I'm going to find out what happened to him. You just wait and see.
--Lily
*
I'm about to open another entry when my phone rings. I crawl across the couch for it and I'm not the least bit surprised to see it's my mother again. Now that my father has passed and she's alone, she'll probably call me twice as much as she did before.
"Hello?"
"What do you think about my moving to Boston?" she blurts out.
I grab the throw pillow next to me and shove my face into it, muffling a scream. "Um. Wow," I say. "Really?"
She's quiet, and then, "It was just a thought. We can discuss it tomorrow. I'm almost to my meeting."
"Okay. Bye."
And just like that, I want to move out of Massachusetts. She can't move here. She doesn't know anyone here. She'd expect me to entertain her every day. I love my mother, don't get me wrong, but I moved to Boston to be on my own, and having her in the same city would make me feel less independent.
My father was diagnosed with cancer three years ago while I was still in college. If Ryle Kincaid were here right now, I'd tell him the naked truth that I was a little bit relieved when my father became too ill to physically hurt my mother. It completely changed the dynamic of their relationship and I no longer felt obligated to stay in Plethora to make sure she was okay.
Now that my father is gone and I never have to worry about my mother again, I was looking forward to spreading my wings, so to speak.
But now she's moving to Boston?
It feels like my wings were just clipped.
Where is a marine-grade polymer chair when I need one?!
I'm seriously stressing out and I have no idea what I'd do if my mother moves to Boston. I don't have a garden, or a yard, or a patio, or weeds.
I have to find another outlet.
I decide to clean. I place all of my old shoeboxes full of journals and notes in my bedroom closet. Then I organize my entire closet. My jewelry, my shoes, my clothes . . .
She cannot move to Boston.
Chapter Three
Six months later
"Oh."
That's all she says.
My mother turns and assesses the building, running a finger over the windowsill next to her. She picks up a layer of dust and wipes it between her fingers. "It's . . ."
"It needs a lot of work, I know," I interrupt. I point at the windows behind her. "But look at the storefront. It has potential."
She scrolls over the windows, nodding. There's this sound she makes in the back of her throat sometimes, where she agrees with a little hum but her lips remain tight. It means she doesn't actually agree. And she makes that sound. Twice.
I drop my arms in defeat. "You think this was stupid?"
She gives her head a slight shake. "That all depends on how it turns out, Lily," she says. The building used to house a restaurant and it's still full of old tables and chairs. My mother walks over to a nearby table and pulls out one of the chairs, taking a seat. "If things work out, and your floral shop is successful, then people will say it was a brave, bold, smart business decision. But if it fails and you lose your entire inheritance . . ."
"Then people will say it was a stupid business decision."
She shrugs. "That's just how it works. You majored in business, you know that." She glances around the room, slowly, as if she's seeing it the way it will look a month from now. "Just make sure it's brave and bold, Lily."
I smile. I can accept that. "I can't believe I bought it without asking you first," I say, taking a seat at the table.
"You're an adult. It's your right," she says, but I can hear a trace of disappointment. I think she feels even lonelier now that I need her less and less. It's been six months since my father died, and even though he wasn't good company, it has to be weird for her, being alone. She got a job at one of the elementary schools, so she did end up moving here. She chose a small suburb on the outskirts of Boston. She bought a cute two-bedroom house on a cul-de-sac, with a huge backyard. I dream of planting a garden there, but that would require daily care. My limit is once-a-week visits. Sometimes twice.
"What are you going to do with all this junk?" she asks.
She's right. There's so much junk. It'll take forever to clear this place out. "I have no idea. I guess I'll be busting my ass for a while before I can even think about decorating."
"When's your last day at the marketing firm?"
I smile. "Yesterday."
She releases a sigh, and then shakes her head. "Oh, Lily. I certainly hope this works out in your favor."
We both begin to stand when the front door opens. There are shelves in the way of the door, so I careen my head around them and see a woman walk in. Her eyes briefly scan the room until she sees me.
