Page 115

“Sure.”

She doesn’t leave, which gets my attention. Usually, if she wants to talk scheduling or supplies, she does it while we go for a walk.

I toss the disinfectant wipe and lean back against my counter. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been thinking about the shop. About where I want it to go over the next few years.”

That could mean almost anything, so I wait.

She folds her arms loosely. “And I want to know if you’d be interested in buying in.”

For a second, I’m sure I misunderstood her.

“Buying into Black Fern?”

“Yeah. Not taking over. I’m not disappearing.” She smiles. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. But I’ve been doing this alone for a long time, and I don’t want to make every decision by myself anymore.”

I set the bottle in my hand down because suddenly I don’t trust myself not to drop it.

She keeps talking, explaining that she hasn’t worked out every detail yet. We’d have to go through the numbers, talk to an accountant, have contracts drawn up. None of that has to happen tonight. What she’s offering is a real stake in the shop and a voice in where it goes next.

More say in which artists we bring in. More freedom with guest spots and events. A share in the business instead of only the work I personally bring through the door.

More responsibility too.

The thought should probably make me nervous.

Mostly it makes me want to grin.

“When I hired you, I knew your work was good,” she says. “I didn’t know how fast people would start asking for you specifically. You’ve brought in clients from outside the area, you fit here, and you care about the shop. I’m not interested in bringing in a partner just because someone has money. I want someone I trust.”

I look around Black Fern, at the framed flash on the walls, the plants crowded along the front window, the old wood floors I’ve learned exactly where not to step if I don’t want them to squeak.

A few months ago, none of this belonged to me.

Redwood Point didn’t either.

I came north because I wanted something slower than San Francisco, somewhere I could breathe and work without feeling like every hour of my life had already been booked by someone else. I thought maybe I’d stay if it felt right.

It does.

“I’m interested,” I say, and my voice comes out calmer than I feel.

Her smile widens. “I figured you might be.”

“I want to see all the numbers before I sign away my firstborn.”

“That seems responsible.”

“I’m very protective of hypothetical children.”

She laughs. “Take a few days. I’ll get everything together.”

“I don’t need a few days to know I want to talk about it.”

That part is easy.

By the time I leave the shop, I’ve already imagined changing the back workroom, expanding the art display near the front, bringing in guest artists from San Francisco for a weekend. Ideas keep coming as I lock the door.