“Nope.” Eustace grinned. “This’ll be better than some silly t-shirts.”
Horace exhaled, deep. “Angels be praised. You just saved me from a trip to the outlet stores. Thanks a ton.” He winked to Cain and Misty, turned back to his wife. “Now, how about that picnic, sweetie?”
Eustace beamed as they walked away, her husband juggling the full case of olive oil and the extra shopping bags, as she waved, purse in the crook of her arm.
“Wow.” Cain lost the fight with his dropping jaw. “You in sales or something?”
“Nope. Actually, today I’m in the flower business.”
“Is that right?” He scratched some numbers on his notepad, and tilted his head in her direction. “So, you just came over here to up my daily totals by five-hundred-percent?”
“No.” Misty shot a winning smile. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about those trees of yours that aren’t for sale.”
“The trees?” He followed her pointed finger to the offshoots in their burlap wrapped pots. “Those?”
She nodded.
“Lady, you have a way about you.” He grinned over the counter. “You don’t even know it, do you?”
Misty’s laugh sounded a few octaves too high in her ears. She blinked through it. “This isn’t about me. It’s about your olive trees, and what they represent. I need them…what do you say, we work out a trade?”
“Trade?”
“Yeah. You give me a couple of your seedlings, one of each of those oils, and whatever appetizer or spice jars you want to include. I, in turn, create a fantastic olive-branch goodwill arrangement, and generate a potential partnership between you and The Flower Field. What do you say?”
“You said what they represent.” He leaned forward and poured a small cup of citrus olive oil. “What do you know about it?”
She accepted the offering, running it under her nose as one would a glass of fine wine. The tangy scent of orange blossoms wafted through her senses. Misty exhaled her discourse, learned from college. “I know that since ancient Greece, olive branches have been a sign of outreach, and forgiveness. A universal symbol of peace. And, The Flower Field has a client who could use a big dose of that forgiveness and peace about now.”
“I see.” He palmed the counter between them.
She was acutely aware of his large hands, the calluses on the tips of his fingers as he gave them a slight rub with his thumb.
He caught her looking and tilted his head. “And all this would be for them?”
Misty nodded.
“Tell you what.” Cain turned to his stock and removed several items, placed them on the counter in stair step order. “Let’s call this commission for your sale: the dipping oil, our award winning citrus oil, and three seedlings. Take a picture of the basket and e-mail it to me.” He flipped his business card to her. “We’ll see about that partnership.”
“Great. I’ll set up a meeting for you with the owners.” Misty gathered up the wrapped packages before he changed his mind, heart like a rainbow, lighting from the inside out. “Thanks again.”
“Hey, this one’s for you. It’s not for sale, at any price, got it?” He extended the small potted plant along with an extra envelope.
Misty nodded at the plant, her arms full. “Where shall I put it?”
“Take it home.” He tucked the small, gray-leafed seedling in an open space at her elbow, and tucked in an envelope. “With these tickets for the Friday show. I hope you can make it. And, bring your grandmother along—my whole family’s a huge fan of hers.”
She glanced at the flier above the register, smiled at the words, Cain Trovato Plays Classical Guitar. How could she not go? After all, Cain had just saved fifty dollars of The Flower Field’s money.
Chapter Nine
Misty stood back from the prep table, eyeing Sofie’s creation. She could still taste orange flavors from Cain’s citrus olive oil on her lips.
“There. I think that’s got it,” Sofie said, nudging Misty with her elbow. “Peace offering. You’ve gotta love the theme. Well done, lady!”
The handmade, heart-shaped willow basket overflowed with the oranges, oils, and spreads arranged by Sofie’s artful touch. She’d snipped several budding boughs from the orange tree out front and filled the basket with oranges, citrus oil, and the small jars Cain had gifted. The miniature olive trees were the final touch. Grouped at the back, their tender branches bent to one another, extending the heart-shape of the basket, along with the gift.
Misty, Diane, and Gia circled around Sofie and the basket, an excited O of surprise escaping from each of them.
“This is awesome.” Diane squeezed her hand.
