“Well, you girls should have the bar set high. No one deserves to cross it unless they can make quite a leap. That’s what Misty’s grandfather did. Boy, he cleared the moon for me.”
“That’s nice to hear.” Diane leaned in, obviously ready to hear more.
Misty cleared her throat, getting both women’s attention. “I went ahead and cleaned all the stations for you.”
“Well, thanks! Overachieve much?” A wind-chime ringtone caught her attention. Diane glanced down at the display on her cell phone, mouth curling into a grin.
“My granddaughter always thinks of others before herself. It’s her tragic flaw.”
Diane pocketed her Blackberry “Nice flaw to have. Anyway. Here’s the idea. I’ve run it by my partners, Gia and Sofie, and your grandma agrees.”
Misty raised her brows. “What’s that?”
“The Flower Field is responsible for all the arrangements for the Almond Valley College Awards banquet and film festival. And, Mr. Wiggersham, the Dean, wants your grandmother’s input.”
Misty turned to Grandma, “That’s lovely.”
“So…” Diane continued, “as guest of honor—Mrs. Darling has requested you help plan out the arrangements.”
“Well, that’s quite an offer, but—” She turned, pleading with her gaze.
Grandma held up a dismissive hand. “No one knows me, and what I like better than you, Misty. I’ll leave you two young women to discuss details.” With that, she turned back to observe her painting.
Misty looked down, studying the instructor’s elegant, long-fingered hands. Lines of color streaked over shaped, unpolished nails, looking something like a Jackson Pollack painting.
“Between flower arranging and art, I haven’t seen a manicurist in an age.” Diane flexed, and examined her own nail beds, then upturned her gaze to meet Misty’s straight on. “Your grandmother told me you left quite a production job in the city to come out here to help her.”
“That’s what she always says. We’re kind of helping each other.”
“Your input would help all of us during the design phase—we’re starting next week. Say, next Wednesday at The Flower Field—noonish?”
Looking back and forth between Grandma and Diane, her blood quickened. With the event coming quickly, there would be a great deal to do. Besides, what girl didn’t love being around lots of lovely flowers?
Chapter Eight
One week later, Misty stood in front of The Flower Field. A warm, California breeze set the hinged, hand painted sign to squeak and wave overhead, seeming to beckon that she go inside and inhale the aroma of blooms.
She peered through the beveled glass display window. Tiered arrangements in metal flower buckets spilled over with sunflowers, freesia, roses, and baby’s breath. Carnations blazed in a rainbow of color. Beyond, the rustic but comfortable interior of The Flower Field beckoned.
She hesitated. Misty hadn’t been good with people for an age—six months of self-imposed exile only made her second guess every decision. Still, Diane saw something in her that she could believe in. Besides, Grandma insisted.
With that in mind, she pushed open the door to the tinkling of a bell and a trio greeting her, “Welcome to The Flower Field!”
Jarred by the sudden cheer, Misty held on to her smile. “Good morning.”
“Sofie! Grace! This is Misty Darling.” Diane made introductions.
Each looked up in turn and said their hellos before diving back to the issue at hand.
Along the back wall, the flower cooler doors stood open, the black tiered shelves displayed only splashes of water and scattered, curling greens. Tubs of sad looking blooms in an array of shapes and sizes hung on for dear life.
A burly repairman dug through and removed strange looking wrenches from his toolbox.
“Your diagnosis sounds expensive, Fred.” Gia folded her arms in front of her chest. “If you just recharge the thing with coolant again—”
“Again being the keyword here.” Sofie flipped back her dark curls, and blew at her bangs, attention focused on Grace. “That, and the fact that we know our refrigeration repair guy by name. No offense, Fred.”
“None taken.” The repairman straightened his shoulders, revealing his name embroidered in red on the white oval. He wore a dour expression along with his blue jumpsuit, and turned back to Grace, ready to do battle. “Freon isn’t that expensive, but if you girls don’t change the compressor soon, you’ll be seeing me on a regular basis. Not that I have a problem with that, but I’d rather be in here as a customer. The Mrs. likes tulips…” His glance slid to the bucket of brown looking, petal-less stems of the former tulip display, then back to the others with a shoulder shrug. “Usually.”
