contact. See you tonight at 8. This is Isaac, right?
Darn, she sounded nervous and excited. And I was neither. My mood could be better described as resigned with a healthy dollop of caution. I wanted Dessie to have a good time on our date, but not such a good time that she expected me to call her again.
I kept circling back to what Carmen said, about how I’d become important to her in a ridiculously short amount of time, and how scary that was. Dang right. Her feelings and expectations were the ones on my mind, even though she’d be on a date tonight, too.
Hi Dessie. Yep, this is Isaac. I’ll see you at Café Chai at 8.
I did not add her as a contact. In fact, I pushed her from my thoughts entirely as the bell over the door rang out and a middle-aged woman and a teenager came in with two boxes and hopeful faces. I heard a small sigh from Grace somewhere behind me. I fully expected her to push me out of the way any second and shut down whatever sales pitch they had planned.
Sometimes it was as simple as people hoping we’d put their business cards on the counter in case someone was looking for a personal masseuse or an insurance broker. We’d have a million of those to hand out if we started down that road. But I was a sucker for the plucky entrepreneur, and these two had that look.
“Don’t do it,” Grace muttered.
“This is how we got the balloon bouquet deal,” I reminded Grace as she came to join me at the front counter. We didn’t even have to do any work. They changed out the display once a week. We just took a cut from the orders that came in through us.
“Hi,” the woman said, setting down her boxes on the floor next to her. “I make one-of-a-kind marshmallow candies, and I had an idea to put them on long bamboo sticks so they could be added to floral arrangements. We can do different shapes and colors to match. Would you like to see?”
“I’d love to see,” I said. “I’m Isaac.” I held out my hand for her to shake.
“I’m Evette,” she said, “And this is Finch, my son and business partner.”
I shook Finch’s hand as well. He looked scared to death. “You visit other floral shops today?” I asked him.
“A ton. Most wouldn’t even talk to us,” he admitted.
“Finch.” Evette scolded, looking embarrassed that he’d admitted as much.
I knew right then I was every bit the softie Grace feared. I already planned to buy a few for myself even if they weren’t right for the shop.
Evette handed me three candy skewers from the box and I slowly twirled them, looking at the layers of bright color in each marshmallow creation and examining the clear, cellophane wrapping with their company name, Cactus Flower. It made them look a little like old-timey lollipops. Everything was air-tight, professional, and pretty. I lightly pressed on one shaped like a heart, and it gave a little, exactly like a fresh marshmallow would. I handed it to Grace and could tell she was reluctantly impressed with the presentation.
“This is what they taste like.” Evette placed a small gold tray on the counter and opened a package with ten bite-size pieces, pouring them out for us to try. I took a white speckled piece and let it melt on my tongue. It tasted like a toasted s’more with a soft creamy texture. Grace, after watching me, picked up a pink one and popped it in her mouth.
“What does it taste like?” I asked her.
“Strawberries. But like real strawberries, not strawberry flavoring. It’s delicious.” She shook herself out of her momentary lapse in suspicion and frowned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought marshmallow candies had to stay at room temperature.”
“They do.” Evette nodded. “These would need to be added to a bouquet last. The texture would change if they were refrigerated with the flowers overnight. I also have chocolate truffles which, of course, can be refrigerated. I’m sorry I didn’t bring any with me. I’m still perfecting the recipe.”
“Where do you make them?” I asked. Arizona was pretty lax when it came to their cottage food laws, but these two weren’t looking to sell these out of their home or at a table on the side of the road.
“We have a catering kitchen.” She pulled out her business card and business registration paperwork. “I’ve been in the catering business for fifteen years, but we simplified to just treats this year. I’d like to slow down and have more dependable hours. Right now, I only do bridal and baby shower catering, and I take less and less of those now that our online shop is up and running. If we paired with you, this would be Finch’s responsibility. He would be your point of contact.”
Finch stood taller and tried to look important, so I directed my next question to him. “What’s your wholesale price? How much does it cost to make them, and what are you selling them for?”
Finch took a folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out against the counter. And then he dropped it and bonked his head reaching down to retrieve it. “I have all that. Just a sec.”
“I’m getting order notifications,” Grace said, pulling out her phone. She gave me a look. “Remember, you’re not Dean, and this is not a candy shop. Or a balloon shop. Or a…” she waved her hand out, looking for something else to make her point. Her gaze stopped on Piper’s small corner where she made cards. Piper was with our mother today. “Or a card shop.”
“Noted.”
Grace headed into the back to start on incoming orders. This was the continuation of a fight we’d been having, or maybe not having, for the past four years. Grace wanted a simple, stylish shop where she could express her creativity through flowers. I wanted the shop to make money. Sometimes those two goals complimented each other, and sometimes they did not.
