Page 18 of Crazy Imperfect Hearts

I go back to the counter and notice the large old-timey cash register that looks like it belongs in a Five and Dime onThe Andy Griffith Show. No way she still uses that dinosaur. Then I see a small bag, the kind you take to the bank to make cash deposits. It has several twenties sticking out of the top. I shake my head. So the register is just for show. She stuffs all her profits in there.

Receipts litter the top of the counter along with scraps of paper with scribbled notes.

One appears to be a grocery list:Cat litter. Coke. Doritos. Broccoli. Sandwich meat.

Another a to-do list:Flower order at 5:30. Hospital. Drop off donations.

Yet another has a list of what I think are book titles.

There’s a stack of books that look like they’re about to teeter off the counter. I straighten them, making a sturdy pile that won’t fall.

A heap of clothes is strewn out on the floor behind the register, as if flung there by a scorned spouse.

Business cards with the name of her shop in hot pink have spilled out across the black and white tiled countertop. I pick them up, shuffle them together, and replace them in their upright holder.

My eyes rake over the mess. How can anyone work like this? It’s disorganized. Chaotic. So completely random.

Then I laugh. Because all those words are words I’d use to describe Regan.

This place is her. Right down to the mismatched furniture, the contrasting wallpaper, and the distressed coffered ceiling.

The front of the store where the merchandise is—the part customers see—is also random, but at least that part is clean and inviting. Like walking into your grandmother’s house for Sunday dinner.

The whole place smells like a flower. Or maybe rain. It’s a scent I can’t quite pin down. A thin trail of smoke in the corner catches my attention. She’s burning an incense stick. I laugh inwardly. Of course she is. Don’t all hippies do that? I cock my head. Is that what she is, a hippie? I honestly have no idea. All I know is that Regan Lucas is one of a kind.

I go over and look at the labels on the boxes of incense stacked under the burner. They all have strange names like Dragon’s Blood, Positive Vibes, and Nirvana.

The bell over the door chimes and I turn, expecting to see Regan. But it’s not her. It’s Rose Gianogi—or I guess Rose McQuaid now—the former owner of the flower shop down the street, now run by her granddaughter, who I’m told is currently in the hospital after having my cousin’s baby.

I grab a book from the stack so I don’t look like I’m robbing the place.

Rose glances around. “Why, Lucas Montana, I’ve never seen you in this shop before.”

“Hello, Mrs. McQuaid.”

She giggles and waves me off. “Please. I might be married to a McQuaid, but I’m still just plain old Rose Gianogi. I’ve been signing my name that way for sixty years, ever since I married my first husband, may he rest in peace. I’m too old to go changing things up now, much to Tucker’s displeasure. But he still loves me, that old grump. Even when I can’t get my head to turn for someone calling that new name. I guess it’s true you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” She laughs hoarsely at her joke. “So tell me, what brings you here?”

“I, uh… came for a book.”

She walks over with the bouncy stride of a twenty-year-old, not an elderly woman, and peers at what’s in my hand, reading the title aloud. “Managing Menopause. Interesting choice.”

I feel my cheeks heat. “I mean, notthisbook.” I put it down.

Rose’s head swivels in all directions. “Where’s our quirky little shop owner?”

Quirky. Yeah, that’s it. That’s exactly it.Quirky.

I shrug. “The place was empty when I got here.”

“Ah, well, then you’ll have to do. Regan usually helps me, but with those big strong arms, I imagine you can do it in one trip.”

“Do what, Mrs. Gianogi?”

“Come on.” She waves me toward the door. “I’m double parked. Sheriff Niles won’t bat an eye before he gives me a ticket, no matter who I’m married to.”

I follow her out and she pops the trunk, revealing two large bags.

“Your… trash?” I ask, eyebrows knitted.

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