Dane's Storm(2)

I’d eaten peanut butter sandwiches for what felt like every meal for the past two years, hadn’t bought a stitch of new clothing, and had thrown every last penny of profit into the construction. When I stepped through the doors, my heart burst with pride.

I smiled as I glanced around the main foyer, breathing in the smell of flowers and new paint. The building was now a gorgeous mixture of old and new, vintage and contemporary that had come together exactly as I’d hoped when I dreamed up the idea. The dark, wide-planked hardwood floor beneath my feet was both elegant and rustic, and the brick walls were the perfect contrast to the grand, glittering crystal chandelier hanging from the tall second-story ceiling. There were retail spaces to both the right and left, and at the back wall, a wide staircase. The upper floor was open and featured distressed, steel railings. Soothing classical music played softly through the sound system I’d installed. Directly in front of me was a round, antique table I’d found at a flea market and the huge flower display I changed each week. This week’s design featured faith roses, astilbe, fox glove, thistle, privet berries, and seeded eucalyptus. I ran a finger along a trailing stem of berries, assessing the freshness of the arrangement and deciding that it still had a few days left in it.

I smiled again as I took in the whole space at large. Once I paid off the loan I’d taken to complete the construction work, I would start funneling more money toward advertising.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

I turned my head to see Victor stepping into the doorway of his shop. “It is. They’re saying we might get some snow this week. I can already smell it in the air.”

I stepped toward him and he leaned in slightly to inhale the perfume of the lilies in my arms and sighed. “Lilies and first snowfall. It should be a perfume.”

I laughed. “It’s probably already a room freshener, but I’m sure it smells nothing like the real thing.”

He turned into his shop and I followed him. “You’re probably right. You can’t manufacture nature’s perfection, though it doesn’t stop Glade from trying—or douche companies, for that matter.”

I spit out a burst of laughter as Victor grinned. “Sick.”

“But accurate. Come check out the Bell/Larkin shoot. They won’t be in for half an hour or so.”

I set the flowers on Victor’s desk and moved to the black and white prints he had set up on his viewing table, along with the book he did for his clients. I loved Victor’s style, which was a combination of posed and photojournalistic. He took the predictable shots every bride wanted: the cutting of the cake, first dance, tossing of the bouquet; but he also managed to capture magical moments both unplanned and un-posed. Candid photos. Those were my favorites. As I perused the shots, my gaze snagged on one smaller photo off to the side. It was of the groom as he waited at the altar for his bride. In the corner of the picture, you could see the bride starting her walk down the aisle, and it was clear he was seeing her for the first time. He was young and handsome, with dark hair and light eyes. Eyes that might fill with laughter easily and often. I scoffed internally. You don’t even know him. And yet, my gaze lingered on his face. It wasn’t familiarity for that man particularly. It was the reverence and adoration in his expression that both tugged at my insides and pressed against an old bruise.

I turned to Victor. The smile I conjured felt overly sunny and slightly brittle. He studied me momentarily. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” he asked softly, nodding toward the photograph with his head, but keeping his gaze on me. “We provide all the fripperies, but it all comes down to that, doesn’t it? That look. That look right there.”

I nodded before breaking eye contact. “It . . . should. Yes.” I smiled again. “It’s a beautiful collection, Victor. I’m sure they’re going to be thrilled.” I turned, gathering my flowers. “I better get these in water. And I have an appointment with a bride who could possibly be a huge account coming in at nine thirty so I . . . I better prepare.”

“I’m sure you’ll wow her. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I called as I walked out his door. “I need it.” I climbed the stairs and headed to my shop at the front. I’d reserved one of the larger spaces for myself, one with a spacious back room where I had several refrigeration units and a couple of decent-sized work tables. It also conveniently had an elevator that led to a side door on the bottom floor so I could easily transfer my floral arrangements to my car when they were ready for delivery. Mostly, though, I’d wanted the view of those mountains through the front office window. They . . . anchored me somehow.

I bit my lip as I walked, a feeling of . . . melancholy sitting in the pit of my stomach that hadn’t been there when I’d entered the building. That photo had unsettled me, conjured up a sadness I thought was long faded, a smoky memory that had at first stolen my ability to breathe, but in time, had drifted away. So why had my lungs suddenly felt so constricted in Victor’s studio?

I frowned, my pace slowing, when I heard voices already coming from my shop. I knew my assistant, Jay, arrived at eight. But my first appointment with Felicity McMaster, the bride I’d mentioned to Victor, wasn’t scheduled for another twenty-five minutes. My skin tingled with nerves. Oh please don’t let her be early. I wasn’t ready. Selling myself was the part of this job that made me anxious. The flower designing I loved, and the artistic element filled my heart. The rest was a necessary evil. I needed to get my game face on.