Page 8 of Hooked on Emerson
“She really painted that?”
Ava followed his gaze. “Yup. She said lavender reminded her that healing takes time. But it always comes.”
He nodded, letting the words settle in mind, and maybe in his own heart.
Once outside, Emerson noticed the breeze had picked up again, stirring the cracked awning. He made a mental note to add it to the list.
The next morning, Emerson arrived just as the sky shifted from violet to pale gold. Bloom & Vine glowed gently from within. He knocked once, and Ava appeared, her hair tied up, sleeves rolled to her elbows.
“Right on time,” she said, opening the door.
“Always am," He said with a smile.
He set down his tool bag near the electrical panel while she moved through the shop, trimming stems, changing the water in the buckets. The soft hum of classical music filtered from a small speaker near the register.
She reappeared beside him a little while later, a steaming mug in her hand. “Hot lemon water,” she said. “It helps with the early mornings.”
He took it, surprised. “Thanks.”
They worked in quiet rhythm. Emerson tracing circuits, labeling panels. Ava bundling bouquets, her hands moving swiftly with ribbon and twine. The silence between them was companionable, broken only by softly spoken comments: “Do you need the stepladder?” “Where do you want this moved?” “You’ve got pollen on your ear.”
By the third morning, he knew where she kept the extra extension cords. She knew how he took his coffee—black, no sugar, hot enough to burn.
On the fourth day, Ava kept the shop closed as it was Sunday. He came anyway, to finish the wiring in peace.
The bell chimed as he stepped in. She was sweeping near the front windows, barefoot, the cuff of her sweater pushed up past her elbows, hair loose down her back. “I wasn't expecting you today,” she said, leaning on the broom handle.
“I wanted to finish this project before the new week started.”
She nodded toward the back. “Coffee’s fresh.”
The silence had changed again. It wasn't really familiar, but not quite awkward anymore either.
In the back room, he crouched to replace the final outlet. The ceiling was dry now and the buckets removed. He could still smell the mildew, faint at the edges, but it was finally fading.
Ava leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “This room used to be where she did all her best work. I’d sit on the floor and sort petals. She’d hum while she arranged bouquets.”
Emerson glanced up. “You hum sometimes, too.”
She smiled in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”
He tightened the last screw. “You said you’re trying to keep the shop going. For her.”
“Yeah. For her. But also... because I don’t know who I am without it.” She glanced down at her hands. “It’s not just a building. It’s everything I know.”
He didn’t say anything. Just moved to the shelf she leaned beside as something else caught his attention. One bracket was cracked. From his belt, he pulled a screw and a new bracket. He’d brought a few brackets, just in case, and replaced it without comment.
Ava quietly watched him work, then said softly, “You fix things like it’s the only way you speak.”
He straightened slowly and shrugged “Maybe it is.”
She didn’t look away. “It’s not a bad language.”
He held her gaze for a second longer than he meant to. The moment hung there, feeling unfulfilled, but then it passed.
Outside, the sun had burned off the clouds. He lingered at the front door, one hand resting on the newly repaired frame.
“I’ll stop by later this week,” he said. “To check for any flickering.”
