I held up the knife and stopped butchering the vegetables. “Guilty. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
She wore a plush robe and fuzzy slippers. “Goodness no. If you were chopping that madly I think I might have to arrange some sort of intervention.” She walked to the far cupboard, removed a coffee cup, and poured herself a cup of the dark brew that I had made before I got caught up in releasing some of my anger at Chad and myself.
“Have the potatoes offended you?” she teased as she took a seat at the round table in the center of the kitchen and cradled her coffee mug.
“No.” I laughed and returned to dicing, but this time with much less force. “I’m trying to follow your advice and focus on the now, but I’m still so mad at myself for staying with such a loser for so many years. Cooking breakfast was just another reminder of how much time I wasted.”
Elin took a sip of coffee. I wondered if she was buying herself an extra minute to consider her words. “Britta, it’s only been a couple of weeks. I wasn’t suggesting that you should be over Chad immediately. Grief takes time. It was more that I want you to know how much I love you, and what a strong woman I see on the inside.”
“Thanks.” I scooped the onions and potatoes into a cast-iron skillet with warm olive oil. They crackled in the heat and let out a pungent scent. I reached for a wooden spoon. “Do you think I’m grieving over Chad? Honestly I don’t think I am. I think I’m grieving over myself.”
She gave me an understanding nod. “I’m sure you are. It hasn’t been easy for you. Losing your parents so young. It broke my heart.”
“But I had you.” I stirred the potatoes, allowing them to gently brown and then tossing chunks of chopped bacon into the pan.
Her smile faded. “Yes, we had each other. I don’t know how I would have survived without you.”
We both became caught up in old memories. Had I latched onto Chad because of my parents? I’d never thought of their loss impacting my love life before, but it made sense. I was young when my parents died. I had known that Elin loved me deeply, but their unexpected death had left a gaping hole in my heart that I had never found a way to fill. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to the art of flower design. Creating beauty out of pain and sadness. Could that be why I fell for Chad? There was no denying that he had romanced me when we were young. Had I overlooked his tendency toward dark black moods and his self-absorption? Or had he changed too?
I sighed and gave the potatoes a final stir. Then I scooped them into two bowls and finished them off with salt, pepper, and fresh rosemary.
“Oh my,” Elin exclaimed when I placed a steaming bowl in front of her. “These look divine.”
“I figured it was my turn to cook for you.” I took the seat across from her.
She rested her fork in front of her bowl. “Britta, I know you’re caught up in your head about what went wrong with Chad.”
“Is it that obvious?” I frowned.
“Maybe to me because I’ve known you your entire life, but not to anyone else.” She paused and then met my eyes. “Britta, you are strong, and I have the sense that you’ve been trying to be strong for a while now, but it’s okay to let go. I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I nodded.
“It’s like what I say to our clients about flowers. The flower has to find you. You can’t force yourself to love daisies if roses capture your heart. The same is true in the world of love. I know I probably don’t seem like the right person to offer romance advice given I’ve been a happy spinster for all these years, but I think that in your heart you know the kind of flower that you’re meant to be. Don’t let one mistake detour you.”
“Chad was kind of a big mistake,” I said with a sigh as I stuck a potato with my fork and brought it to my lips to blow on it.
“Love is never a mistake, Britta, as long as we learn from it.”
Her words struck a chord. What had I learned from Chad?
A lot actually. I had learned that I wanted more—needed more—from love. I deserved that. My work hadn’t flourished. I had stifled my creativity. And for what? For an unhappy marriage and a bad match. That wasn’t me. I had learned that I didn’t want to close myself in and stay stuck. I wanted to blossom. I was blossoming. Maybe a bit later than some of my friends, but it was better than never, right? Plus some of the best flowers in the world were slow to bloom.
Elin gave me a knowing smile and began eating. She was definitely onto something. I made a promise to myself that anytime I began to sink into self-doubt or beat myself up over staying with Chad in the coming days, I would shift my focus to what I had learned and what I wanted next.
