Crazy Sweet Love: Contemporary Romance Novella, Clean Interracial Romantic Comedy (Flower Shop Romance Book 3)

by Marisa Logan

  We started up the stairs again. TJ looked up at me with rapt attention. Even his dad hung on my every word. “This building was built back in the 1800s,” I said, slipping into my “lecture voice” without realizing it. Being a history major had always meant I was really immersed in this sort of thing, and I loved the chance to show off my knowledge. “It was originally the Jordonville City Hall. That was when there were three small towns in this area, Jordonville, Sanderson, and Brandenburg. They voted in 1896 to merge all three towns into one.”

  “Why would they do that?” TJ asked, his face scrunched up in thought.

  We stopped before a pair of old oak doors at the top of the stairs. “To save money. Merging the towns made sense with all the growth in the area, and it meant they could all share one post office, one police station, that sort of thing. And they decided to build a new city hall, since they were going to need more space to run the bigger town. This building was shut down for about forty years, before it was reopened and renovated as an art museum. There were expansions over the years, new wings added on, giving us more room. Then there was a fire in 1967, forcing the art museum to shut down. It stayed that way until 1980, until funding was raised to repair the damage and reopen the building. But by then, the art museum had been at a new location for years, so this building was changed into the Brandenburg Railroad Museum.”

  I opened both of the oak doors at once, swinging them inward to reveal a wide, high-ceilinged room flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows on the east side. Boxes, old furniture, and various oddities filled the room, many of them covered in white cloths. “When the building was shut down, from 1896 to 1942, it suffered some damage from weather. The worst damage was when strong winds hit the clock tower and blew the clock face right out. There was a big gaping hole there when the building was renovated into the art museum.”

  I led TJ and his dad through the haphazard aisles of storage. TJ stopped here and there to check out the various things we had stowed away here. There was a huge, dusty engine from an old locomotive, a line of mannequins dressed in outfits from the 1890s, and a table covered in a scale model of Brandenburg circa 1980, when the museum reopened. A lot of the stuff up here had been part of old displays that had been taken down to make room for new exhibits. Some of it was stuff we just didn't have any other place to store, like the two dozen boxes of informational pamphlets about the museum's history. I pulled one of the pamphlets out and opened it, then handed it to TJ.

  “See where the clock is missing?” I asked, pointing at one of the pictures. It showed the museum in an old, black-and-white photo from the 1930s. You could just make out a bird's nest in the hole where the clock once was.

  “So they replaced the old clock with a painted clock?” TJ asked, studying the photo.

  “Well, that's one part of the tale,” I said. I continued my way through the stacks of boxes, leading the boys further back. “When this place was opened as an art museum, they didn't have the budget to replace the clock. So, being an art museum, they decided a painted clock face was a good choice. It stayed that way for years, until the art museum shut down. Then when the building was changed into the railroad museum in 1980, the Historical Restoration Society that provided most of the funding decided they wanted a real clock again.”

  We rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a giant, disassembled clock. The face was as tall as TJ, and the minute hand was longer than his arm.

  “Wow!” TJ shouted. He ran over to the clock and started examining it from every angle. He ran his fingers along the clock's hands, feeling the ridges. Behind the clock face was a large mechanical engine, almost as big as a car. It was a haphazard array of gears, chains, and brass fixtures.

  “Holy crap,” Tom said. “Is that the original clock?”

  “It's the replacement the museum bought in the 80s,” I said. Tom and I circled around the massive clock, studying it. “They couldn't find the same model as the original clock, but they found this one for sale at a specialty shop in Vermont. It's from 1885. They figured that was close enough for 'historical accuracy,' compared to the original clock. The problem is, it's too big.”

  “I'll say,” Tom said, snorting. “Look at the size of this thing! You sure this is a clock and not a time machine?”

  I laughed and shook my head. “This is how they came back then. But it was too big to fit into the clock tower.” I gestured through the tall windows at the clock tower outside. “They made some modifications. See these parts here?”

