by Heron, Farah
“I wouldn’t have thought you were the artistic type, based on your clothing choices, that’s all.”
“I can’t believe someone who wore high-heeled boots to a garden center claims to know who I am, based on my clothes.”
“You saying you didn’t like my outfit that day, Plant-Boy?”
“What I’m saying is I’m not surprised that you’re judging someone without knowing them. You get the manure out of your stuff, or is eau de sheep poo your permanent aroma now?”
That was it. I wasn’t going to let the most judgmental prick I’d ever met call me judgmental. “You’re doing the same thing! You don’t know a thing about me!”
“I know plenty about you.” The venom was back in his voice. “You, and influencers like you, only care about how something looks. You don’t give a shit about what’s behind the surface, or the work that goes into making the pretty things. You just want to use everything around you for your quest for fame.”
I snorted. If almost anyone else had said that to me, I might have been hurt. But Rowan seemed determined to misunderstand me, so why bother caring? The toxicity in his voice when he spat out the word “influencers” made me wonder if an Instagrammer had kidnapped his puppies or something in his past. It sounded like there was some serious trauma there. I might have felt sorry for him, but no. He certainly wouldn’t have any sympathy for me.
I narrowed my eyes as I took two steps closer to him. “What is it about Bakewell and people making quick judgments on anyone new in town? You don’t want people invading your precious village and upsetting the equilibrium that keeps you and your type on top?”
“My type? What the hell are you talking about?”
I gave him a pointed look. “I met your ex today. That’s some taste you have there.”
He frowned, still stuffing the green, fuzzy stuff into his wire mesh. “Addison?”
I nodded. “Two sides of the same coin. Addison thinks my Instagram following makes me worth her time, and you find me worthless because of it. Neither of you see that I’m more than that. By the way, you should tell her to leave Juniper alone. And now I’ll leave you alone.”
“Wait, Tahira,” he said with a sudden urgency as he dropped his handful of green stuff on the bench. “What did Addison do to June?”
So, he did know my name. “She was harassing her about that flower contest. Does every interaction in this town have to do with foliage?”
He swept his hand over his head. “I told Addie to cut that out. Was June okay? Addie didn’t call her any names, did she?” The big-brother concern in his voice surprised me. He hadn’t struck me as empathetic.
“She called her Junebug, which seemed to irritate her.”
“Addison didn’t say anything else nasty, did she?”
“She made a crack about your sister not being cool enough for New York City.” I stepped closer. “Why don’t you enter the contest with June so Addison will leave her alone?”
He huffed. “That’s actually what I want.” He indicated the mesh-wire thing he was fiddling with. “I asked her to be on me and Leanne’s team, but she said no. I figured I’d try the flower-symbolism thing that June’s into to get her to change her mind.”
I looked at the flowers on the workbench. “What are you using?”
“I found this driftwood last week, and I couldn’t get the idea of using it in a floral arrangement out of my head. I figured June might like these irises and lisianthus for their meanings.” He pointed out the flowers. “The irises are for trust, I think. And the lisianthus are for admiration and respect. I’m not sure I was using the right book for their meanings, though. Honestly, this whole idea of choosing flowers as symbols isn’t normally how I design arrangements. I usually just use what works, appearance wise.” He narrowed his eyes at the arrangement, like he wasn’t sure it matched the image in his brain.
The driftwood was this gnarly, twisty thing, and completely bare of bark. The metal mesh was built up on one side with the green stuff wedged into it, and the flower stems had been poked into the green stuff. It honestly shouldn’t have looked this good—it was just dried-out wood and dead flowers. But it was beautiful. Modern. The twisted line of the wood continued on with the unusual shape of the iris flowers. And the pale, papery petals of the lisianthus grounded the whole thing. I wasn’t sure what I had expected when I heard the Johnston kids were into flower arranging, but I’d assumed it would be more like what my nanima did with plastic flowers from the craft store. Or maybe like the centerpieces in weddings. I’d heard them mention a “flower sculpture” competition, but I assumed it was more like flowers in vases.