“And, for next to nothing.” Gia reviewed the receipts in her hand, lifting her eyebrows to Misty. “How’d you manage that?”
“Yeah, how did you get all that from Trovato?” Diane asked. “I’ve been after him for a discount for a month!”
“Good timing, I guess.” Misty’s ears flushed with heat. “I helped him make a big sale. He gave this to me as a gesture of goodwill.”
“Is that what he called it?” Sofie widened her sparkling, dark eyes. “I wish I could get some of that goodwill sometime.”
The others laughed, the way only best friends can at some inside joke. Still, they all hugged Misty’s shoulders and congratulated and instantly included her, like one of the gang.
“I’m gonna go extend your version of ‘I’m Sorry’ to Emily Raineer.” Diane elbowed Misty’s side. “Want to come?”
“Are you sure?” Misty cocked her head at the others. “Is that all right?”
“You kids go have fun. We’ve got to pay Fred and figure out tomorrow.” Gia hefted a crate of sagging yellow roses.
Misty caught the perfume and sighed, hand to the door. “It’s a shame to toss all those…the petals still smell so good.”
“She’s right, Diane.” Sofie snapped her fingers. “We could dry the buds, and make little sachets or drawer liners with them.” She reached for a roll of white tulle from under the counter and pulled out a stretch of the sheer fabric and another of thin, pink ribbon.
“You know, with materials on hand, we just might be able to recoup the loss.” Gia did a quick calculation. “We might even make a little profit.”
“I’ll do one better.” Sofie rolled up her sleeves and began bunching clumps of miniature antique roses. “How about dried flower arrangements? Look at this!”
She bunched the sad-looking antique roses, with their jagged edges and tender leaves. Sofie wrapped the stems and hung them upside down from a wall hook. She stepped back, hands on her hips. “When life hands you lemons—”
“Sell lemonade!” Gia finished, and the two high-fived with a little cheer.
Basket in hand, Misty followed Diane out to the delivery van, emblazoned with The Flower Field logo and phone number on the side. For the first time in six months, she was on the leading edge of getting back her old life.
They drove in silence, beyond the town limits into the rolling hills of wine country. Multi-million- dollar mansions set back from the winding road. Misty peered at the house numbers, pointing out the house.
“You sure that’s the place?” Diane leaned forward on the steering wheel. “Gia usually does the deliveries out here.”
“Yes. There’s the driveway, between those pilasters.” Misty focused on the mansion at the end of the curling driveway. A span of lawn flowed up to the house, with a concrete driveway edged by well-manicured hedges, flowering bushes, and weeping willow trees. A spouting water feature burbled in the center courtyard.
The van circled around and pulled to a stop. Diane’s cell phone sang a country riff from her pocket. She answered with the standard Flower Field greeting, and quickly put the caller on hold. “It’s Mr. Wiggersham from the college, about the banquet.” Diane grinned. “Want to make this delivery?”
“But, I…”
“No buts. You inspired this. Now, go reap the rewards.”
Mi
sty glanced to the basket, and up to the huge front door. “What if they don’t like it?”
“Honey, they’ll love it. And you’ve earned the right to see this all play out in your favor.” Like a mother bird from the nest, Diane pushed Misty out the door. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”
Clearing her throat, Misty mounted the steps one careful step at a time, the weight of the basket in her arms acted as a shield.
At the press of her thumb, the bell chimed a hollow, mournful song at odds with the bright and sunny afternoon. While she waited, she took in the palatial view. The marine layer dramatically pushed up from behind the far-off mountains in a surreal display. Stark white clouds clashed into an invisible barrier where cool, ocean air met the inland heat. The fog bank shot up to the heavens in a wall—a fairytale castle reaching into an azure sky.
At her back, the opaque glass front door opened. A forlorn looking young man, maybe in his mid thirties, answered. His brows knit together at the arrangement, then to the truck, and looked back to her. “She’s in there.” He gestured for Misty to come in, and be quick about it. “In the sitting room.” He pointed the way.
