Page 46 of Hooked on Emerson
After Krysta left, Ava locked up the shop and walked home in the gathering dusk. The air was cooler now, autumn asserting itself in earnest. Leaves skittered across the sidewalk, crisp and colorful in their dying beauty. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself, feeling the chill seep into her bones despite the exertion of walking.
As she approached her house, she noticed something on the front step. A small bouquet, wrapped simply in brown paper and twine. No card, no note. Just flowers—wildflowers mostly, with sprigs of lavender woven throughout. The paper was slightly damp from the evening dew, darkening at the edges.
She knew immediately who they were from. Who else would think to bring her lavender?
She picked them up carefully, bringing them to her nose. The scent was subtle. They would have been gathered today, from somewhere nearby. The thought of Emerson walking through a field, selecting each bloom with care, arranging them with his callused hands, made her throat tighten. Had he stood on her porch, debating whether to knock? Had he hoped to see her, or was he relieved when no one answered?
Inside, she found a mason jar to serve as a vase, filled it with water, and placed the flowers on her kitchen table. The glass was cool and solid in her hands, the water making soft sounds as it rose. When she set the arrangement down, it looked right there, as if it belonged. As if he belonged.
She touched a lavender sprig gently, the small movement releasing more of its scent. He hadn’t included a note, hadn’t asked for a response. Just a gift, freely given. No pressure,no expectations. Just Emerson being Emerson, thoughtful and giving her space while still letting her know he was there.
Her phone sat on the counter, Seattle’s number now programmed into it. The in-person interview was scheduled for Friday. Five days from now. A plane ticket waited in her email inbox, a hotel reservation confirmed. Steps toward a future she still wasn’t sure she wanted, but felt compelled to explore.
She should call him. Thank him for the flowers. Tell him about Seattle. But the thought of hearing his voice, of trying to explain why she’d been pulling away, of possibly hearing the hurt, was too much tonight.
Instead, she took a shower, letting the hot water wash away some of the day’s tension. Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and wrapping her in temporary warmth. She stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting it drum against her shoulders, easing some of the tightness there.
As she dried off, her phone buzzed with a text notification. Not Emerson, as part of her had hoped, but the bank. Final loan documents had finished processing and were ready for her signature. Another piece of business to handle. Another practical step forward while her heart remained stuck in indecision.
She fell into bed exhausted, hair still damp against the pillow. The scent of lavender followed her from the kitchen, subtle but persistent, a reminder of what—of who—waited for her decision. It mingled with the clean smell of her shampoo as she drifted into troubled dreams.
Monday brought more work on the roof, more customers in the shop, more texts from Seattle about the upcoming visit. Ava moved through it all on autopilot, smiling when required, making floral arrangements, answering questions about the repair work with calm efficiency.
The shop was unusually busy again, customers drawn in by curiosity about the roof work or simply needing to order flowers for dinner parties and special occasions. The bell chimed constantly, each sound making her look up with a mixture of hope and dread. But Emerson didn’t come by. She told herself it was because it was Monday, because he had other commitments, because Martin didn’t need consultation today. But she knew it was more than that. He was still giving her the space she’d silently requested, stepping back as she pulled away.
By closing time, her feet ached from standing and her mind was numb with exhaustion. She locked the door with a sense of relief, flipping the sign to “Closed” with more force than necessary. The shop fell silent, the absence of customers and workers creating a vacuum that pressed against her ears.
The flowers on her kitchen table greeted her when she returned home that evening, still fresh, still fragrant. Still unanswered. She touched a petal gently, the velvet softness a contrast to her work-roughened fingers. She wondered what he was doing tonight. If he was thinking of her. If he regretted giving her his heart when hers was still so uncertain.
Tuesday was her day off, the shop closed for a blessed respite from the constant activity that week. It was spur of the moment but no orders were due. She slept late, something she rarely allowed herself, then spent the morning cleaning her house with single-minded focus. The rhythmic swish of the broom against the floor, the sharp scent of lemon cleaner, the satisfying gleam of freshly wiped surfaces—physical work to quiet the mind, to postpone decisions for a few more hours.
By afternoon, restlessness drove her out. She found herself walking toward the edge of town, toward the old mill she’d shown Emerson weeks ago. The place her mother had dreamed of turning into a greenhouse. The place where Emerson had said the bones were good, worth saving.
The path was overgrown, branches catching at her sleeves as she made her way through the underbrush. Fallen leaves crunched beneath her boots, releasing a musty, earthy scent with each step. The air was cooler here, shaded by trees that had yet to fully surrender their foliage to autumn’s demand.
The mill looked different in the autumn light—more weathered, vulnerable. Leaves had collected against its foundation, golden and crimson against the faded wood. The windows were mostly broken, jagged shards of glass still clingingto some frames like reluctant teeth. She stepped inside through the door that hung crooked on its hinges, the wood groaning in protest as she pushed it wider.
Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that streamed through broken windows, swirling in lazy patterns as her movement disturbed the still air. The floor was solid beneath her feet despite years of neglect, testament to the quality of its original construction. A bird had made a nest in one corner of the rafters, now abandoned as the season changed.
Despite its disrepair, the space held promise. She could see it as her mother had with glass walls letting in light, tables of seedlings stretching in rows, the scent of growing things filling the air. A place of creation and nurturing. A greenhouse, a workshop, a new beginning rooted in the past.
But she could also see it through new eyes, her own. Not just a greenhouse but a studio. A place for experimentation, for pushing boundaries, for combining the traditional floristry she’d learned from her mother with the modern aesthetics she admired in places like Seattle. A middle path, perhaps. A both/and rather than either/or.
Emerson’s words from the pond came back to her:Maybe it’s not about either/or but both/and. Maybe it’s about finding a way to honor different parts of yourself.
She sat on an overturned crate, its rough surface catching slightly on her jeans. A beam of sunlight fell across her lap, warming her despite the chill in the air. She watched the light shift as the sun began its descent, dust particles floating through the golden rays like tiny constellations. The mill creaked around her, speaking in the language of old buildings—settling, breathing, remembering. She’d been so focused on the binary choice of whether to stay or go, Millfield or Seattle, that she’d missed the possibilities in between. The chance to create something new from the foundations of the old.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the vibration jarring in the quiet space. Martin, with an update on the roof. Nearly done, just finishing touches tomorrow. It had taken a little longer than planned, but at least the shop would be sound again, water-tight, protected. Ready for whatever came next, whether that was her continued ownership or a sale to someone new.
As she walked back toward town, the question that had been haunting her for weeks shifted slightly in her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t just about where she belonged, but about what she wanted to create. What mark she wanted to leave. What legacy, her own and not her mother’s, she wanted to build.
The answers weren’t clear yet, but the questions themselves felt different. More spacious. More her own.
Wednesday morning found her back at the shop early, before Martin’s crew arrived for their final day of work. The space felt different somehow—lighter, more open, despite nothing having changed inside. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the roof would soon be secure, that the buckets could be put away, that one source of anxiety was nearly resolved.
Sunlight streamed through the front windows, catching in the glass vases and creating small rainbows on the walls. The air smelled fresher, the lingering mustiness of the leaks beginning to fade. She opened windows to let in the cool morning breeze, the white curtains billowing gently inward like sails catching wind.
She was arranging a display of autumn flowers when the bell chimed. Emerson stepped inside, his presence filling the space in that quiet way of his. He looked tired, shadows under his eyes suggesting his weekend had been as restless as hers. His flannel shirt was slightly rumpled, as if he’d grabbed it from the back of a chair rather than the closet.
