Page 13 of Late Bloomer
“I’m not sure things could look much worse, Pepper.”
I nod slowly at Diksha’s words for a moment, then—very calmly and carefully as I do all things—stack my palms on the worn kitchen table.
And proceed to repeatedly slam my forehead against them.
“Thanks for telling me so delicately,” I say to my accountant (and best friend). In all fairness, the friendship portion came first, but I’m actively and shamelessly exploiting said friendship to get a clearer picture on how the Thistle and Bloom, my recently deceased grandma Lou’s flower farm, is doing financially.
Royally fuckedseems an apt way to describe it.
“I’m sorry, but Lou didn’t do you any favors with this bookkeeping,” Diksha says as she rifles through a shoe box of papers and crumpled receipts. “She used the profit and loss sheets from two years ago as a gum wrapper.”
I nod again, rubbing my temples. I truly wish I could feelfrustration at Grandma Lou’s scatterbrained nature, annoyance that she never told me the farm was in financial shambles. Those are easy emotions. Focused ones. But any time I let myself think of her, all I picture is Lou’s puff of white curls like a cloud around her head, the year-round rosiness of her plump cheeks like she’d spent her days with her face turned to the sun, and the softness of her hugs, the safest place on earth. When I think about Grandma Lou, I can’t feel anything besides love and gratitude that she’d existed at all.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, straightening my shoulders and taking a sip of tea.
And I will. I don’t have any other choice.
There are only three things in this world I love:
Grandma Lou
The delicate scent of a freshly bloomed anemone
The Thistle and Bloom flower farm
I’ve lost the first, but I’ll be damned if I fail and lose the last. But with the summer season knocking at the cabin door and five acres of flowers that need tremendous care, and very little money to do anything about it, things aren’t looking good.
“Have you found the will yet?” Diksha asks, closing up her notebook and neatly sliding various papers into a folder.
I consider banging my head on the table again. That’s the other major issue: Grandma Lou had died suddenly, albeit peacefully, and a will (if she even had one) has yet to be found.
“No,” I say tersely, twisting my heavy chestnut-colored hair into a loose bun, then pushing back from the table, taking our mugs to the deep basin sink.
“Would she purposefully hide it? She was never one for games.”
I shake my head, turning on the tap and letting the too-hot water flow over my fingers. Lou was the only person in my life who I never had to worry about manipulating a situation. She was honest to a fault.
But she also lacked any real form of organization.
Lou didn’t do filing cabinets or folders or have any inclination toward running a business. Instead, she had her flowers and ready laughs and fingers lovingly stained with soil. Her mind was always so tangled up in the garden, thoughts about paperwork wouldn’t even be a blip on her radar.
She was one of those special, rare people, so firmly rooted in the present—absorbing and radiating all the joy a second could hold—it wouldn’t surprise me to find out she’d never even thought about what the future looked like without her in it, a will being the last thing she’d realize she needed to make.
“You need to talk to a lawyer, Pepper. Like, yesterday,” Diksha says, taking the hint and wrapping her pale pink scarf around herself before sliding on her windbreaker. Despite it being spring, the Western North Carolina nights release any daytime heat, a cool sharpness in the air as soon as the sun sets.
I huff in response, giving all my attention to the soap bubbles on the sponge as I scrub the dishes. I know I need to talkto a lawyer. But knowing I need to do it and actually getting my brain to cooperate are two dramatically different things.
I need control of every situation—which is likely a manifestation of my autism—and even the thought of the probable bad news talking to a lawyer would bring is enough to send a sharp and bright burst of anxiety straight up my spine and jolting down my limbs. There are too many uncertainties to face.
So I won’t face them at all.
All very healthy coping mechanisms, et cetera, et cetera.
“It’s going to be okay, love,” Diksha says, rubbing her hand in a gentle circle around my back before leaning in to give me a hug from behind. My knees almost buckle from the comfort of the contact, but I hold myself rigid, not leaning in. If I lean in, I’ll crumble, and that won’t do anyone any good.
“Maybe you can do another round of bulb and tuber sales?” she asks, voice gentle, but I know her well enough to feel the pushiness in the suggestion. “You made a little extra money doing that over the winter, right? Or try and court more wholesale buyers?”
I shake my head. “It’s too late in the season to sell any bulbs. And I already spent all winter trying to get more accounts with little to show for it. My to-do list is a mile long with spring here.”
