I nod at her, and she moves along, busying herself with the straightening of potted plants and detangling of windchimes.
“What do you think about these?” I ask her, lifting some type of leafy green thing in her direction.
“I think they’d look awfully good in your trunk if it’ll get you outta here. Got a date with my knitting needles to get home to. And Felix.”
“Felix your husband?”
“Why? You wanna ask me out?” She shakes her head. “He’s a cat, and he’ll raise Cain if you keep me here too late.”
I chuckle to myself. She sounds like my grandma too. Got her spunk. How she keeps this place open with that attitude, I’m not sure, but I can respect that she shoots straight.
“I’ll take ‘em.” Turning toward the cart, I try to find a place to stick them, but it’s full.
“Here.” The woman approaches with outstretched hands, her arms barely extending.
I lift the pot higher. “I’ve got it. You just show me the way to the register.”
“You got eyes, boy? It’s right there.” She presses her knobby knuckles into her hips, throwing an arm toward the humble front counter. “And don’t forget your complimentary drip trays. They’re stacked next to the door by the wind spinners.”
“Drip trays?”
“Boy, you’re lucky you’re pretty.” I swear I see hersmile as she turns and hobbles toward the front with me on her heels. She grabs a thin plasticdrip trayfor each plant I’m purchasing. “You’ll thank me later.”
We walk to the counter in silence, and she rings me up, mumbling to herself the whole time. When she rattles off the total, I drop down a few large bills.
She eyes me. “Only got ones for the change, that okay?”
“Sure, I’ll just load everything up while you count it out.”
There’s more grumbling, but her eyes brighten. I’d be crotchety too if my store were as low-traffic as hers. After I load up my car—which was definitely not made for hauling this amount of foliage—I freeze.What am I doing?I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. Maybe it was starting the day with the Catch-A-Dream foundation, maybe it was a certain dark-haired girl. Whatever it was, for the third time today, I think of someone besides myself and hop into my car, praying my backseat isn’t covered in potting soil by the time I make it to my house.
Before she stopped talking to me, my sister told me I needed to liven up my place anyway. If anything, I’m being selfish. I’m doing this for me. I’m definitely not doing it in hopes that if my sister finally talks to me again, she sees that I have taken her advice for once. And I’m definitely not doing it because Avery told me she’s been low on work lately. As I back out of the parking lot, I see the little woman emerge from her shop, yelling something as I speed off down the road. I make too much money to know what to do with it, so leaving a little behind for her is no big deal. Maybe she’ll go out and buy some BenGay so she canfinally straighten out her fingers. Maybe if she didn’t remind me so much of my grandma, I’d still be a couple hundred dollars richer. I wish I could call Maggie and tell her I ran into someone who is Grammy Mags incarnate.
But I screwed that up. And that is why I don’t dial anyone and keep my mouth shut, I remind myself.
When I get home, I take my time unloading the car and arranging the plants in front of my broad living room windows. I don’t know anything about keeping these things alive, but I know they need sunlight, right? I stand back and admire my work, which isn’t much to look at. There’s no flow to my selection; some are tall, some have flowers, some are prickly. Everything looks out of place in my minimalistic space. Raw wood, white couch, straw-colored hardwood floors. When Maggie told me what she wanted for her room, I hired someone to help me out. Maybe that’s what I should have done with my plants, too, but by the time I got all that arranged, the impulse would have subsided. I probably would have cancelled, and I wouldn’t be getting my hopes up for… for what?
I reach into my pocket and feel the glossy paper of the business card that got me to where I am right now. Why did I suddenly think I could become a plant guy? A pair of smiling, hazel eyes and a scrunched, freckled nose flash through my mind before morphing into something distraught. Even after lamenting her spiraling life, she tried to rebound with a grin, but I saw right through it. Maybe it’s because I started the day in a charitable mindset, or maybe it’s pity dredged up by all her “woe is me” crap, but one thing she said landed hard. Avery didn’t call for help because she didn’t have anyone to show up for her.
The sentiment hits too close to home, and I want to step up for her in a way I’d want someone to do for me. Given the Kings’ contracts, simply talking to her would lead to some major discipline—but what’s the harm in hiring someone from her business to water a few plants? Technically speaking, I broke the contract when I helped her with her car. What’s the difference between helping her there and supporting her business? She clearly needs a pick-me-up. And after that, that’s it. Then I’ve done my part.
When I text the number on the card and ask for someone to care for my plants, it has nothing to do with those eyes or those freckles or the liveliness that radiates from her. It’s because she was too pathetic not to help.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
CHAPTER FIVE
AVERY
Practice doesn’t startuntil first thing next week, so I’m cramming in as many of my plant-sitter stops as I can before I’m absolutely swamped—at least mentally—with choreography and new names and trying to find parking at a new rehearsal space. My brain aches just thinking about it. Isn’t it silly that something as simple as attempting to find parking can produce so much anxiety?
I scroll through my e-mails as I get ready for my newest client, diligently adding and adjusting all of the changes in my schedule for the week. There’s only one cancellation. It’s disappointing, but there could always be more. It’ll put me behind on the money I thought I’d be saving, but I try not to dwell on it. It’s always possible to make up for this. Hopping in my car, I start it up, cruising down the street as I brainstorm all the possibilities that will surely pull me out of the financial redzone. This can’t last forever. Everything is temporary, right? Just because something may feel glum,it doesn’t mean it’s permanent. It doesn’t mean tomorrow won’t be brighter.
I try to count my little blessings and bright spots as I make my way toward Soleil Drive.
First off, you’ve been hired by someone on Soleil Drive. Whoever they are, they’re probably important, or at the very least rich. Secondly, despite the fact that you have to adjust your schedule, it could be worse. You could be neck-deep in administrative tasks.
A shiver runs down my spine. Administrative tasks are my mortal enemy. If I could house hop and care for plants and forgo all of the businessy things, I would. But alas, schedules and finances must be managed. And as the judge, jury, executioner of Sprout Sitting by Avery—whoa, sounds dark, I know—everything falls back on me. If I let the boredom of administrative tasks get to me, my business will wither up faster than those pitcher plants did on their mistaken diet of tap water.
