Meet Me on Love Lane

by Nina Bocci

  “That quote’s from Fitzgerald,” the girl said, walking up to the counter. She was pretty in a pixie sort of way. She had small facial features and was petite, with a shock of platinum hair cut into a severely-angled chop.

  “Who?” Emma and I said together.

  Emma looked affronted. “I don’t know any Fitzgeralds in town,” she added with a huff. As if someone had the gall to move in without her knowing it.

  The girl rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding me, right? Fitzgerald as in F. Scott? That’s a line from This Side of Paradise.”

  The two of us looked at her curiously.

  I’d had a vague recollection of the words, but upon hearing this girl pair them with Fitzgerald, the blocks fell into place. The other unopened notes were spread out on the counter. Unopened, but now I was curious. I plucked one up and slid out the paper.

  I read it, keeping in mind Fitzgerald.

  I used to build dreams about you.

  You know, you’re a little complicated after all.

  “Oh no,” she assured him hastily. “No, I’m not really——I’m just a——I’m just a whole lot of different simple people.”

  I love her and it is the beginning of everything.

  The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.

  “All of these,” she said, taking one from me, “are from Fitzgerald. I mean, they’re from a bunch of different books and personal quotes and stuff, but it’s definitely all from him.”

  “Who would send you anonymous quotes from Fitzgerald like this?” Emma asked. I was about to tell her I thought they were from Dr. Max when the girl asked, “Are you in the class?”

  “What class?”

  “Mr. Mercer’s course on American fiction writers. It’s brilliant.”

  “What. The. F—”

  Emma slapped her hand over my mouth, murmuring, “Juvenile. No cursing.”

  “I’m eighteen, relax,” the girl said, taking the paper from a still-stunned Emma. “Mr. Mercer would love to see that someone is using his class so creatively. Can I take a pic?” the girl asked, pulling out a battered iPhone.

  I slapped my hand over them. “No, sorry, I’m still working out what’s— Just, no. Okay? Sorry, I’m so confused right now.”

  And I was. A tableful of notes would have to wait until I was alone and had time to process the crazy ideas that were rolling around in my head.

  “No problem. Just wanted to show him how cool it was that someone was listening. Anyway, I came in because he mentioned you. Or is it you who runs this place?” she asked, pointing between me and Emma. “Need to hire someone? I’m a dub mage in art and business and I totally dig flowers and design. I’m great at QuickBooks and can manage the shit out of your, well, everything.”

  “She’s the one you’ve got to impress,” Emma said, pointing over to me. “I didn’t really follow the rest of what you said with my old-lady hearing and lack of teen lingo experience, but it sounds super … dope? Wicked? Cool? Are any of those still hip?”

  The girl shook her head. “Good try, but no.”

  Suddenly, Emma went quiet. “You guys chat and get to know each other, and I’ll leave. I’m swamped.” She started gathering her stuff to make a quick exit.

  “Where are you going? We had to go over these!” I shouted, holding up the designs as Emma stalked back. She grabbed the rolled-up designs and headed for the door again. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  On her way out, she flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED and went across the square toward the bookstore. After a moment, she disappeared into the shop. She came and went in a flash, and I was left gobsmacked, staring after her.

  My visitor cleared her throat. “Do you have an application or something I can fill out while you’re having an existential crisis?”

  I laughed. “I don’t have an application. Have you ever worked in a flower shop before? How about working events? What flexibility do you have in your hours?”

  What am I thinking? She’s a smart-ass and has no experience and I’m going to hire her?

  “No, unless you call YouTube videos experience. You can learn anything on there. I’ve been knitting, quilting, and canning veggies with my mom for the past year. Between that and Instagram tutorials, I’ve found I can hold my own in the world of floral design. I love playing with new ideas and sketching thoughts out on paper. I don’t have much of a social life, so I’m free whenever, especially in the summer. My parents split, and my mom won’t pay for school if I stay an art major, so I need to get something to help with that.”