Misty glanced over her shoulder to see Diane, shooing her on with rapid hands. With a deep breath, she wiped her feet and entered the marble foyer, turning right, as directed, and gulped.
An elegant, yet casually dressed young woman had plunked herself on the couch to read the newspaper, feet drawn up underneath her, lotus style.
Misty noticed she hid a tear-stained face behind the Currents section.
At her husband’s appearance, the woman’s gaze flashed, cold and hard, much like the large diamond on her left hand. “Flowers? That’s not gonna cut it, Matt. Not this time.”
“Baby.” His forehead wash-boarded with worry as he stepped to her side. “Please. Hear me out.”
Misty could almost see the wall Emily had erected around her heart. Strong as the wall of wind that held up the marine layer outside, and about as ephemeral. She cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Mr. Raineer. The tickets to the event are inside. Just like you asked.”
His brows lifted in obvious confusion, but he played along anyway. “Uh, thanks.”
“I’ll set your peace offering down here.” Misty grandly set the basket on the marble coffee table, aiming it so Emily Raineer could see all its splendor. “That is, if it’s all right with you, ma’am.”
Emily dropped a corner of the paper to view the contents. Mouth half-open, she scooted closer to give a quick inventory of the contents. Her paper forgotten, laughter replaced her scowl. Her twinkling eyes filled with tears of a different sort. She reached for him. “I thought you’d forgotten….”
Mathew blinked through his confusion, and then, something registered behind his gaze. “Of course, my pet. I could never forget.” He knelt before his wife, taking her hands in his own.
Misty backed the three steps to the arched doorway.
Emily already had torn the plastic wrappings off the willow basket, and cooed over the two heart-shaped seedlings. She glanced up at Misty, and shrugged. “Matt proposed to me in an olive grove in Tuscany two years ago today. I thought he forgot.”
“Well, that’s exactly why he suggested this unusual arrangement. It’s one of a kind. Plus, there’s a concert at the Long Valley Olive Grove Friday night. Classical guitar. The information and tickets are inside.”
“Oh, sweetie! How lovely.” Emily threw her arms around his neck. She showered him with kisses. The last of which lingered, long and sweet. She parted, attention only for her husband. “Thank you.”
Misty hedged her way out of the ornately decorated room and to the front door. Mathew’s voice halted her retreat.
“Wait!” He looked a foot taller standing in the doorway, shoulders back, head high. “The Flower Field nailed it, again. Thanks.”
“We aim to please.” Misty beamed, and had him sign the clipboard.
“This should cover it. Keep a little extra for yourself.” He tucked a fold of bills into her hand. “You managed to save my marriage and make me look like a champ in the process. Thanks.”
Misty trotted down the stairs back to the van, the door closing at her back. The dense bank of white fog unfolded over Long Valley, a blanket in the late afternoon. Her heart thrilled though the breeze.
As they drove away, she shared the victory, and the profits, with Diane.
“Keep that for yourself.” Diane nodded to the tip.
“No, really. I couldn’t.”
“You’ve earned it.” Diane folded it back into her hands. “What are you gonna buy?”
“I think I’ll hit the garden center.” Misty’s heart tangled around thoughts of Cain. His smile, the way he looked lit from inside whenever he spoke to her. “I promised I’d give that little tree he gave me a good home.”
Chapter Ten
Misty stood outside the hardware store, her purchases piled in a wheelbarrow-turned-shopping cart. Sacks of soil, fertilizer, pots of bright gold and burnt-umber marigolds, creamy wax-blossomed dahlias, and climbing red-budded ivy geraniums tucked in, around, and on top.
“You sure you can get all that in there?” Hank looked uncertain, hands set on his wide hips.
Misty eyed the ancient car, screwing her lips. The trunk lid heaved open revealing enough room to house a family of four. “Pretty sure.”
“I’ll have those wine half-barrels delivered in a jiff. Put a call in to my handy man.”
A sturdy, work worn truck rumbled into the lot. Misty raised her brows and watched as Cain climbed out, dusted off his jeans, a laugh already on his lips.