“You know, you should have been a therapist instead of a florist,” I said to Elin.
“They’re really one and the same,” she said with a wink.
We dug into our potatoes and changed the subject to our game plan for the day. However, when Elin went to shower and I washed the dishes I thought about her love life. Why had she never married? Had it been because of me? She had taken me in without hesitation when my parents died, but I never considered how suddenly becoming the caregiver to a teary wide-eyed seven-year-old may have changed her life. Had she ever been in love? Not that I knew of. What about after I left for college and Minnesota? What about the photo of her and the handsome man on the dresser upstairs? She had blown it off when I’d mentioned it, but could she have a former love I didn’t know about? I had complained about Chad being selfish. Had I been any better?
It wasn’t the right time to broach the subject, but just as she had said she would be there for me, I intended to do the same for her. If anyone deserved love, it was Elin, and I was going to have to find a way to get my aunt to open up about her romantic dreams.
Chapter Twenty
By the time I placed the last fork in the dishwasher Elin had returned to the kitchen refreshed and ready to start the day. I threw a cream cable-knit turtleneck sweater over my T-shirt and tugged on my rain boots. The drizzle continued outside on Portland’s wet streets. We splashed through huge puddles and kicked up wet leaves on our drive to Blomma.
“I’d forgotten how much rain Portland gets,” I commented as we turned in to Riverplace Village.
“It’s good for the blooms,” Elin replied.
And good for me, I thought internally. I felt like the rain was slowly washing away the old me. “Uh-oh,” I said pointing to the police car parked in front of Blooma. “I thought they were done yesterday.”
“Me too.” Elin frowned.
Tomo was waiting for us at the front door. He gave Elin a half bow and nodded to me. “Good morning, ladies. Sorry to bother you, but I have a request from Detective Fletcher.”
“Come in, you’re getting soaked,” Elin noted and unlocked the front door.
It was true. Tomo’s blue police uniform was splotched with fat raindrops, and his jet-black hair looked like he had just stepped out of the shower.
“Thanks.” He held the door open for me. “I guess the wind is blowing the rain more than I thought.”
Elin went to find him a clean towel. I flipped on the lights. “What’s the request? Or should we wait for my aunt?”
He brushed rain from his broad shoulders. “No, it’s for you.”
“Me?”
“Yep. I’m here on other business but Fletcher asked me to stop in and see if you could meet him for lunch this afternoon—1:30 at the Riverplace Inn.”
“Sure, I guess. Why?”
“It sounds like he has some more questions about roses, and word around here is that you’re the rose expert.” He wiped his damp brow with the back of his sleeve.
Elin returned with a towel. “Here, you look like you had a run-in with a storm cloud.” She handed him the tea towel.
He mopped his brow and patted his hair with the towel. “Thanks. I think I did. I’m just not exactly sure how. I wasn’t waiting for long. In fact I had knocked right when you two pulled up.”
“It’s supposed to get worse today,” Elin said.
“Really?” I turned to her. “I hadn’t heard that. I guess we won’t be rolling open the garage doors today, then?”
Tomo brushed the towel over his shoulders. “Yeah. They’re predicting a huge storm to roll in later. Fifty-mile-an-hour winds. The precinct is already prepping for it. It’s all hands on deck today. We could lose power.”
That wasn’t exactly great news for Blomma. We were finally ready to open the cottage doors to the world. It would be a major bummer to have to cancel if we lost power.
“Welcome to spring in Portland.” Elin held out a hand. “Here, I can take that.” She pointed to Tomo’s towel.
“Thanks again. I appreciate not having to go back to the station looking completely like a drowned rat.” Tomo glanced behind him to the sputtering sky.
“You mentioned that you needed a favor?” Elin took the towel and hung it over her forearm. A puddle had formed around Tomo’s feet, but Elin ignored it.
“Right.” He snapped his fingers. “Well, I was telling Britta that Detective Fletcher wants to meet her for lunch. He wants some more information about the roses we found near the victim. Thinks they could be significant.”
