Page 65 of Hooked on Emerson
The bride took a shaky breath. "I know it's last minute and you're busy. I can pay extra, whatever you need. It's just—" Her voice caught. "It's just that my mother always said flowers make the wedding, and now—"
Ava felt the weight of the key in her pocket, a reminder of new beginnings and possibilities. She stepped forward, her decision already made. "Tell me what you need," she said to the distraught bride, her voice low and calm. "We'll make it happen."
The woman's expression shifted from despair to cautious hope. "Really? You can help?"
"Of course we can," Ava said, already mentally rearranging her afternoon. "That's what we do here. We create beauty, especially in moments that matter."
Behind the bride, Emerson was already moving toward the cooler, taking inventory of what they had on hand. Mrs. Connelly was on her phone, no doubt calling in reinforcements. The workshop participants were exchanging glances, some already setting aside their own projects.
"I can stay late," one woman offered. "I used to help with wedding arrangements at a shop in Portland."
"Me too," another chimed in. "Just tell us what you need."
Ava felt, not just pride, but the sense of community, coming together for a common purpose. This wasn't just her shop or her mother's legacy anymore. It was becoming something more—a place for connections, of shared creations, and of beauty made together.
"Let's move to the back room," she said to the bride, whose tears were now flowing freely. "Tell me about your colors, your vision. We'll figure this out."
As she guided the woman toward the workroom, Ava caught Emerson's eye again. The reopening had just become much more eventful than planned. But somehow, with Emerson beside her and the key to their future in her pocket, Ava knew they would handle whatever came their way.
The bride was already talking rapidly, describing her color scheme and theme, her hands gesturing with nervous energy. "It's a garden wedding—well, garden reception. The ceremony is at the church. I was thinking roses, but not just red, something more unique—"
Ava nodded, already envisioning possibilities. This was what she had been training for her entire life without realizing it—not just arranging flowers, but helping create moments, preserving memories.
Ava bent over the copper vessel, tucking the last anemone stem into place, her fingertips brushing against the cool metal. The deep indigo petals stood in stark contrast to their dark centers, like eyes peering out from delicate faces. She stepped back, examining the arrangement from different angles, making small adjustments until the balance felt right.
February's unexpected thaw had brought customers into Bloom & Vine all afternoon. Outside, puddles reflected the pale blue sky, winter's grip loosening just enough to remind everyone that spring waited beneath the snow. Inside, the shop hummed activity—Mrs. Peterson deliberating between birthday arrangements while a couple browsed the Valentine's display near the front window.
"What do you think about this one, Claire?" The man held up an arrangement of ranunculus and eucalyptus. "Or is it too simple?"
"It's perfect," the woman replied, her fingers lightly touching a petal. "Sometimes simple is better."
Ava smiled to herself, remembering similar conversations with Emerson. How many times had he said almost those exact words? Sometimes simple is better. His workshop philosophy applied to life as well—build with intention, let the materials speak, don't overcomplicate what works naturally.
The radio played softly in the background, strings and piano filling the spaces between conversations. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the earthy smell of potting soil and the citrus notes of the cleaning solution she'd used that morning, creating the distinctive atmosphere that had become the shop's signature.
"I've decided on this one," Mrs. Peterson announced, gesturing to an arrangement of ranunculus and hellebores in a ceramic vessel Emerson had commissioned from a potter in Westdale. The muted colors—dusty rose, pale green, and the barest hint of plum—suited the season's transition.
"For your granddaughter, right?" Ava carefully wrapped the base in thick paper, securing it with twine. The paper crinkled pleasantly beneath her fingers, a sound as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. "How old is she this year?"
"Sixteen," Mrs. Peterson said with a sigh that contained both pride and wistfulness. "Going on thirty, if you ask me. But she still loves getting flowers, thank goodness. Some things don't change."
"And some things should never change," Ava agreed, handing over the wrapped arrangement. The weight transferred between them—flowers passed from her hands to another's, the way they had been for generations in this shop and would continue to be.
Mrs. Peterson tucked the flowers carefully against her coat. "The shop looks wonderful, by the way. Your mother would be so proud to see what you've done with it."
"Thank you," Ava said, the words no longer bringing the sharp pain they once had. Over four months since the reopening, and grief had softened into something she could carry more easily—a companion rather than a burden. "I think she would be, too."
As Mrs. Peterson left, the bell above the door chimed brightly. Ava glanced at the clock—almost closing time. The winter days still ended early, darkness falling by five despite the recent thaw. She began her end-of-day routine, straightening items that didn't need straightening, adjusting the cooler temperature for overnight, tallying the day's sales in the leather-bound ledger she still preferred over digital records.
Her fingers traced the column of figures, adding them with practiced ease. The shop had thrived since reopening in October. The emergency wedding that had disrupted their carefully planned day had turned into their best advertisement—the grateful bride had shared photos everywhere, bringing new customers from neighboring towns. The workshop series had expanded, with sessions now booked weeks in advance. Even the Seattle design studio had reached out about a potential collaboration, sending a congratulatory arrangement when they'd heard about the shop's renewed success.
Ava walked through the space, absorbing how different it looked now, reflecting the changes of recent months. New display tables Emerson had built housed seasonal items, like the amaryllis in various stages of bloom, arrangements that spoke of winter's subtle beauty rather than fighting against it. A bulletin board near the counter showed photos from recent workshops, faces bright with accomplishment as they held their creations.
The lavender mural remained, of course, their field stretching toward painted hills, their initials still side by side in the corner.She paused to look at it, remembering the day they'd created it together—the music playing softly, the way Emerson's hands had moved with surprising delicacy for their size, the dance they'd shared afterward.
And on a small table near the window, architectural drawings of the mill renovation were displayed, inviting customers to glimpse the future. The renovation had begun in January, starting with structural repairs. They'd spent weekends there, bundled against the cold, Emerson reinforcing beams while Ava sketched plans for the space. They'd shared thermoses of hot coffee and dreams of summer workshops beneath the restored skylights.
As the last customers left, Ava locked the door behind them, flipping the sign to "Closed" with a satisfied exhale. The winter light was fading now, the shop windows reflecting the interior rather than showing the street outside. She caught her own image—hair pulled back in a loose bun, cheeks flushed from the day's work, a smudge of pollen on her apron. She looked tired but content in a way she hadn't been a year ago.