  “Your mom cut you off?” I asked, seeing her in a new light.

  The jagged hair that looked like she might have cut and dyed it herself. The fingernails bitten down to the quick. A vacant, scared, and unsure look in her eyes that I recognized way too much. She could have been me just a few years ago.

  “You’re sure this is a job you’ll want to do? It’s a lot of standing and designing whatever people want, even if it’s ridiculous and you know it’ll look awful. It’s not easy. Plus, I have no idea how to be a boss.”

  She laughed, her eyes lighting up. “Do you know how not to be a boss?”

  I thought about it. Specifically, about my last dead-end job.

  “Yes, I know how not to be a boss,” I answered, knowing that if I modeled every decision based on the opposite of what Gabrielle had done, I would be successful.

  “Then I’d say that’s the best boss you can be. Treating people like humans and not minions or underlings is the first step,” she said confidently.

  I never thought of it that way. Here I was getting solid advice from someone a decade younger than me.

  “You start Monday,” I said, holding out my hand for her to shake. “I’ll have to download paperwork and stuff, figure out what the going rate for pay is, but we’ll worry about that later. I can talk to Lucille—she’s the owner—about paying you a bit more after a few weeks. We’ll call it training or something. I’m sure Emma has packets or whatever bosses are supposed to hand out.”

  “I’ll be here at eight. I make lousy coffee, but I brew a mean cup of English breakfast,” she said, bouncing lightly toward the door.

  When her hand was on the doorknob, I realized something important.

  “Hey, I should probably ask your name!” I laughed, thinking how terrible I was at this whole boss thing already.

  “I’m Nellie. Pleased to meet you, Charlotte.”

  * * *

  “I THOUGHT YOU were coming back tomorrow,” I asked Emma, pulling my wet hair up into a bun. She was rocking on Gigi’s front porch swing, brushing crumbs off her lap from feeding the birds a fortune cookie.

  “It took forever for you to come down,” she said, taking a drink from a bottle of green tea.

  “Sorry, Your Highness. I was in the shower. Why didn’t you ring the doorbell?” I asked, leaning on the railing.

  “I didn’t want to wake Gigi. I know she goes to bed early. By the way, have you eaten yet? I brought takeout. Although I may have eaten your egg roll,” she said guiltily, pushing the bag of Chinese with her shoe. She stood, slinging a plastic tube over her shoulder.

  “How’d you know I was going to be here? I didn’t even know I was going to be here.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, looking at my door curiously.

  I turned, spying another envelope stuck to the screen. “I was supposed to have ice cream with Max, but I canceled.”

  “Why’d you do that?” She was speaking to me, but her eyes never left the door. Or I should say, the envelope that was stuck to the door. “Are you going to get that? And open it while I’m standing here? I’m curious.” She bounced on her feet, the floorboards creaking beneath her.

  “I canceled because I’m exhausted, and yes, I’ll take it, and no, I don’t know if I’ll open it now or later.”

  “You had a bunch of letters at the shop. How many total? Roughl
y?”

  I thought back. “Maybe about ten?”

  Emma whistled. “Wow, someone sure has been busy. Have you asked him about them?”

  “Who?”

  “The person sending them?” she said, not looking me in the eye. She crinkled her skirt in her hands.

  “No, I don’t know who it is. I mean, I thought it was Dr. Max, but then I got to thinking that it doesn’t make sense.”

  Emma remained quiet.

  “Emma, do you know who it is?” I asked. She still wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Emma?”

  She cleared her throat. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I love you, and this is the most absurdly romantic gesture in the most absurdly ridiculous way. I want to see how it plays out.”

  I straightened. “Even if that means keeping me in the dark?”

  “Furthermore,” she continued, “I don’t think you want me to tell you. I see that you’re trying to ferret out information yourself. You need to be the one to solve this puzzle on your own. I can’t spoon-feed you the answers. Either that, or those responsible will have to be truthful.”

