Page 1 of Bloom and Burn
1
Ryan
Iplacethecrystalvase with the irises on the table by the door and flip the Blooming Orchid’s sign toopen. Holy shit, this is really happening. I’m finally and officially the new owner of our flower boutique and it’s like the entirety of Estacada has gathered up front to congratulate me.
Unbelievable. I’m so happy I could burst.
“Are you ready, Ryan?” my mom asks, stepping out of the shop’s backroom where she was helping me put the final touches on a few bouquets.
You bet I am. I have been waiting for this since I can remember.
My love for plants first started with the colors—the bright pinks and purples and pastel yellows. Then the shapes intrigued me, the scents, the symbolism, the various uses you had for leaves, petals, stems. When I was old enough to handle flowers without damaging them, I started helping mom out with arrangements and setting up the shop, which has been in the family for a few generations.
“Locked and loaded.” I form a gun with my fingers and pretend-shoot it.
My mom rolls her eyes. It’s a little strange to see her without the violet apron and her blonde hair up in a bun, but it’s in a good way. In a Ryan-you-are-in-charge-now way.
“I got this. Don’t worry. You’ve taught me well,” I assure her, excitement bubbling inside my chest.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stick around for a bit more. Just until the rush is over.”
I got this, really. But there’s no arguing with her when she makes her mind up. It’s just how she is, a bit overbearing like this. Part of me still can’t believe she even agreed to let me take over, but then again, she’s also working as an assistant at the mayor’s office, so she’s got somewhere else to be.
As if on cue, the crowd from outside whooshes inside the Orchid. I know a lot of these people, but some of the faces I’ve never seen before, commuters or travelers passing by our little Oregon town who’ve decided to start their day by getting flowers for someone they care about. Or for themselves, because who says you can’t give yourself a bouquet when you feel like it?
I take in the lively atmosphere, smiling and greeting my first customers in my very own flower shop.
“You’ve done great with the renovations, Ryan!” Mrs. Aba—who’s mom’s bestie—comments, grinning at me as she picks a bunch of tulips from the bucket near the wooden flower bar.
“Thank you! I’m so happy you like it!”
I look around the interior, loving how the pastel blue and pink walls don’t overpower the actual flowers. There are a few extra tables and shelves too, and I repainted the flower bar, but the truth is that I would’ve done more radical changes if not for mom insisting that Estacada knows and loves the Blooming Orchid the way it is.
Sigh. It’s fine. Once she gets used to the fact that this is now my shop, I’ll make a couple more updates.
By the time the crowd thins, I’ve sold more flowers that I probably will for the rest of the day. You won’t hear me complain though, as I have to start preparing the arrangements for Estacada’s Early Summer Festival.
“I would say this was a successful launch,” my mom concludes from behind the counter with a fond expression on her face.
Planting my hands on my hips, I arch an eyebrow at her. “Shouldn’t you be on your way? I’m sure dad could use the help at the town hall.”
“I’m happy to stick around for the day and show you how to style the arrangements for the festival…” She circles the bar and sashays over to the worktop by the backroom’s door, picking up the rooftop gardening book I’ve been reading when I have downtime. She flicks through a couple of pages, looking unimpressed. “We’ve always done them together.”
‘Always’ in this case means since three years ago when my dad, the current mayor, designated the second weekend of May to be Estacada’s celebration of the upcoming summer.
I shake my head. I love my mom, but I can do this on my own. I’ve got my own ideas and ways of doing things. She’ll just get in my way and irritate us both.
“I know what I’m doing, mom.” I pluck the book out of her hand and put it back down. “You’re the one that trained me, remember?”
I chuckle as she frowns, and herd her outside. “Okay, dear. But remember to use ceramic bowls. The five-inch dimeter ones for the table arrangements and the light blue with the green accents for the town hall.” She pauses and glances over my shoulder at the backroom. “You know, the bucket-like ones?”
Ugh, I wanted to use the straw baskets, but I guess I’ll have to go with what she wants or she won’t leave me alone. “Yes, I know which ones. Now shoo. I got this.”
“Also, one last thing.” She points at the stand display by the door, which I’ve decorated with potted dahlia and late tulips. “You should switch back to roses. They look more presentable.”
Rude. Besides, I love to use seasonal flowers and roses aren’t even in bloom yet.
“Yes, of course. Now please, go.” I cross my arms and watch her finally strut over to her car.
