Bloom of Love (Long Valley #10) - Erin Wright Page 0,28
she could actually state such things out loud. Not as an outsider, anyway.
“I’ll help you find some teenagers,” Carla said loudly, grasping the tiny woman’s delicate elbow and steering her towards the front door. “Morning, Mrs. Gehring. Morning, Mr. Willow. Don’t forget to pick up your flowers for your granddaughter’s birthday, Mrs. Worsop – the bouquet is ready,” and then they were out the door and heading down the sidewalk towards Happy Petals. “I’m Carla Grahame, by the way,” she said conversationally, walking fast and forcing her companion to keep up. “And you are Keila Wilson?”
“How did you know that?!” the woman gasped, her cherry red lips making a perfect O. Carla almost asked her what brand and shade she used – she was sure Christian would love that color on her – but forced herself to stay focused.
“Small towns,” Carla said cheerfully, keeping them moving at a brisk pace. They had to get to shelter before some enterprising Sawyerite decided to run after them. As it was, she’d count her blessings if she didn’t “randomly” have a half-dozen people remember that they needed to stop by for some flowers right now, once word spread where the new owner was hiding. “Everybody knows everything. You’d have better luck trying to hide a secret from the CIA than from the people of Sawyer. Here’s my shop.”
She unlocked the front door and hurried inside, deftly hitting the light switch for the open sign while also hanging up her keys.
Moving in slow motion, Keila walked in behind her but then simply stood there, frozen to the spot. Carla hastened to reassure her.
“I own Happy Petals,” she said, hoping Keila wouldn’t take offense at her stating the obvious. Why else would she have a key to the front door of the business?
But Keila seemed to be a little slow on the uptake. Maybe she was still in shock from the Muffin Man encounter. Her bright blue eyes – the exact color of her shirt – blinked just as slowly as she looked around, as if trying to figure out where she was at and what was happening.
“The good news is,” Carla said, steering the convo back to the disastrous first encounter with the locals, “Sawyer may be filled to the brim with inquisitive, nosy people, but they’re also sweet and kind. For the most part. But if you need something, the people here will take the clothes off their backs to make it happen.”
That seemed to do the trick. As if waking from a dream, Keila had the wherewithal to send her a clearly dubious look, but instead of arguing, circled back to her original question. “You said you could help me find teenagers to clean up the mansion?”
Right. She’d said that, hadn’t she.
She’d been in somewhat of a panic, simply trying to save the woman, but clearly Keila was single-minded about the whole thing.
“Sure, sure,” Carla said absentmindedly as she mentally flipped through the possibilities. “I’m assuming you’re wanting teenage girls, right?” As they talked, she went back to putting the finishing touches on Iris’ monthly bouquet.
Not pregnant.
Again.
Gah. It was stupid awkward. When Carla saw her on the street, she wanted to give the frail red-head a hug, but she also couldn’t acknowledge that she knew what was going on. As a florist, she had to help people get through their problems, while also pretending that they didn’t have any.
It was an interesting balancing act, for sure.
Keila got a mulish look on her face. “I’d hoped to hire some teenage boys, actually, but that very rude man down at the hardware store told me that every teenage boy worth a bucket of warm spit,” she pulled a face, clearly indicating her thoughts on warm spit, “already had a job for the summer, and the good ones have two. Is that true?”
Finished with Iris’ bouquet for the month, Carla began cleaning and facing the flowers, pulling a bouquet that looked past its prime to throw away. She hated it when flowers didn’t get to go home with someone to make them happy, but she never wanted to sell them when they got to this point, either. High quality was part of what she offered her customers. “Yeah,” she said as she worked. “It’s true. Where are you from?”
Keila looked startled but answered, “Boston.” As soon as she said it, things clicked into place for Carla. That was the accent she was hearing. Not just northeast somewhere, but the very distinct Bostonian accent.