  “I hate you,” I said, giving her arm a solid pinch.

  “You don’t hate me. You love me, and you know I’m right.”

  “I hate that, but you are.”

  “Now what?” she asked, keeping her eyes glued to the envelope. “You going to open that?”

  “We eat, that’s what. I’m starving. Do you want to eat out here or inside?” I asked, avoiding her question. “Thanks for dinner, by the way. I was going to have to eat frozen pizza.”

  She frowned. “You realize that you can come over anytime, right? Or head to my folks’ house? Or Mancini’s? They’d all be more than happy to feed you. And Gigi.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t worry about her. She’s still in the single-lady-of-the-house zone so she eats whenever she feels like it. So many people bring her food, it’s a bit hysterical. No wonder she doesn’t want to go into assisted living. Besides, she’s been giving me a wide berth. I don’t see her all that much. When I go to work, she’s futzing around waiting for someone. When I get back, she’s cleaning up after dinner or getting ready for bed.”

  Emma laughed, bumping my shoulder as I held the door for her. “I think she’s probably trying to give you space. Showing you that you two can coexist in a shared space. Similar to what your dad is doing. It’s probably why he didn’t cancel the meetings and trips he and Max had planned. They’re not trying to overwhelm you or hover so you get spooked and bolt. Trust me when I say they want you to stay. We all do.”

  She turned to look at me head-on. I stopped short but kept my eyes down.

  “Hey,” she said, tipping my chin up.

  “I see I’ve caused you to get that deer-in-the-headlights look. I’ll stop for now and say kung pao chicken or shrimp with garlic sauce?”

  Some of the tension melted. “Is both the wrong answer?”

  “Never.”

  17

  “Knock, knock,” Henry called from the shop’s front door.

  “Oh!” I said, trying to steady myself. “I’m just finishing something up.”

  He looked disappointed. “I see you’re busy. I can come back later to place an order. It’s my mom’s birthday, and one of your masterpieces will beat the book on British poetry that I bought her last year.”

  “You scared me.” I was standing on a stool, my arms placing green foam into an elongated vase that a customer had brought in for a garish centerpiece that she needed to have in her entryway. I couldn’t reach it without some delicate maneuvering. “Also, a book of British poems sounds lovely.”

  I was covered in foam, again, and a fleck wedged itself dangerously close to my right eye. The problem was that both my hands were covered in it, leaving me no safe way to remove it until someone ventured in to help.

  “I’ll take whatever you’re going to give me as soon as you save my eye,” I said, moving from around the counter to stand in front of him.

  “Your hands are shaking. Don’t blind me.” I blinked rapidly every time his fingers came near my eye.

  “Your eye is possessed. I can’t get near it without it fluttering. Hold still,” he said, gently cupping my face. He leaned in, close. Then closer still, until my eye wasn’t fluttery anymore because it was too focused on him.

  “Did you get it?” I asked, feeling a spark lick up my spine with every soft touch of his fingers on my skin.

  “Yes.” Henry pulled back, quickly plucking the green foam from my face before stepping away. “I just wanted to bring this back,” he said, holding out the envelope from the other night. “It must have fallen out of your pocket when I drove you home.”

  He looked uneasy, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “What about those?” I asked of the envelopes in his other hand, which he had just pulled from his back pocket. There were two more.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but he looked even guiltier.

  “They were stuck to your front door when I got there. At first, I thought they were for me from you or Gigi. So, uh, I opened one. When I realized that it wasn’t from you but for you”—he paused—“I stopped. Clearly they’re from, well, whoever it is that you’re seeing. …”

  “You read one?”

  He nodded, showing me the opened flap. He stood straighter, and his voice took on an edge. “I meant to give them to you, but time got away from me. I’ve been so busy with the Fourth of July festival, plus some course things, and— Never mind, you’re clearly uninterested.”