  I gestured to a long series of chains and pulleys that stretched out in a tangled mess past one side of the clock's engine.

  “The clock face fit into the tower just fine. But the engine wouldn't fit. It was just too big. So they had to install it down here, and run a network of pulleys through here.” I opened a broad hatch set into the wall behind the clock. It led to the stairs up into the clock tower. Inside, dangling down the center of the tower in between the spiraling staircase, hung more of the clock's guts.

  “And it worked like this?” Tom asked. He walked in and peered up the central shaft of the tower. The chains jostled when he brushed against them, sending down a cascade of dust that made him cough.

  “It didn't work very well,” I said. “The engine is supposed to fit inside the tower, right behind the clock face. Adding all of the extensions to make it reach so far added too much strain, and the engine kept breaking down because of it. We had to pull the plug back in 1997. Though that was before I got here.”

  I looked down at the clock with my hands on my hips. “I started here in the early 2000s. This poor baby was already broken down and pulled apart by then.”

  I crouched down next to the engine, running my hand over one of the larger gears. This clock had been what first got me interested in steampunk. It was such a beautiful device, made of masterfully crafted brass, with interconnected parts that had once performed a magical dance, all for the sake of keeping the time. Now it looked like a pile of junk, though I could still see the majesty of what it had once been.

  “Why don't they fix it?” TJ asked. He picked up a gear the size of his head, turning it over in his hands.

  “Not enough money,” I said, sighing. “The museum struggles just to get by. We don't make much money off admissions fees. We make a bit more from the cafeteria sales and the gift shop, but even then, we're very dependent on donations to keep this place running. And unfortunately, trains don't hold the magic for some people that they once did.”

  “It's a shame it can't be fixed,” Tom said, looking over the parts. “I'm an engineer, and I hate seeing a fine piece of machinery like this sitting out gathering dust.”

  “Could you fix it, Dad?” TJ asked.

  Tom chuckled and shook his head. “No, I'm afraid not. Clockwork from the 1800s is a lot different than the machinery for plastic production.” He looked to me and added, “I work for a company that makes plastic goods. Everything from plastic forks to children's toys to ball point pens.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I said.

  “When something breaks down, it sure is.” He laughed, patting the clock. “I hope it gets fixed one day.”

  “Me too,” I said. I'd spent a lot of time up here on my breaks, sketching parts of the clock. I used it as a lot of the inspiration for my paintings. I even had a habit of painting old, broken-down things, like the clockwork doll I was working on painting at home. There was something beautifully sad about such a lovely thing being reduced to nothing more than a pile of dusty parts.

  I let TJ explore the clock parts for a bit longer, until his dad said it was getting late. I knew they had a long drive to get back home.

  As I led them back downstairs, Tom said, “Thank you for this. It was really nice of you to go out of your way for us.”

  “I was happy to,” I said. “And I'm glad you guys came back down here. Hopefully we'll see you again sometime.”

  “That would be nice,” Tom said. We paused at the bottom of the stairs. My eyes me
t Tom's, and for a moment I thought that, yes, it really would be nice to see him again. I'd really enjoyed his company, more than I had expected to.

  He held my eyes for a moment, and for a second I thought he was about to say something. But the moment passed, and he continued down the stairs and out into the lobby. “All right, champ,” Tom said, patting his son's back. We can hit the gift shop, then it's time to head home.”

  “All right,” TJ said. He waved to me. “Bye, Amy. I had fun.”

  “Me too,” I said, waving back.

  They headed off to the gift shop. I watched them go, trying to think of something else to say. Before I could think of anything, my thoughts were interrupted when John came looking for me, telling me there was a mess he needed help cleaning up. Apparently, some kid had thrown up in the bathroom.

  “Dear God,” I muttered, following him to the janitorial closet. “We can't even afford to hire another janitor. The clock's never going to get fixed.”

  “Clock?” John asked, handing me a mop. “You mean the old one upstairs? Are we getting it fixed?”

  “No,” I said. I sighed and grabbed a bottle of bleach. “Just a dream of mine.”