"Hi," she says with a wave. She's cute. She's dressed well, but she's wearing white capris. A disaster waiting to happen in this dust bowl.
"Can I help you?"
She tucks her purse beneath her arm and walks toward me, holding out her hand. "I'm Allysa," she says. I shake her hand.
"Lily."
She tosses a thumb over her shoulder. "There's a help wanted sign out front?"
I look over her shoulder and raise an eyebrow. "There is?" I didn't put up a help wanted sign.
She nods, and then shrugs. "It looks old, though," she says. "It's probably been there a while. I was just out for a walk and saw the sign. Was curious, is all."
I like her almost immediately. Her voice is pleasant and her smile seems genuine.
My mother's hand falls down on my shoulder and she leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "I have to go," she says. "Open house tonight." I tell her goodbye and watch her walk outside, then turn my attention back to Allysa.
"I'm not really hiring yet," I say. I wave my hand around the room. "I'm opening up a floral shop, but it'll be a couple of months, at least." I should know better than to hold preconceived judgments, but she doesn't look like she'd be satisfied with a minimum wage job. Her purse probably cost more than this building.
Her eyes light up. "Really? I love flowers!" She spins around in a circle and says, "This place has a ton of potential. What color are you painting it?"
I cross my arm over my chest and grab my elbow. Rocking back on my heels, I say, "I'm not sure. I just got the keys to the building an hour ago, so I haven't really come up with a design plan yet."
"Lily, right?"
I nod.
"I'm not going to pretend I have a degree in design, but it's my absolute favorite thing. If you need any help, I'd do it for free."
I tilt my head. "You'd work for free?"
She nods. "I don't really need a job, I just saw the sign and thought, 'What the heck?' But I do get bored sometimes. I'd be happy to help you with whatever you need. Cleaning, decorating, picking out paint colors. I'm a Pinterest whore." Something behind me catches her eye and she points. "I could take that broken door and make it magnificent. All this stuff, really. There's a use for almost everything, you know."
I look around at the room, knowing full well I'm not going to be able to tackle this by myself. I probably can't even lift half this stuff alone. I'll eventually have to hire someone anyway. "I'm not going to let you work for free. But I could do $10 an hour if you're really serious."
She starts clapping, and if she weren't in heels, she might have jumped up and down. "When can I start?"
I glance down at her white capris. "Will tomorrow work? You'll probably want to show up in disposable clothes."
She waves me off and drops her Hermes bag on a dusty table next to her. "Nonsense," she says. "My husband is watching the Bruins play at a bar down the street. If it's okay, I'll just hang with you and get started right now."
*
Two hours later, I'm convinced I've met my new best friend. And she really is a Pinterest whore.
We write "Keep" and "Toss" on sticky notes, and slap them on everything in the room. She's a fellow believer in upcycling, so we come up with ideas f
or at least 75 percent of the stuff left in the building. The rest she says her husband can throw out when he has free time. Once we know what we're going to do with all the stuff, I grab a notebook and a pen and we sit at one of the tables to write down design ideas.
"Okay," she says, leaning back in her chair. I want to laugh, because her white capris are covered in dirt now, but she doesn't seem to care. "Do you have a goal for this place?" she asks, glancing around.
"I have one," I say. "Succeed."
She laughs. "I have no doubt you'll succeed. But you do need a vision."
I think about what my mother said. "Just make sure it's brave and bold, Lily." I smile and sit up straighter in my chair. "Brave and bold," I say. "I want this place to be different. I want to take risks."
She narrows her eyes as she chews on the tip of the pen. "But you're just selling flowers," she says. "How can you be brave and bold with flowers?"
I look around the room and try to envision what I'm thinking. I'm not even sure what I'm thinking. I'm just getting itchy and restless, like I'm on the verge of a brilliant idea. "What are some words that come to mind when you think of flowers?" I ask her.
She shrugs. "I don't know. They're sweet, I guess? They're alive, so they make me think of life. And maybe the color pink. And spring."
"Sweet, life, pink, spring," I repeat. And then, "Allysa, you're brilliant!" I stand up and begin pacing the floor. "We'll take everything everyone loves about flowers, and we'll do the complete opposite!"