“Cain.” She turned back to the hardware store owner. “He’s your handy man?”
“Sure.” Hank rubbed his jaw, looking from Misty to Cain and back again. “Has been since he was a kid—not sure if he’s a better musician, carpenter, or olive salesman. ‘Spose he’ll decide one of these days.”
He turned to Cain. “Take those barrels up the hill to the Darling place, will you? Misty’ll show you the way.”
“My pleasure.” Cain’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Hey, there.”
“Hey, yourself.” Misty couldn’t help her bubbling laugh as he ambled over. She turned away, popped her open trunk and set in the fertilizer followed by the small geranium pots, and then slammed the lid. “What don’t you do, Cain?”
“Not a big fan of insects. You need a bug killed, best go find someone else.”
“Bugs. I’ll remember that.” A dahlia in one hand, the marigold six-pack in the other, she couldn’t help but watch while he worked.
He rolled and then muscled the well-worn barrel into the truck bed, followed by another. Back sturdy, solid, and strong.
Her heart jogged.
Cain heaved the giant sack of soil, his jeans tightening in all the right places.
She blinked, light headed, like a balloon on a string.
Dusting off his hands, he turned and caught her looking, though his expression remained even. “That does it. You lead the way?”
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the drive and set to work. He settled the aged barrels in place, one on each side of the front porch stairs. He crossed his arms, leaned into his battered pickup. “That ought to do it.”
“Not quite.” Misty filled the first barrel with soil, stepped forward, and plucked the little olive tree from its spot on the front seat. She dug her bare hands into the moist, dark earth and made a hole. The wispy trunked olive tree fell from its pot, all roots, no soil. She moved to plant it.
“Wait.” Cain stepped forward, hand on hers. “May I?”
She gave it to him, folded her arms, and watched as he kneaded the root ball. His hands mesmerized as they massaged and separated the tangle of white, ropy root strands with careful fingers. “There.”
“What does that do?”
“These seedlings were planted in these pots. It’s bound up now. You’ve gotta free the roots so they can explore new territory.” He settled the plant in
to place and tucked it in with more soil.
The plant looked so lonely there she added a circle of marigolds, mimicking his technique on each of the six plants.
Setting hands on hips, he nodded in approval.
She caught the slight frown he gave to the empty, matching whiskey barrel, but saw it vanish almost as quickly as it appeared. Then he turned, flipping truck keys in his palm. “Will I see you Friday?”
“Me?” What was Friday? Her mind whirred. Friday. The tickets. Cain Trovato plays classical guitar. Butterflies ascended from her belly to throat. “At your concert?”
He kept up his chin, gaze heavy lidded, warm, and focused on her.
He thinks I’ll say no—A thrill coursed her veins as she realized, for the first time in months, she wasn’t afraid. To her soul, she wanted to see him perform. “Absolutely.” A breeze tugged her hair into her face, obscuring her vision, breaking the spell. “Grandma would love to go. I’ll bring her.”
He blinked, stepped back, and nodded. “See you there, then.”
She stood at the front porch rail and watched his truck disappear down the drive.
Her heartbeat fluttered—butterfly wings. She’d been captured, caged for his keeping.
Could he possibly sense it, too?
Chapter Eleven
Misty fought for normal beneath the residual thrill. Cain. Her mind twirled with their encounter, replaying it over and again. She brought her grandmother a mug of afternoon tea, and filled her in with the day’s news. The Flower Field, the Raineer’s, and now Cain.
Nona sat at the well-worn, gleaming wood kitchen table. The tickets to the concert splayed out before her. “He did all that, for nothing?”
“As long as I promised to take care of that.” She pointed to the gray-leafed, slender trunked tree in its new home out front. “And to take you to the show.”
“Well, seems like the least we can do.” Nona idly poured, then stirred milk into her china cup.
A finger of worry wormed its way into Misty’s heart, watching her grandmother’s gaze flicking back to the dark computer monitor, while her hand just kept stirring. “What is it, Grandma?”
His and Hers Page 6