“He’s right, Grace.” Diane swept in. “We should just get the compressor now and be done with it. With the wedding and the award show next month, we can’t afford to lose all our flowers in one swoop.”
“And then, there’s our Mathew dilemma,” Sofie pointed out. Silence wrapped the three in a disjointed bouquet.
Misty’s ears perked as the young women hunkered down like football players at fourth and goal, no time on the clock. She wondered what they were saying, and strained to hear, more interested than she should be.
The three women huddled up with less-than-subtle glances in her direction.
Misty busied herself, studying the greeting card display. Birthday. Anniversary. Sympathy. But not one of the hand-painted cards offered any advice how to handle the sorry your a/c is out and you’ve lost most of your inventory scenario.
The white, wire card tower gave a powerful squeak as it turned. All attention instantly focused on her. Misty gulped. “I can come back another time.” She took a backward step toward the door.
“Wait!” Diane snapped her fingertips and pointed.
“Yes?” Misty went stock-still, knowing she looked like a deer in the headlights.
“You’re a producer, right?”
“Well, I…I’m a production manager.” Misty stumbled over her words, quick-cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “I’ve done documentary films for cable.”
“Your grandmother told me while you were washing brushes after class.”
The look on Diane’s face suggested Grandma Nona might have told her the full story. Misty took a cleansing, deep breath. “What does production have to do with flowers?”
“More than you know. Sofie has an order to fill for our favorite customer. One we can’t afford to blow. Stef? Give her the details.”
“What good’s it going to do?” Sofie wailed, hands waving at the drooping stems. “Most of our stock’s kaput!”
“We got in this morning and the refrigeration was out,” Diane explained. “But, let’s not get stuck on details. Of all the days, we need an ‘I’m Sorry’ arrangement for Mathew Raineer. He and Emily, his new wifey, had their first fight. He begged us for something dazzling to make up for it. Something original. Unexpected.”
“Good thing Mr. Raineer doesn’t do anything halfway.” Gia pointed to calculations on the printed spreadsheets. “With our stock losses, we’d have to charge Matt double his normal fee to even cover what we need to break even for the day. Triple to end up ahead.”
“We’d have to be pretty spectacular to lay that on one guy.” Sofie screwed her lips. “Even if he is rich.”
“So these…” Misty pointed to the buckets of sunshiny sunflowers and mellow, pastel freesia.
“Been there—” Gia said.
“—Done that.” Sofie finished.
“Yeah. We’ve done the spectacular for him already. He wants far from ordinary, and is willing to pay extra.”
“And those…” Misty pointed to the pathetic baskets of white, red, and yellow roses. They wept their large-petaled heads in the space behind the back corner.
“Useless.” Diane sighed, leaning her hip into the counter. “So, manage us, Misty. We need a fresh dose of new perspective.”
Misty swal
lowed, trying to wet her desert-dry throat. Three sets of eyes pinned themselves on her. A fourth joined, as Fred the repair guy leaned forward to see what she had to say, as well.
“Fine.” In the far corners of her brain, the production manager gears squeaked back to life. How often did a shoot go pear-shaped? Or an interview lead off in an unexpected direction? So often, she’d have to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, and more than once, they led to a better outcome. Misty pushed up her sleeves. “Let’s start with this Raineer guy. He has a regular account?”
“Standing order for their monthly anniversary. One hundred dollars a pop.” Gia ran her hands through her blonde hair.
“Okay. And this is over and above his regular order—an apology, right? So it has to be unique.” Misty’s gaze ran over the drooping flowers. “And you have no stock to work with.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, it’s Wednesday morning. Why don’t I go see what deals I can make with the growers at the Farmer’s Market? What’s your budget?”
Sofie, Diane, and Gia passed a shared look, as if they communicated without speaking a word. Then, begrudgingly, Gia opened the cash box. “See what you can do with this petty cash.”
