Page 7 of Hooked on Emerson
“She means well,” Emerson offered.
“She always does.” Ava’s voice was steady, but the way her fingers lingered on the petals gave her away.
“I could just take a look,” he said again. “No pressure. Just a walk-through.”
Her hands stilled. She didn’t look at him right away. When she did, he could see the hesitation in her as pride wrestling with exhaustion. Finally, she gave a small nod. “Fine. But I’m not promising anything.”
He followed her through the shop. The charm was still everywhere in all the hand-painted signs, vintage pots, shelves crowded with tiny bud vases and dried wreaths. But beneath the charm, time had crept in. Water stains bruised one ceiling tile.The plaster near the back wall had fine cracks spreading like spiderwebs.
They passed a small photo taped near the register of a younger Ava and an older woman standing in front of the shop, arms linked. The woman’s hair was silver, wind-tossed, her eyes crinkled with laughter. Emerson lingered on it a second longer than he meant to.
“She painted the mural too,” Ava said, catching his glance.
He nodded toward the lavender field behind the counter. “It’s amazing.”
“I used to think it was too much. Now I’m glad it’s still here.”
She opened the door to the back room and flipped on a light. The bulb flickered once before holding steady. “This used to be the workroom,” she said. “After the pipe burst in May, I had to move everything forward.”
The room smelled faintly of mildew. A wet, tired odor. One wall bore the dark stain of water damage; a row of buckets lined the floor, catching slow, measured drips from a copper pipe above.
Emerson crouched beside it, running a hand along the joint. “Rust’s eaten through. The joint’s done and the floor’s starting to go too.” He glanced toward her feet in their planting boots, worn but clean. She didn’t flinch at the mold or the mess. Just stood with her arms folded, watching him work.
“I know it’s bad,” she said.
“I’ve seen worse.” He straightened. “But it needs fixing. And sooner rather than later.” He stepped toward the fuse box. One glance was enough. The old wiring, cloth insulation, a history of too many quick fixes were all clear to him. “Some of this is dangerous,” he said quietly. “You’ve been lucky.”
Ava shifted, her arms tightening around herself. “That’s just great.”
“I can give you a list of what’s urgent, what can wait. You can decide what to tackle.”
Back in the front room, the light had shifted. Soft beams filtered through the smudged windows, casting slow-moving shadows across the floor. A few customers drifted in, and Emerson stepped aside while Ava handled them with calm efficiency, her smile practiced but not forced.
While she wrapped a bouquet of pale tulips and hydrangeas, Emerson’s eyes landed on a small framed card tucked between a vase and a jar of ribbon. It read: “Ranunculus – radiant charm. Gratitude. A love that grows slowly.”
When the shop quieted again, she came to stand beside him. Her hand rested on the edge of the counter, fingers tapping lightly. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s start with the electrical.”
“I’ll get you a quote.”
“And if it’s more than I can afford?” She asked, barely a whisper.
“We’ll figure it out,” he stated with a shrug.
She looked at him then, fully. Her eyes searched his face, like she was trying to find the catch. “Why are you doing this?”
He hesitated, thumb brushing the edge of his tool belt. “Because you need help.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He met her gaze. “Maybe not.”
She decided not to push and just nodded. “Coming back tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here by seven-thirty. That’s when you get in, isn’t it?”
She blinked in surprise. “Yeah. It is.”
As he turned to go, his eyes landed again on the mural behind the counter. Rows of lavender trailed into soft purple hills, the brushstrokes blurred at the edges like memory.
