As Romero is pouring my coffee, I feel like I’ve broken the ice and we’re friends, after all I’m apparently in the club, so I gather my courage and ask, “You wouldn’t happen to be hiring, would you? I just got into town and I start school on Monday, and I kind of need to generate some cash flow pronto.”
Romero sighs as he hands me a giant paper cup. “Ah, Kate, sadly we are not. I own the shop with my partner, Dan. We only have one employee who helps out most mornings.” He taps his chin with his pointer finger and his smile lights up again. “But, you can try the flower shop, Three Petunias, down on the corner. Mary told me yesterday she needs someone.”
I slide two bills across the counter to cover the coffee and tip. “Awesome, you’re the best. Thanks.” I blow on the coffee and take a sip as I turn and walk toward the door. The coffee tastes rich and bold, just the way I like it. With my hand on the doorknob, I turn and raise my cup to Romero. “Coffee’s epic, Romero. Have a great Tuesday.”
He salutes. “You too, Kate Sedgwick.”
The heat is stifling as I cross the street to head down toward Three Petunias. And then I realize that it’s like ninety-five degrees with one hundred-and-ten percent humidity, and I’m the dumbass drinking a large cup of steaming coffee. But then I smile at the cup in my hand because I can feel the caffeine kicking in and I’ve got a job prospect two blocks away.
I push open the door to Three Petunias gently and damn it if it doesn’t have a bell on it too. I involuntarily let out an exasperated, “Dude!” in disbelief. What is it with small town Minnesotans and their obsession with bells? This one is just a small tinkling variety though. I get the distinct impression that I will become a connoisseur of bells while I’m living here.
The woman behind the counter is a dominating presence. She looks a little older than me, tall and curvy in all the right places. Some girls are cute, some are beautiful, and some are sexy. This girl is sexy. She’s got black hair cut into a severe shoulder length bob with bangs and her dark eyes are lined in black, smoky liner. Her appearance is dark, but not in a gothic, depressing way. More like, in a take-no-prisoners-way. I’m not easily intimidated by anyone or anything, but she’s … intimidating.
“And hello to you,” she says, in answer to my outburst. Her voice is gruff, like she’s smoked ten packs of cigarettes a day since birth and she’s been getting over a cold for the past year. I have a feeling her voice could single-handedly kick my ass. It’s like her superpower.
Don’t let her smell the fear, I tell myself. “Oh, hey,” I say nonchalantly. “Sorry, that was rude. But what is it with the bells in this town?”
She takes in my appearance, but she’s not looking down her nose at me the way Maddie does, she’s curious, or amused. I can’t tell which. “Bells?”
“Yeah, on the doors.” I point to the door behind me.
She’s still got that look on her face, but she answers matter-of-factly. “They let us know when someone’s here.”
“Well, no shit, Sherlock.” I realize too late that my comment may have been inappropriate. Things aren’t as casual here as they are back home, and I’ve only just met this woman, this intense, intimidating woman.
She lets out a stunned bark. I don’t know if she’s humored or insulted. “Yup, no shit,” she confirms. “And I’m Shelly, not Sherlock.”
I think I like this girl, even though she kind of scares me. She’s direct and I like direct; it takes out the guesswork. I approach her and offer my hand, though after glancing at her hands I realize that they’re weaved intricately amongst the flowers in the vase in front of her. Instead, I say simply, “I’m Kate.”
“Well Kate, what brings you in?” She looks back down at the arrangement in front of her again, like she’s lost interest.
“I was just down at Grounds.” I hold up my cup of coffee like some sort proof. “And Romero said that Mary might be looking to hire some help.”
Shelly blows her bangs out of her eyes and looks back up at me, almost like she’s trying to decide if I’m worthy of consideration. “Mary’s my mother, she owns the place.”
“So, are you hiring?” I ask hopefully, my cheeks suddenly feeling hot.
“You ever worked in a flower shop before?”
I shake my head. “Nope.” That probably kills my chances, but I’m sure as hell not going to lie to her.
“You have any experience with gardening?” I feel like I’m being interrogated on some sort of crime show, and surely her partner is watching from the other side of a one-way mirror.
I shrug. “My last landlord, Mr. Yamashita, was a gardener. I suppose that doesn’t count? Too many degrees of separation?”
She huffs. Yes. She’s a huffer. I love her now. “Can you tell a carnation from a rose?”
“Sure.”
The hard-ass façade remains, but to my surprise she says, “Get your butt behind this counter and help me out. I’m buried this afternoon. We’ll see how you do.”
I put on the apron she hands me. “Dude, that was one hell of an interview. You had me sweating.”
She rolls her eyes at my sarcasm. “Whatever. Dude.”
The shop is small and old-fashioned. And by old-fashioned I don’t mean outdated, I mean charming. There are several antique tables on the customer side of the counter that display plant and flower arrangements. It’s cute. And the smell … oh the smell, it’s heaven in here.