“You won’t be sorry!” Misty strode out the door into the sunshine, head high, the bell tinkling at her exit. She took a deep breath, pocketed the fifty dollars into her jeans, and crossed at the walk with determined strides. The sun warmed her face and shoulders. Sidewalks brimmed with shoppers and customers, darting in and out of the Main Street stores. Across the way, in the empty parking lot, the market brimmed with more customers hauling baskets, bags, and pushing little carts with their purchases. Misty headed towards the grower’s booths, her mind tickling with ideas.
Nothing ordinary. Completely original. She eyed a spray of roses and turned away. Roses were easy. This arrangement had to speak of love, affection, remorse, and the most important aspect of all, a plea for forgiveness.
She observed a grower’s bunch of some strange, Alice in Wonderland-looking blooms. Bizarre. And, a tad on the surreal side. Not the look she’d want in an honest apology, she turned away and scanned the market, heart sinking. The Long Valley wind fluttered banners advertising different area growers, their displays ranging from pastel geraniums to vibrant orange chrysanthemums, to green potted ferns and ficus trees. All wrong.
How does one say I’m sorry in a way that’s both stunning and startling?
Along with her film and television degree, she’d studied anthropology in college. Different cultures apologized in all sorts of different ways. She didn’t think Mathew Raineer could be convinced to tear his shirt, throw ashes, or cut off his hair. Moreover, his Emily would more than likely leave him on the spot for such a crazy gesture, or have him transferred to the local loony bin. Her lips pressed into a grin at the thought.
Misty removed her sunglasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose, her thoughts churning a million miles an hour. That left conflict resolution, and the most prevalent of course was the extending of an olive branch. Where on earth would she find…?
Then, she saw it. A sign for the Long Valley Olive Oil Company waved in the wind above the other booths, boasting free olive oil tasting. She’d heard of tasting wine, but olive oil? Why would anyone drink olive oil on purpose? Misty shoved her hands in her pockets and angled straight to the display.
From a distance, she caught sight of a dark haired, well-built salesperson, his back to her as he laid out his pitch. He poured from tall, slender bottles into little plastic cups. Each clear cup revealed oil of a distinctly different color, ranging from almost clear, to amber, to a bright and grassy green.
She looked beyond the tasting bar to the arrangement they’d created for displaying their wares. Little potted baby olive trees. Their tiny, gray-leafed branches reached up for the California sunlight, bookending the display. A hand written not for sale sign leaned innocently against one of the burlap-wrapped pots.
The breeze skittered warm fingers over her skin, but chills ran from shoulder to elbow. This was it! She had an instant vision for how to solve both Mathew Raineer’s problem, and save the trio at the flower shop. Everything hinged on getting a few of those trees. Misty stepped behind the current tasters, set a serene smile on her face, and waited her turn, total focus on her conquest.
An older, portly man in a Hawaiian luau shirt and Bermuda shorts stood directly in front of her, along with his equally chubby, curly haired wife. They’d obviously shopped the entire market up and down. Bags sat at their feet loaded down with loaves of bread, hunks of local cheese, and books on the California wine country. They ooh-ed and ahh-ed in turn, each exclaiming their observations over the different aromas and flavors from each cup of olive oil.
Misty noted the carefully arranged pyramids of olive tapenade, bruschetta spreads, and dipping blends on the opposite end of the counter, going unnoticed by not only the many passers-by, but for the current customers. The Long Valley Olive Oil Company looked like they could single-handedly take over the appetizer market, but someone obviously hadn’t given much thought to how or where they were displayed.
“This one’s so green.” The man tilted the thumb-sized cup to the sun, turning the liquid. “You said it’s harvested and pressed before the olives are ripe, eh?”
“That’s right, sir.” The sales guy spoke from behind a Rubbermaid bin. He grabbed two more bottles, uncorked one, back to his growing audience. “If you and the Mrs. care to come out to the Long Valley Olive Grove on Friday, I’d be happy to show you our entire operation. There’s an open air concert that night. Should be quite an event.”
