Page 34 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
Lilac – First Emotions of Love
Jake and I walk along the harbour towards Mickey’s chip shop, with Miley back on Jake’s shoulder. Even though Charlie had said the forecast was dismal, the clouds are now lifting, and it’s turning into a beautiful day in St Felix.
‘Do you want to sit a bit and wait, or walk on?’ Jake asks after we’ve found no sign of life at Mickey’s. Even though it’s Sunday, Mickey had offered to come in early to fry up some chips for the decorating volunteers – another act of kindness which completely took me by surprise.
‘Sit, I think,’ I reply, shielding my eyes from the bright sun. ‘I could do with a rest after this morning.’
We find a bench and sit down by the harbour wall, both of us looking out at the sea and the boats swaying rhythmically up and down on the waves now the tide is in.
‘Your children are very good, coming out to help us today,’ I say to Jake after we’ve been sitting for a minute or so admiring the view.
‘Yes, they’re good kids, they always have been. Especially Charlie. Bronte can be a bit of a tearaway at times.’
I smile.
‘What?’ Jake asks.
‘She called me an ageing Goth when Amber and I were giving away the flower garlands outside the shop the other week.’
Miley, appearing to understand what I say, chooses this moment to screech with laughter, while Jake pulls a face. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say, eyeing Miley until I realise she’s screeching along with a seagull sitting on the harbour wall. ‘Bronte’s young; she sees everyone as old, I guess. Although usually it’s the other way around for me.’
‘People think you’re younger than you are?’ Jake asks. ‘I certainly did when I met you.’
I nod. ‘Yeah, I’ve kinda got used to it over the years. Never felt the need to grow up gracefully.’
‘Why?’ Jake enquires. ‘Are you the Peter Pan of floristry?’
‘Hardly. I dunno, I just feel more comfortable not taking life too seriously.’ I look down at my boots. ‘If wearing Docs makes me seem younger, then so be it. Amber tells me I wear too much black though,’ I concede.
‘Really?’ Jake teases. ‘I would never have guessed.’
‘I’m not today though, am I?’ I protest, gesturing at my painting overalls.
‘Yes, I have to give you that – a pair of white dungarees is quite the rainbow of colour,’ Jake says, grinning. ‘So how does it feel to liberate yourself from your cloths of mourning?’
I wince at his joke. ‘I’m not that bad, am I?’ I reply, shaking it off. Jake has no idea how close to the truth he is.
‘You’ve been here in St Felix how long – a couple of weeks?’
‘About that.’
‘And the only colour I’ve ever seen you wear, apart from black, is your burgundy boots.’
He noticed?
‘I like black, so what? Is it a crime to wear black clothing in this town?’
I expect Jake to come back with one of his usual witty retorts. I’ve been enjoying our banter, sitting out here in the dazzling Cornish sunshine. The town looks like a vibrant, colourful oil painting today – vivid shades and bold brushstrokes masking any dullness that a plain white canvas underneath might betray.
‘No, of course not,’ he says awkwardly, fiddling with his sleeve and attempting to roll it up his arm. ‘It’s just… well, you don’t drown out the perfection of a pale, delicate lily by surrounding it with something heavy, you let its beauty shine through for everyone to see.’
I’m pretty sure my skin isn’t pale and delicate right this moment; it’s most likely red and ruddy, as I feel my cheeks flush hot at Jake’s words. What does he mean? He can’t be referring to me, can he, with his flower analogy? No, surely not. It must be the way these flower types talk – using flowers instead of normal words.
Except none of my family ever talk like this – so why does Jake?
Jake’s cheeks, I notice, are doing something very similar to mine. They’re pink and he looks flushed as he proceeds to roll the same sleeve back down his tanned arm.