She makes a face to let me know she isn't following.
"Okay," I say. "What if, instead of showcasing the sweet side of flowers, we showcased the villainous side? Instead of pink accents, we use darker colors, like a deep purple or even black. And instead of just spring and life, we also celebrate winter and death."
Allysa's eyes are wide. "But . . . what if someone wants pink flowers, though?"
"Well, we'll still give them what they want, of course. But we'll also give them what they don't know they want."
She scratches her cheek. "So you're thinking black flowers?" She looks concerned, and I don't blame her. She's only seeing the darkest side of my vision. I take a seat at the table again and try to get her on board.
"Someone once told me that there is no such thing as bad people. We're all just people who sometimes do bad things. That stuck with me, because it's so true. We've all got a little bit of good and evil in us. I want to make that our theme. Instead of painting the walls a putrid sweet color, we paint them dark purple with black accents. And instead of only putting out the usual pastel displays of flowers in boring crystal vases that make people think of life, we go edgy. Brave and bold. We put out displays of darker flowers wrapped in things like leather or silver chains. And rather than put them in crystal vases, we'll stick them in black onyx or . . . I don't know . . . purple velvet vases lined with silver studs. The ideas are endless." I stand up again. "There are floral shops on every corner for people who love flowers. But what floral shop caters to all the people who hate flowers?"
Allysa shakes her head. "None of them," she whispers.
"Exactly. None of them."
We stare at each other for a moment, and then I can't take it another second. I'm bursting with excitement and I just start laughing like a giddy child. Allysa starts laughing, too, and she jumps up and hugs me. "Lily, it's so twisted, it's brilliant!"
"I know!" I'm full of renewed energy. "I need a desk so I can sit down and make a business plan! But my future office is full of old vegetable crates!"
She walks toward the back of the store. "Well, let's get them out of there and go buy you a desk!"
We squeeze into the office and begin moving crates out one by one and into a back room. I stand on the chair to make the piles taller so we'll have more room to move around.
"These are perfect for the window displays I have in mind." She hands me two more crates and walks away, and as I'm reaching on my tiptoes to stack them at the very top, the pile begins to tumble. I try to find something to grab hold of for balance, but the crates knock me off the chair. When I land on the floor, I can feel my foot bend in the wrong direction. It's followed by a rush of pain straight up my leg and down to my toes.
Allysa comes rushing back into the room and has to move two of the crates from on top of me. "Lily!" she says. "Oh my God, are you okay?"
I pull myself up to a sitting position, but don't even try to put weight on my ankle. I shake my head. "My ankle."
She immediately removes my shoe and then pulls her phone out of her pocket. She begins dialing a number and then looks up at me. "I know this is a stupid question, but do you happen to have a refrigerator here with ice in it?"
I shake my head.
"I figured," she says. She puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the floor as she begins to roll up my pant leg. I wince, but not so much from the pain. I just can't believe I did something so stupid. If I broke it, I'm screwed. I just spent my entire inheritance on a building that I won't even be able to renovate for months.
"Heeey, Issa," a voice croons through her phone. "Where you at? The game's over."
Allysa picks up her phone and brings it closer to her mouth. "At work. Listen, I need . . ."
The guy cuts her off and says, "At work? Babe, you don't even have a job."
Allysa shakes her head and says, "Marshall, listen. It's an emergency. I think my boss broke her ankle. I need you to bring some ice to . . ."
He cuts her off with a laugh. "Your boss? Babe, you don't even have a job," he repeats.
Allysa rolls her eyes. "Marshall, are you drunk?"
"It's onesie day," he slurs into the phone. "You knew that when you dropped us off, Issa. Free beer until . . ."
She groans. "Put my brother on the phone."
"Fine, fine," Marshall mumbles. There's a rustling sound that comes from the phone, and then, "Yeah?"
Allysa spits out our location into the phone. "Get here right now. Please. And bring a bag of ice."