“Yes.” Elin’s eyes twinkled. “Lunch is a good idea. As you know, Britta is an expert when it comes to roses.”
I started to protest, but Tomo looked at the vintage clock made from pressed flowers on the far wall. “Shoot. I have to get moving. The lunch is at 1:30 at the Riverplace. I’ll tell Fletcher that you’re a go, yeah?”
“She’s a go,” Elin answered for me and shooed him out the door.
“What was that about?” I asked after she shut the door behind him.
She mopped up the hardwood floor with the towel. “Nothing. I want to make sure that we’re offering any help we can. The sooner they figure out who killed Frank the sooner things can really be back to normal.” Her eyes held a hint of a glimmer.
“And?”
“And Detective Fletcher—Pete, as you call him—is quite handsome, don’t you think?”
My mouth dropped open. “Moster, are you trying to set me up? We were just talking about how messed up I am over Chad.”
“I know. I know. I’m not trying to set you up.” She walked toward the workstation and tossed the wet towel into a hamper. “I was simply commenting on the fact that Pete Fletcher is attractive. There’s no harm in lunch.”
I wasn’t ready to admit that I found Pete attractive too.
“Actually he reminds me of someone I used to know,” Elin said taking out the file folder with the day’s orders and stacking them on the counter.
“Pete?”
“Yes. He reminds me of someone I knew a long time ago.” Her voice sounded nostalgic.
I wanted to ask more, but Nora burst in with coffees. “Hey girls, did someone call for coffee?” she sang out as she danced in, holding two paper cups.
“You’re right on time as always,” Elin said greeting Nora and taking one of the cups.
“Right on time? How did you call in an order? We haven’t been here for five minutes?” I asked.
Nora ruffled her damp silver hair. “Your aunt has a standing order. I deliver her a piping hot latte at nine o’clock on the dot in exchange for my weekly flower arrangements.” She handed me the other cup.
“That’s a pretty good deal,” I said to Elin and thanked Nora.
“No one in the village exchanges actual money,” Nora explained. “We do everything on trade.”
“Right.” I took a sip of the coffee. It had a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon. “Mark mentioned something about a complimentary happy hour.
“Oh sure. The Inn hosts those for their guests, but Mark always extends the invitation to all of us as well. We’ve gone a few times, haven’t we?”
Elin nodded. “Yes. Mark always puts out a lovely spread, and the view from the Inn is incredible. We’ll have to bring you, Britta.”
Nora agreed. “Let’s do it. Girls’ happy hour this week, what do you say? I’d love to go today, but one of my baristas called in sick so I’m going to be pulling shots behind the bar all day.”
“Happy hour sounds wonderful, but we have a launch to prepare for, remember?”
“Right. Next week, then?” Blowing us air kisses, Nora backed out the door. “It’s a date. Coffee calls. Catch you later.”
Elin returned to the workstation. I followed after her. “It’s so great that everyone in the village is connected and works in trade.”
She handed me a stack of individual orders. “And?”
“And what?” I checked off the list of bouquets we had completed for the party. The sherbet arrangements were finished and waiting in the cooler. The garlands were nearly ready. We needed to add hops and a few fresh flowers tomorrow. Otherwise the main focus would be on the jewelry, dresses, and headpieces for the models.
“Britta, I can tell that your wheels are turning. What are you thinking about?”
“It’s just that I keep coming back to the key. You’re sure that no one is holding a grudge or could want to damage Blomma’s reputation?”
She bent down and removed a collection of fluted frosted vases from beneath the counter. “You’ve met everyone. Honestly, I can’t think of a single person in the village who I don’t call a friend.”
“Except Kirk Jaffe.”
Placing the vases on the cement counter she looked thoughtful for a moment. “Yes, but Kirk isn’t part of the village, and remember he doesn’t have a key.”
“What about Lawren?”
“Frank’s assistant?” Elin frowned. “No, why would she have a key?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I need to stop torturing myself.”