  We headed off to clean the bathroom, while I thought about how some days, this job really wasn't the career I'd dreamed of when I set out to become a curator.

  Just before I entered the bathroom, though, I saw TJ once more, leaving the gift shop with a model train set in his arms. He shifted the box under one arm and waved at me. Tom waved as well.

  I held the mop under one arm and waved back, reminding myself that some days, there were moments that reminded me why this really was my dream job.

  Chapter 4

  I had my mother on speakerphone while I worked on packing up everything I needed the morning before the family picnic. She'd been listing a dozen different things that I needed to bring, and I was struggling to keep up. As a result, I had a suitcase, an Igloo cooler, and my art supplies box all opened up at once, each only half-packed and nowhere near ready to go.

  “Don't forget to pack your special cider,” Mom said, her voice a bit staticy coming through the speakerphone. “Last year there wasn't enough, and your Uncle Phil just about threw a fit.”

  “I know, Mom.” I stuffed several bottles of hard cider into the cooler. Living smack in the middle of Amish country meant I was surrounded by Pennsylvania's famous apple orchards. Bringing plenty of hard cider to the family party was my second job, after making the banner.

  “And how does the banner look?” Mom asked. “Text me a picture. I can't wait to see it.”

  I held the long strip of white cloth in my hands, looking at the incomplete designs painted across it. I'd only finished outlining the letters that stretched across the banner, spelling out “Loch Annual Easter Extravaganza.” I still hadn't colored the letters in or added any other pictures or designs to it.

  “It's...too big to fit in a picture,” I said, folding up the banner and tucking it into my suitcase. “Look, Mom, I've really got to finish packing.”

  “If you would learn to get more organized,” she said, “you could have had all of this done last night.”

  I sighed. “I know, Mom. I know. But I've got to go.”

  I hung up the phone as Mom was saying, “Oh! And make sure you don't forg—”

  I was determined not to care what else she was reminding me about. I hurried to finish packing, stuffing most of my clothes into the suitcase without bothering to fold them. It was only a three-day trip. Most of today would be spent at Mom's house with a dozen or so of my relatives, cooking and prepping for the picnic. Tomorrow we'd spend all day at the park, eating and drinking and catching up. Then since the museum was closed Monday anyway, I'd stay the extra night so I wouldn't have to deal with driving home Sunday night after a long day of drinking.

  I shoved two extra bottles of hard cider into my suitcase. The cooler was full, but I knew I was going to need something extra to get through a weekend with my family.

  “Sometimes I don't know why I bother with all of this,” I muttered to myself as I gathered up my things and headed down to the car. Spending time with my family was sometimes more of a hassle than I thought it was worth. But, they were my family. Even the ones I didn't like very much.

  The drive back home was uneventful. I sat in traffic for about forty-five minutes on a two mile stretch of the highway, leaving me grumpy. I did ninety the rest of the trip trying to make up the lost time, and barely avoided being pulled over when I spotted a cop. I slowed down just enough to let another car pass me, and the cop went after him instead.

  By the time I got to Mom's house, half a dozen cars were already lined up along the curb in front of the house. On top of that, a lot of our neighbors had family over as well, leaving me with no parking on the entire block. I ended up having to park the next block over. I lugged my things up the block, balancing my cooler and my art kit in my arms and dragging the suitcase by its nylon strap as it rolled on its wheels behind me.

  I was greeted by a chorus of a dozen relatives shouting “Hi!” as I dragged by bags inside. I made the requisite round of hugs, greeting relatives I hadn't seen since Christmas, or in a few cases since Thanksgiving. I got a brief introduction to my brother's new girlfriend, though my mom and my aunts were so busy peppering her with questions that we didn't get much time to chat.

  I wrangled my cousin Kimmy into helping me carry my things up to my room. Mom had still kept all of our bedrooms the way they were, even after me and my brother and sister had been living on our own for years. It was nice sometimes to be able to sleep back in my childhood bedroom, though each year the bed seemed a little smaller and the room a little more cramped.