"Yes ma'am," he says. The brother sounds like he may be a little drunk, too. There's laughter, and then one of the guys says, "She's in a bad mood," and then the line goes dead.
Allysa puts her phone back in her pocket. "I'll go wait outside for them, they're just down the street. Will you be okay here?"
I nod and reach for the chair. "Maybe I should just try to walk on it."
Allysa pushes my shoulders back until I'm leaning against the wall again. "No, don't move. Wait until they get here, okay?"
I have no idea what two drunken guys are going to be able to do for me, but I nod. My new employee feels more like my boss right now and I'm kind of scared of her at the moment.
I wait in the back for about ten minutes when I finally hear the front door to the building open. "What in the world?" a man's voice says. "Why are you all alone in this creepy building?"
I hear Allysa say, "She's back here." She walks in, followed by a guy wearing a onesie. He's tall, a little bit on the thin side, but boyishly handsome with big, honest eyes and a head full of dark, messy, way-past-due-for-a-haircut hair. He's holding a bag of ice.
Did I mention he was wearing a onesie?
I'm talking a legit, full-grown man in a SpongeBob onesie.
"This is your husband?" I ask her, cocking an eyebrow.
Allysa rolls her eyes. "Unfortunately," she says, glancing back at him. Another guy (also in a onesie) walks in behind them, but my attention is on Allysa as she explains why they're wearing pajamas on a random Wednesday afternoon. "There's a bar down the street that gives out free beer to anyone who shows up in a onesie during a Bruins game." She makes her way over to me and motions for the guys to follow her. "She fell off the chair and hurt her ankle," she says to the other guy. He steps around Marshall and the first thing I notice are his arms.
Holy shit. I know those arms.
Those are the arms of a neurosurgeon.
Allysa is his sister? The sister that owns the entire top floor, with th
e husband who works in pajamas and brings in seven figures a year?
As soon as my eyes lock with Ryle's, his whole face morphs into a smile. I haven't seen him in--God, how long ago was that--six months? I can't say I haven't thought about him during the past six months, because I've thought about him quite a few times. But I never actually thought I'd see him again.
"Ryle, this is Lily. Lily, my brother, Ryle," she says, motioning toward him. "And that's my husband, Marshall."
Ryle walks over to me and kneels down. "Lily," he says, regarding me with a smile. "Nice to meet you."
It's obvious he remembers me--I can see it in his knowing smile. But like me, he's pretending this is the first time we've met. I'm not sure I'm in the mood to explain how we already know each other.
Ryle touches my ankle and inspects it. "Can you move it?"
I try to move it, but a sharp pain shoots all the way up my leg. I suck in air through my teeth and shake my head. "Not yet. It hurts."
Ryle motions to Marshall. "Find something to put the ice in."
Allysa follows Marshall out of the room. When they're both gone, Ryle looks at me and his mouth turns up into a grin. "I won't charge you for this, but only because I'm slightly inebriated," he says with a wink.
I tilt my head. "The first time I met you, you were high. Now you're drunk. I'm beginning to worry you aren't going to make a very qualified neurosurgeon."
He laughs. "It would appear that way," he says. "But I promise you, I rarely ever get high and this is my first day off in over a month, so I really needed a beer. Or five."
Marshall comes back with an old rag wrapped around some ice. He hands it to Ryle, who presses it against my ankle. "I'll need that first aid kit out of your trunk," Ryle says to Allysa. She nods and grabs Marshall's hand, pulling him out of the room again.
Ryle presses his palm against the bottom of my foot. "Push against my hand," he says.
I push down with my ankle. It hurts, but I'm able to move his hand. "Is it broken?"
He moves my foot from side to side, and then says, "I don't think so. Let's give it a couple of minutes and I'll see if you can put any weight on it."
I nod and watch as he adjusts himself across from me. He sits cross-legged and pulls my foot onto his lap. He looks around the room and then directs his attention back at me. "So what is this place?"
I smile a little too big. "Lily Bloom's. It'll be a floral shop in about two months' time."
It Ends With Us Page 4