She walked over to the flower buckets, removed an armful of peonies, and handed them to me. “These might help.”
“Flowers always help.” I laughed.
“My sentiments exactly.” Elin kissed my cheek. “I’m off to the cottage to continue working on the dress. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.” She picked up her coffee cup. “And, Britta, try not to worry too much. I’m sure there must be some other explanation as to how Frank’s killer broke in and why they picked Blomma as their rendezvous spot.”
I didn’t want to harp on it, but the fact was there was no evidence of a break-in, no sign of a forced entry. There was no broken glass; Blomma had been perfectly intact. Whoever killed Frank must have had a key. Or Frank had a key and unknowingly let his killer in? I wanted to let it go, but I couldn’t.
I needed a distraction and found one in dainty pale yellow peonies. I filled the tapered vases with greenery and the herbaceous peonies. The variety that Elin had picked was called Butter Bowl for its light pink outer petals and gorgeous spindly yellow center.
A few customers came in to place orders while I worked, which kept my mind focused on designs. Sometime after 11:00 a gentleman wearing a chocolate turtleneck that matched his skin and a pair of well-cut dark denim jeans sauntered into the shop carrying a box of taper candles. His short gray curly hair gave him a distinguished look that matched his angled jawline and handsome pecan-colored eyes. A small bandage stretched across the bridge of his nose.
“Why, I don’t believe that we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced,” he said shifting the box of candles into one hand as he approached the workstation and extending his free hand.
“I’m Britta,” I said, shaking his hand, which was warm despite the chilly rain outside.
“Most excellent. Of course.” He rested the candles on the counter. “I see the resemblance now. Same lovely bone structure, same skin tones, and yet your hair is so dark compared with your aunt’s, but yes, yes I see that you share the same Scandinavian ancestry that’s for sure.” He stared at my face a moment too long, making me feel uncomfortable. Who was this guy?
“Thanks?” I replied in more of a question.
“Oh my, where are my manners? I’m Jon. Jon Jacq
ues. I own Torch, the candle shop.” He pointed with one long bony finger in the direction of Torch. He was tall, well over six feet, but with a thin, almost giraffe-like frame.
“Okay, right.” I let my guard down.
“Your aunt has been talking about you nonstop. Can I please tell you how relieved everyone in the village was when we learned that the famous floral artist Britta was finally coming home after all these years?” His tone was dramatic, but his eyes twinkled.
“Sorry.” I grinned and shrugged my shoulders. “I’m pretty sure that my aunt is extremely biased and I’m definitely sure that I am not famous.”
“You are around here,” Jon said sweeping his arm around the front of the shop. “The mere mention of the name Britta sends your aunt into story after story of her most famous niece the floral designer extraordinaire.”
I laughed out loud.
Jon started at me from behind a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses. “You think I’m teasing? Ask anyone, you are all that your aunt talks about.”
“Well then I’m really sorry, because I can’t imagine what she might have said, given that my life has been pretty dull up until now.” Jon’s playful attitude immediately put me at ease.
“So I’ve heard.” He leaned across the counter. “Nothing happens in Riverplace Village. I mean there was that poodle incident a few years ago, and then there’s always Mrs. Martenson, who owns one of the waterfront condos and has to stir up drama, but otherwise we could be in the middle of Idaho most days.” He shuddered and reconsidered his words. “Okay, maybe not Idaho. Can you imagine being surrounded by potatoes? Fortunately the shops are much more refined here, but you catch my drift. Nothing ever happens. Nothing.”
He wandered to the wall of flowers and smelled a pale peach rose. “I decide to treat myself to a getaway and am gone for two days and a murder takes place? Tell me what the fairness in that is?”
I got the sense that Jon was kidding, but I wasn’t quite sure. “Yeah, I heard that you were on vacation. Were you somewhere fun?’
“No. Sadly nowhere exotic if that’s what you mean.” He didn’t expand. Not that he needed to give me the details of his travels, but I found it a bit strange that he immediately shifted the conversation back to Frank’s murder.
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