Wildest Dreams (Thunder Point #9)(51)

“I do. I helped design it with a programmer when I started out in flowers in Portland. The software writer was a friend of mine. We worked on it together. It’s wonderful. And it’s patented.”

“And you use this for events? Weddings? Funerals?”

“Not funerals. People either have specific desires or are too emotional to listen to a lot of explanation. I use the program for weddings mostly. Sometimes for event centerpieces or arrangements for businesses. I can email images to the prospective client along with a bid. It’s very convenient.”

“Are there a lot of business events in this, ah, Thunder Point?”

“Not so many, no,” she said. “I’ve been known to cover much of Coos County and beyond for specialty arrangements and accessories. Bandon Dunes plays host to many business meetings and special events and they seem to like my work.”

“Who helps you now?” he asked.

“My last assistant just left to get married. She’ll be living near Portland, which leaves me shorthanded. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for, Ronaldo.”

“Well, I was hoping for a management position and a larger shop, but I suppose this will do. If you’re willing to let me have a free hand with some design. Computer program or not, there’s no substitute for artistry and experience.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Sometimes people have to be encouraged to take a few risks for the sake of beauty, for innovation and creativity.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “Most of my customers, ninety percent of my customers at least, are more interested in deciding what they want and not paying a dime extra for it, no matter how creative. It’s enough of a challenge to keep the price within their budgets.”

“Well, maybe I’ve spoken out of turn, but my shop was much larger and served a much wider area. My clientele were looking for something very special.”

“How lovely,” she said.

She asked him a few questions about how he was accustomed to handling billing, repeat customers, what vendors he used for ordering fresh stock, that sort of thing. She wondered if he was accustomed to the upkeep of his own shop or if he hired a cleaning crew and, no surprise, he didn’t do any of the cleaning himself. He had assistants who helped with everything. It sounded as if he didn’t like the grunt work.

Finally she couldn’t think of another question. “Well, thank you for coming in, Mr. Germain. It was a pleasure to meet you, and it was nice of you to take the time. I’ve had a number of applicants so I’ll be in touch.” She stood and put out her hand, but it was of course dirty and green from the stems and florist’s tape.

“Have you had any applicants who are professional florists?” he asked, also standing.

“Actually, no. Not a one. But my last assistant, who was amazing in every respect, was trained by me. So of course there was never any controversy—we were always on the same page.”

“You speak as if you’re already convinced we won’t work together well,” he said.

“I think that idea began with no babies in the workplace,” she admitted.

“I’m much more flexible than I let on,” he said.

“Ah, but I’m not looking for flexibility so much as an assistant who sees things the way I do. Still, let me consider all the data, taking into account your amazing résumé, and I’ll be in touch. It’s a very small shop, Mr. Germain. Small and simple and hopefully beautiful, and my clientele has been happy so far. And it’s a profitable store. I wouldn’t want that to change.”

“And if you don’t find a productive assistant before...” His gaze dropped to her belly.

“I’m not worried,” she said. A lie. She was worried. If she didn’t find good help, she would have to close the shop for a while. That would probably mean rebuilding her entire customer base when she opened up again. “Thank you again.”

He shook her hand. “When will you make a decision?” he asked.

“In a few days,” she said. “Have a lovely day, Mr. Germain.”

Grace sat again at her worktable, but her heart was a little heavy. That was a disappointing interview. A person like that would never do in Thunder Point. The last thing her friends and neighbors would tolerate was someone who believed he was too good for them. And while her experience in the flower industry had been relatively brief, she’d seen his like before—the artsy-fartsy flower shops that tried too hard to be different, to be chic. Oh, she was familiar with the high-end market, the regionally famous, upscale resorts and hotels, and they were especially appreciative of a hard-working florist who was more eager to please than to be congratulated for her artistry and high prices. Even the fanciest markets wanted good work from talented people and the best price. After all, hadn’t Grace grown up with one of the richest women in Northern California? She knew class, she knew style. She knew pretention.

Twenty-year-old Justin Russell came to the shop an hour later for his deliveries. “How you getting by, Grace?” he asked.

“Excellent,” she said. “You?”

“Also excellent,” he said. “You have a lot of deliveries today?”

“Just five, but they’re all out of town. Take the delivery van. I’m going to close the shop for an hour or so and walk across the beach to check on the fireplace man.”