  I deposited my bags in a corner and sat down on the bed, leaning back on my arms. Kimmy sat on the cooler. Her hair was dyed pastel pink for Easter, though she was a natural brunette. And a skinny one, which had always made me jealous.

  “So, you ready for the usual interrogations?” she asked, grinning sympathetically at me. We both spent every year being grilled about when we were going to “find a man and settle down.” At least Kimmy had an excuse why she had never found a man: she wasn't even looking for one. Sometimes I wondered if she had the right idea, and if I'd be better off playing for the other team. Men just drove me crazy sometimes.

  “Do you think I can still fall back on the 'I'm still hurting after the breakup' excuse?” I asked.

  “After two years?” She shook her head. “Sorry, hon, you're going to need to come up with some new material this year.”

  “Damn. How about you? Did you bring that friend of yours, what was his name?”

  “Chuck,” she said. She shook her head and laughed. “No, actually, Chuck was busy this year. He just got married.”

  “Lucky him,” I said. “I hope he found a nice man.” I'd only met Chuck a couple of times, when Kimmy brought him along as her faux-date. He'd seemed nice enough. And he'd been rather hot. If he hadn't been gay, I might have tried to “steal” him from Kimmy.

  “Going stag then?” I asked.

  “Nah, I actually invited a friend. One of the parents from my daycare.”

  Kimmy had long ago decided that even though she loved kids, she would never be able to handle raising any of her own. She worked at a daycare so that she could spend time with kids and watch them grow, while still having the luxury of sending them back to their parents at the end of the day.

  “Well, you're safe, then,” I said. “As long as your guy is ready for all of the questions about how 'serious' you are and whether there's wedding bells in your future.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, he knows the drill.”

  “I, on the other hand,” I said, “am going to get hounded. Mom already started. At least twice a week for the past few weeks.”

  “Ouch. Sounds like you'll be needing plenty to drink.”

  “That sounds like a plan.” I pointed to my suitcase. “Speaking of which, I come bearing gifts.”

&n
bsp; Kimmy opened the suitcase and we opened one of the bottles of hard cider. We spent most of the afternoon tucked away in my room, passing the bottle back and forth while we worked together on painting the banner. Kimmy had never been as much into art as I was, but she did a fine job coloring in the letters while I worked on painting designs around the words. I went with a theme of evil bunnies and zombies this year.

  “Wicked,” Kimmy said as she watched me paint a shambling, green-skinned zombie. “Your mom is going to hate that.”

  “She should love it!” I said sarcastically. “Jesus came back from the grave. Zombies came back from the grave. Ergo, Zombie Jesus.”

  Kimmy laughed, then took another swig of the cider. “Zombie Jesus. I love it.”

  We eventually got wrangled down to the kitchen to help cook. The place was crammed with my relatives, and as the night wore on, my mom and my aunts went through quite a few wine coolers. When they started cackling with laughter we knew it was an official family gathering. No party of Lochs could ever go without at least one of my aunts nearly collapsing as she cracked up from some story or another that was being told.

  The next day, the whole clan carpooled out to the park for our Easter celebration. The family members staying at my mom's house were just one small part of the gathering. When we got to the park, there were a couple hundred members of the extended family already there. Cousins, aunts, uncles, second cousins, people twice or thrice removed, and more. I didn't even really know a lot of them beyond my immediate cousins, but even in our group there were over fifty of us.

  We gathered at the pavilion on top of a low, grassy hill. Picnic tables lined the pavilion, and built-in barbecues stood in a circle at the center. One of my uncles was already heating up the coals while the rest of us unpacked the food and drinks and laid them out on the table. Then two of my younger cousins came over to claim the banner from me and hang it up.

  “Here we go,” Kimmy whispered to me while they climbed up on top of the tables to hang the banner from the roof overhead. As the banner unfurled and the zombies came into view, there were laughs from the younger kids, and irritated mutters from some of my older relatives. A couple of people clapped, but all in all it was a mixed reaction at best.