  He held his hand out. The grip on the envelopes was tight, almost frustrated.

  “I can’t believe you,” I snapped sourly, taking them from his hand.

  “Me? You can’t believe me? How do you think I feel? I’m fighting against whatever this is between us, while you’re seeing Max, making me look like a goddamned moony-eyed fool.”

  His hands gripped his hair, tugging at the curly locks. “I can’t believe—” he muttered, too low for me to hear. “So stupid,” was all I could make out.

  “What do you mean?” I pointed at the envelopes. “I’ve only seen Max a couple of times, not that it’s any of your business!”

  I stormed into the back room with Henry hot on my heels.

  “I’m sorry that I read the damn thing. I would have given you the rest back, but you were probably busy with Max,” he said, spitting out his name again as the door closed behind him.

  “Oh, please. Enough with Max. We barely see each other. And eventually, I’ll find a minute to spend more time getting to know him.”

  “While you’re here,” he added with a finality that sent a rush of anger through me again.

  “Yes, Henry. While I’m here. He doesn’t have a problem with short-term.”

  He stepped away. In the back room, alone and in the dim light, he looked even more tired than he did out front. The sparkle that usually lit up his eyes was missing.

  My remark had its intended effect, but it felt awful.

  “For the record,” I said, tossing the letters on the workstation, “these letters are as much of a mystery to me as they are to you. Full disclosure, there was a part of me that hoped they were from you.”

  “Not my style,” he said flatly. “I outgrew writing simple letters.”

  Ouch. If this was simple, what did it make me that I enjoyed them?

  I whirled around. “Well, since these are obviously not from you, I hope you’ll excuse me. I have some Sherlocking to do since Max is the likely poet in all of this.”

  He harrumphed. “Max? You think your Dr. Max sent these? Fitzgerald, Cummings, Keats? He has no idea who any of those people are!”

  I slapped the envelopes on the table, sending more stems scattering about the floor.

  “How many of these did you read to know that? How dare you!”

  He had enough dignity to look remorseful at being caught.

  I couldn’t believe him. And if they weren’t from Henry and they weren’t from Max, I
had no idea who the hell they were from, and I wasn’t about to figure it out with Henry looking over my shoulder while I tried to.

  The intention was to hold my head high and storm past Henry, but he had other plans.

  As I made my way to him, he pivoted so that I had to stop short.

  “Move.”

  He blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry.” He paused, his head sagging dejectedly. “I was rude. Being mad over the situation is certainly no excuse for me being rude. Especially not to you. I … just give me a second,” he whispered.

  We were facing in opposite directions, his right shoulder touching my left. Vibrations rolled through his body as he fought whatever it was that was warring inside him.

  “Why are you mad?” I asked, wanting to turn to see him but staying facing forward. It was easier. Almost like there was a confessional screen between us that gave him a chance to be honest.

  “What aren’t I mad at is probably a shorter list,” he said quietly.

  I stiffened. “You’re mad at me?”

  He shook his head. “No, not at you. At myself, the situation that I’ve put us in. Max is a constant thorn, and all the letters you’re getting. All of it is a constant reminder that I’m not—that we’re not …”

  “Not what?” I asked.

  “That we’re just not. Not is such a finite and negative adverb.”

  I smiled. “Spoken like a true English teacher.”

  The warmth was building at the spot where our shoulders were touching. Who would have thought that a shoulder touch would be enough to both calm my anger and build up other emotions.

  “We’re just not. There’s nothing positive about it, and it’s been eating away at me.”

  “Well, you’re not alone in the frustration. So, I guess in a roundabout way that’s a positive.”

  “Yes, but I am alone and we’re not and that’s my doing.”

  Turning, I finally got to look into his eyes. They were torn. His brow was furrowed, and the blue was stormy and conflicted.

  “Henry,” I said, leaning toward him. While the annoyance was still there over the letters, another emotion was at the forefront.