But this? This was actually sculptural. And compelling. I stepped even closer. I couldn’t deny it . . . I went to an art school—this was art. And Rowan? I was no floral-sculpture expert, but I could see the weirdo was like some sort of floral savant. No wonder Addison was pissed her ex wasn’t going to help her win that competition.
“Juniper is as good as you at this stuff?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Careful, Thirst Trap. I think you just complimented me.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m just trying to figure all you people out. Addison was, like, totally negging Juniper to get her on her team, and you—you’re researching flower meanings to convince her. As far as I’m concerned, both are manipulative.”
His nostrils flared. “I’m not manipulating her; she’s my sister. I want her to . . .” He paused. “I’m trying to protect her.”
“Okay, so, that’s admirable and all, but you should be letting Juniper do what she wants.” And I suspected all Juniper wanted to do was read books. And maybe talk about books. Photograph books. “This is cool, though.” I gestured to the flower arrangement and sighed. “I admit, I am impressed.”
He snorted. “High praise, coming from you.”
“Actually, it is.” I shook my head. The guy’s flower talent was distracting me from my point. “Honestly, I can’t see how you and Addison are the slightest bit compatible, but whatever. I’m not going to pretend to understand the love lives of the hayseeds and flower children. Wait, what did she call you? Flower Power?”
He huffed. “Addison and I are not compatible. That’s why we’re not together. I’ll talk to her. Get her to leave June alone.”
I waved my hand and headed back to the table to get my backpack. “You do that.”
“Tahira, wait. I need a favor.”
I turned back to him, one eyebrow raised in question. What could I possibly do for him?
He walked around the workbench and came closer to me. I couldn’t make out his expression anymore because it was getting dark and the bright colors in the sky had dimmed. “You’ll be working with June this summer, and for some reason she really likes you. Can you just, I don’t know . . . keep her safe from people like Addison?”
“You want me to protect your sister from your girlfriend?”
“Ex-girlfriend. Look, June’s . . . she’s dealt with a lot of crap at school, and she took our grandmother’s death last year pretty hard.”
I winced. June talked so warmly about her grandmother—I hadn’t realized she’d died recently. “Oh. I’m sorry. Is this the grandmother who taught her about flowers?”
Rowan nodded. “She lived here with us for the last five years, and June and her were close. Anyway, June’s head’s in the clouds lately. I don’t want people like Addie taking advantage.”
I didn’t want that, either. I slipped my backpack straps on. “I didn’t like the way your ex was talking to Juniper. No one is going to bully my coworker on my watch. Gia and I have already decided she will be our teen-comedy sidekick.”
He snorted. “Mean Girls?”
“Clueless.”
He laughed out loud. “Well, you certainly have Cher’s pout mastered.”
Huh. Rowan Johnston knew Clueless. “I don’t pout,” I said.
“You’re pouting right now. You’ll tell me if Addie harasses her again?” he asked.
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I shrugged. Getting involved in Bakewell drama when I wanted to focus on work was probably ill advised, but I didn’t want June disrespected by a snobby brat.
“Fine. Good night, Plant-Boy.”
I left the beautiful douche canoe alone in his garden.
8
TEARS, PEP TALKS, AND DIGGING GARDEN HOTTIES
I ended up texting Matteo for a while from my sleeping loft when I got back to the tiny house. Gia was watching something on her phone from her bed with headphones. Matteo had a lot of ideas for elements to add to my proposal for Lily, but since the store didn’t carry menswear, I wasn’t sure I could use any of them. I promised I’d hire him as a consultant if we ever sold clothes for guys and then said good night. I still had a crap ton of work left, and between my mother, my boyfriend, and the grumpy plant nerd in the yard, I’d had enough distractions for one night. I stayed up late writing by the light of my phone to finish the proposal. It was fine—my body was used to little sleep when I was designing or sewing, anyway.
