Page 64 of Hooked on Emerson
The moment was interrupted by a knock on the door. They looked up to see Mrs. Connelly peering through the glass, pointing emphatically at her watch, silver bracelets jangling on her wrist. It was almost opening time, and a small crowd had already gathered on the sidewalk, their breath forming clouds in the cool morning air. Some carried coffee cups from Mason's, others chatted in small groups, all waiting for the doors to open.
Ava slipped the key and box into her pocket, its weight a new and comforting presence against her hip. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and nodded to Emerson. "Ready?"
"Ready," he echoed.
Together, they moved to the door. Ava turned the sign from "Closed" to "Open" and unlocked the door, pushing it wide to welcome the town into the transformed space. The bell chimed merrily as people streamed in, exclamations of delight and surprise filling the air.
"It's gorgeous!"
"I love the new color!"
"Those display tables are exquisite!"
The shop filled with voices and movement, with the rustle of jackets and the click of shoes on the freshly finished floor. The scent of coffee and autumn air followed the customers in, mingling with the floral fragrances that defined the space. Light poured through the windows, catching in glass vases and illuminating the vibrant blooms on display.
Mrs. Connelly bustled in first, of course, immediately taking credit for the curtains while admiring everything else. "Didn't I tell you the cream would be perfect? And look how it catches the light!" Her voice carried above the general murmur, drawing smiles from those nearby.
Mason followed with a tray of coffee samples, setting them up on a small table Emerson had built specifically for refreshments. "On the house," he announced, "in honor of the reopening. And I've got a standing order ready whenever you need it, Ava."
Krysta arrived with a photographer from the local paper, directing him to capture the best angles of the renovated space. "Make sure you get the mural," she instructed, "and those display tables. Emerson's craftsmanship deserves recognition."
Ava moved through the crowd, greeting customers old and new, explaining the workshop program, taking orders for special arrangements. The nervousness had completely disappeared, replaced by a confidence that she was exactly where she belonged, doing exactly what she was meant to do.
"This workshop idea is brilliant," Mrs. Peterson said, examining the handout Ava had given her. "Teaching us to make our own arrangements rather than just buying them ready-made. It's like you're sharing your mother's legacy while creating something new."
"That's exactly what I hoped for," Ava replied, touched by the woman's understanding. "Honoring tradition while exploring new directions."
Emerson stayed nearby, not hovering but around, helping with heavier items, answering questions about the woodwork, supporting without overshadowing. They moved in tandem, anticipating each other's needs without having to ask, the rhythm between them now as natural as breathing.
By mid-morning, the workshop was about to begin. Ten participants gathered around the large workbench at the back of the shop, eager to learn Ava's techniques for blending tradition and modern. The surface was laid with individual work stations—scissors, wire, tape, and a bucket of fresh stems for each person. The scent of the flowers intensified as people handled them, releasing their natural oils and fragrances.
Emerson helped distribute materials, his hands gentle as he passed out the delicate blooms and foliage. Ava watched him explaining to an elderly man how to hold the shears for the cleanest cut, his patience evident in the careful demonstration. She warmed with pride at the sight, and felt even more sure about the path they were forging together.
"Welcome to the first of what I hope will be many workshops at Bloom & Vine," Ava began, looking around at the familiar faces—friends, neighbors, customers who had become something more over the years. Their faces showed interest and encouragement, a community ready to support her next chapter. "Today we'll be exploring how traditional techniques can be applied to contemporary designs, creating arrangements that honor the past while looking toward the future."
Mrs. Connelly nodded approvingly from her position at one end of the table, already sorting through the stems with a critical eye. Mason had slipped in to watch, leaning against the doorframe with an encouraging smile. Krysta stood nearby, phone ready to capture moments for social media promotion.
As she spoke, Ava's hand drifted to her pocket, fingers brushing against the small wooden box containing the key tothe mill. To the future. Their future. She caught Emerson's eye across the workshop table, saw the promise of all they would build together in his eyes.
She demonstrated the first technique—a spiral hand-tie that her mother had perfected, but with unexpected materials that gave it a modern twist. The stems were cool and firm in her hands as she worked. "See how the structure is traditional," she explained, turning the arrangement to show all sides, "but the combination of materials creates something new and surprising. That's what I'm hoping to explore in our work here—the balance between the older ways and the new."
The participants began work their own arrangements, the room filling with the soft sounds of stems being cut, wire being bent, quiet exclamations as shapes emerged from the collection of flowers. Ava moved among them, offering guidance, making small adjustments, praising unique interpretations.
Emerson stepped in occasionally to help with the mechanics of a particularly challenging structure, his hands steady as he demonstrated how to create a stable base for an asymmetrical design. His presence beside her felt right, complementary.
"You're a natural teacher," he said quietly as they watched the group work. "They're captivated."
Ava felt a flush of pleasure at his words. "It feels right, sharing this. Not just selling arrangements, but helping people connect with the process."
Outside, more customers gathered, drawn by the buzz of activity and the beautiful displays visible through the windows. The bell chimed continuously as people came and went, the shop fuller than it had been in months. Inside, flowers waited to be arranged, ideas waited to be shared, dreams waited to be realized.
But before Ava could continue her demonstration of the next technique, the shop door burst open with a crash that madeeveryone jump. A young woman stood in the doorway, her face flushed and desperation etched in her eyes. Her wedding dress—clearly on her way from a fitting—was partially visible beneath her unzipped jacket.
"I need help," she gasped, clutching the doorframe. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, her mascara already slightly smudged. "It's my wedding. Tomorrow. The florist just canceled—car accident. Nothing serious but she can't—" She broke off, clearly overwhelmed. "I don't know what to do."
The workshop participants turned to stare, murmurs of surprise rippling through the group. Mrs. Connelly was already halfway out of her seat, ready to take charge of the situation. Ava froze for a split second, the carefully planned day suddenly upended by this unexpected crisis.
Her eyes met Emerson's across the room. He gave her a small nod, confidence in his gaze. In that silent exchange was everything they had built together—trust, partnership, the certainty that whatever challenges arose, they would face them together.