That deep, reverberating voice shot down her spine, tingling every nerve ending. Misty did a double take. Cain Trovato, the musician from Grandma’s art class, the market last week, the fountain. Here. With the answer to her problem at hand.
Her heart did a quick flip and twist in her chest. Heaven bless fate and small towns. She stepped up to the counter. “Hey, there.” She stepped into his line of sight, all smiles, inside and out.
He looked up, his half-lidded gaze widened. “Well, if it isn’t my own personal Darling. I’ve been wondering when I’d see you next.” He shot her a full grin over his bald, portly customer.
His full attention dazzled her senses. Misty set a steadying hand to the counter.
The customer remained nose-deep in a small plastic cup of grass-green olive oil while his wife busily counted out the twenties. She elbowed her husband in the ribs and whispered something.
“What’s that, Eustace?” He glanced first at Cain, then to Misty behind him and chuckled. “Oh, right.” He scooted over giving Misty some counter space, and looked back at his wife. “Young love. Remember when I started courting you?”
“Don’t embarrass the kids, Horace.” Eustace tutted with her tongue. “Here. Buy your olive oil, and let’s get on our way.”
Horace muttered something to his wife out of Misty’s earshot then turned back to review his purchases. “That’ll do it, son.”
“We’d love to take you up on that tour, Cain, after we get back from the wine country tomorrow.” Eustace smiled through her bright pink lipstick, and then winked at Misty. “He’s quite a hunk, honey. Good work.”
“I’m…we’re…” Misty blinked, and glanced to Cain for help.
He merely shrugged, lips pursed as he floated out a section of butcher paper. All silent, but for the long, swift tear and rattle of wrapping the dark glass, slender bottle.
“My Darling’s a bit shy.” Cain held her gaze, rolled another bottle in rattley brown paper. “Don’t mind her.”
His lopsided smile hooked on her heart. She brushed a few crumbs off the counter and averted her gaze to the back table display.
“Thank ya, sir.” Horace picked up his parcels.
They’d purchased two bottles. Cain merely set about counting back change, obviously nonplussed.
She glanced at the pyramid of Long Valley Olive Oil Company’s appetizers on
the back counter, out of sight, unnoticed. Too bad, she frowned. These are the sort of folks who go through wine country, buying up cases of whatever suits them…
The idea bloomed. Why not do the same with olive oil? Maybe, if she could convince them to do so, Cain would part with one or more of those lovely little trees.
The idea struck Misty like a thunderbolt. She looked from Horace to Eustace, and rested her elbow on the counter. “You all are from Minnesota, right?”
“You betcha!” Eustace grinned. “How’d ya guess?”
“I have an aunt in St. Paul.” Misty offered what she hoped was a charming smile. “I just love it there this time of year…”
“Yes. The bugs are fierce, though. It’s so nice and dry in California. We just love coming out this way for Horace’s business trips. We’re out for a medical convention, don’t’cha know.”
“Well, looks like you’re making the most of the local flavors.” Misty gestured to their collection of shopping bags. “Except, it’s a shame you’re leaving without taking some of the tapenade for an afternoon picnic! And, the dipping oils! I tell you, I could practically drink it straight, but with that crusty French bread you’ve got there, it’d be a crime if you didn’t buy some.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cain’s jaw jog down.
“Horace. Buy me that dipping oil. And the tapenade, too. The girl’s got a point.”
“They make fantastic gifts, too.” On a roll, Misty laid on another layer to the eager ears of her audience. “I know every time my parents go anywhere, I just love it when they bring back some of the local flavors.”
Cain’s brows rose as he listened—presumably at her marketing prowess. He rang up the increasing order.
“Better get a few bottles for each of the girls, hon.” Horace calculated, and broke out a wad of cash from the pocket of his shorts.
“We have seven daughters,” Eustace explained with a rub to her nose. “I bet Suzy would love that grassy green oil. She just loves the natural stuff.”
“And that will do it?” Horace looked to his wife, head cocked, sharp eyes wary. “No trip back to the mall?”
His and Hers Page 5