The Lilybuds schedule normally had one person (usually Shar) opening the store at ten, with one or two people joining at noon, since that’s when most of the customers came in. But on Tuesday, Gia and I both opened with Shar since some tour buses were going to be passing through town on the way to some immersive flower experience. The tour-bus ladies (because most were older women around Shar’s age) came soon after we opened, browsed for what felt like hours, and bought barely anything. Waste of time, if you asked me. When we rebranded the store as Lily, people wouldn’t drop in while passing through town—we’d be a destination in itself.
After the crowds died down, it was finally time to show Shar my proposal. The three of us stood around the counter, and I pulled out my sketchbook and handwritten notes.
“Wow, this is impressive,” Shar said, flipping through my sketchbook to look at the five detailed mock-ups I’d made. “You’re so professional. I don’t think you’ll have a problem getting into that school of yours.”
I smiled. The positive reinforcement kept my nerves tamped down as I went through my proposal. Gia had seen most of it this morning, so she jumped in here and there, but this project was my baby. I couldn’t wait to see it come to life this summer.
I went through it all—the sketches of the inside of the store, the new logo, the sketch of the exterior, and some sample products from Shar’s wholesalers that fit the store’s new vibe. I’d even sourced some new suppliers with similar price points but more on-trend stuff. After showing Shar the last sketch—the one of the back wall with the new logo and geometric wallpaper—I stilled, biting my lip. My aunt had been awfully quiet as I was talking. I was scared all of a sudden—she did like the proposal, right?
Finally, she spoke. “Wow, Tahira. This is impressive. Really. You did all this since yesterday?”
“Yeah, while we were here and then last night.”
Shar shook her head. “You’re a remarkable girl. Truly. But . . . I think you may have bitten off more than we can chew. I appreciate your vision, but this is too much.”
I blinked. “Too much?”
She put her hand over mine. “I think this plan is too ambitious for my little store. New sign, new fixtures, turning over all the stock . . . it’s more than I’d planned. And the cost! This is Bakewell, not Yorkville Avenue in Toronto. We have a more mature clientele who, for the most part, like the store as it is. I was thinking more a freshen-up, not an entire redo.”
She didn’t like it.
I closed my eyes and took a breath. I’d been rejected before. Loads of times. I didn’t get the job in the denim section at that luxury department store. Someone else’s design was picked for the finale of the school fashion show last year. Other than Nilusha, no designer had even called me for an interview for a summer job. Plus, #IndieFashionWeekly rejected me every Sunday. This shouldn’t have hurt so much.
I wasn’t cut out for this career.
My heart was beating heavy in my chest. I wasn’t supposed to get rejected here. Shar was my aunt. This was Bakewell. This was supposed to be the easy way to get the experience I’d lost when that damn parakeet ruined my life. But I had still failed.
If I couldn’t even do this, why did I think I could handle FIT? Or the fashion world?
Gia gave Shar a pleading look. “But you could be sooo cool! You could attract younger customers!”
“The older crowd is my bread and butter, and I can’t afford to make them feel uncomfortable,” Shar said.
“But why can’t younger people be the store’s bread and butter? The Toronto boutique I used to work at managed to make a killing with younger customers,” I said.
“There aren’t a lot of younger people around here. They certainly don’t spend enough to make all this worthwhile.”
“What about just changing the name?” Gia offered.
I looked down at my sketch. What was the point of using the cool, minimalistic name and logo if the store was the same old country-clothing store?
Shar shook her head. “Maybe in the future, but not this year.” She reached over to the edge of the counter. “Changing the logo now would cost a fortune in marketing.” She put a glossy sheet on my open sketchbook. It was a flyer for the Bakewell Festival of Flowers. “We’re a sponsor for the festival, and most of the promos are already printed.”
Yup. The damn oval with flowers and the name “Lilybuds” was printed on the flyer, along with McLaughlin’s Hardware (Addison’s family?) and the Book Nook.
“That bites,” Gia said, hunching her shoulders and resting her elbows on the counter. “This could have been awesome. Tahira is talented.”
Shar smiled with encouragement. “She’s so talented. I’m in awe. Let’s have a compromise, shall we? How about we bring in a few of these pieces?” She pulled out my list of products. “We can set up a little corner—maybe five feet or so on the back wall. A younger line within the store. You could even call it your name—Lilies.”
“Just Lily, with a period,” I said, voice shaking. A small corner of a store with mass-produced wholesale clothes was nothing impressive. This wasn’t getting me into FIT.
Shar continued flipping through the pages in the sketchbook. “I think we can work with a lot of your ideas. Fresh white walls and less clutter would make a big impact. How about this—come back to me with a scaled-down design plan with no new fixtures or major construction. Include a small new section with some of these trendier pieces. We can still do amazing work here, just on a smaller scale.” She tapped the sketch of the back wall. “This is impressive. Really. You’re going to be a force to be reckoned with soon, Tahira, but let’s walk before running, at least here at Lilybuds. Can you still use these sketches in your college application?”
I shrugged. I supposed I could, but without the follow-up photos of the plan implemented, what was the point?
“Don’t be discouraged, beti,” Shar said. Then she smiled at the sketch of the back wall. “This reminds me of the mural at Wynter’s.”
I cringed, looking at my drawing. Yup—the “designer” wallpaper I’d drawn did kind of look like that stupid purple and blue mural on the barn at the nursery. The irony wasn’t lost on me. This moment also felt like a sack of poo had been thrown on what was supposed to be the start of an amazing summer.
Gia tilted her head, smiling at me with encouragement. “I totally want to help pick the pieces for a new line. It’ll be awesome.”
Gia was a good friend. I closed my sketchbook and put on a smile. I had to at least look optimistic. Pouting not allowed. This job was the only one I had this summer, and I still needed a reference.
“It’s no problem,” I said slowly. I put the sketchbook back in my bag. “I can totally rework this plan. It’s a process, right? I’ll draft simpler ideas tonight.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Shar said, grinning. “Rowan stopped by the house on his way to work this morning. He brought an extra drafting light for the flat and some colored pencils
for you.”
“Rowan brought them?”
She nodded. “He’s so thoughtful. I’m going to miss him when he goes to university in September.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll take my lunch now. You girls hold down the fort.”
I sighed, putting my bag behind the counter. Rowan wasn’t being nice; the light was probably just so I would stop sketching in his precious backyard. But that didn’t explain the pencil crayons . . . was that payment for protecting Juniper? Honestly, it didn’t even matter right now. Not when my entire summer plan had just crumbled to the ground and I had to regroup.
Again.
Since the store was dead, and Juniper was coming in later to close anyway, Shar said I could leave after Gia’s lunch break if I wanted to. Clearly, she could tell I needed space to process the humiliating rejection this morning. I was grateful—I always thought best when walking alone in downtown Toronto. Hopefully downtown Bakewell would do in a pinch.
It was a downright glorious sunny day, which was kind of rude, considering my mood. The streets were quiet, and I barely passed anyone as I made my way up Main Street toward home. Since I was alone, I allowed myself a good old-fashioned, adolescent-angst pout, because none of this was fair. The stupid parakeet, Nilusha’s broken leg, the manure on my red suede boots, Rowan Johnston’s smirk, and finally, Shar rejecting my plan for her store. I worked hard—and hard work was supposed to pay off. Yeah, connections and talent and all that mattered, too, but if I made a plan and stuck to it, I was supposed to succeed.
Janmohammads always succeed. It was the family mantra. But apparently, I was the one to disprove it.
I closed my eyes for a second, trying to will away the tears. Last time I cried like this, my false lashes came clean off, and I didn’t want to scare the Bakewell kids playing at the flower playground. I pulled out my phone and called Matteo as I walked. I needed to hear his voice. I needed him to tell me it was going to be okay. But of course he didn’t answer. He wasn’t allowed calls at work. I texted him to call me when he could.
What was I supposed to do now about my FIT application? On the drive out here, Mom had said I needed to find a way to make Bakewell work for me while I worked for Bakewell.
