Page 1 of Aura Awakened

1

AURA

I stand, hands fisted on my hips, a five-foot-two-inch bundle of irritation. “These are all wrong.”

Merry, my assistant, chews her lip and blinks at me, all wide-eyed like a baby deer. “What’s the problem?”

I wrinkle my nose. “The color stories are off, for one thing. But it’s more than that…they don’t make a statement. They don’t scream ‘special.’ It’s pedestrian, Mer.”

She tilts her head, examining the sample arrangements. “I guess, but…I mean, it’s roses. That’s as classic as you can get. How do you make roses exciting?”

“There has to be a way.” I lean close and inspect the flowers. They’re beautiful, all in soft, romantic tones of pink, white, cream, and pale yellow. It’s not that the color stories are bad, per se, but good grief, it’s so boring. It’s every arrangement I’ve ever seen in Fairytale Wedding magazine.

“If we want to break into bridal, we have to show we’re capable of more. Yes, some brides just want a bouquet of blush roses, but we need to offer something for the more adventurous too,” I say, thinking of what I would want if I ever found myself in the unlikely role of bride. Given my current dating life, that’s never going to happen. “We need to be the go-to destination for brides with a little edginess, not just the traditionalists. We need to put Auraflora on the map.”

I snatch up a plum-colored spider mum and tuck it into the mix of yellow and cream roses. “See, that’s already creating some visual interest. I’m still not sold on those tones together, but these arrangements need texture, Mer. They need pizzazz! What do we offer the bride who wants a black-themed wedding? Or a cosplay one?”

Merry straightens her bright blue dress and perches primly on the edge of a stool. “You’re the boss. But I think you should at least keep some more traditional offerings on hand, just in case.”

“Well, of course. I’m not going to alienate the princesses in their meringues. We just, I dunno, need more snapdragons or something.” I tilt my head, trying to figure out how to fix the dull arrangements. Maybe berries or interesting dried grasses would help.

“Dragons are not a good idea at a wedding. Even snapdragons,” she mutters. “It’s bad luck.”

I roll my eyes at her ridiculousness. Leave it to Mer to make up a superstition just because she has conventional taste. “Oh, it is not. Dragons would be welcome at my wedding,” I say, mostly just to irritate her. Merry and I could not have more different personalities if we tried, but when it comes to the work, we’re a storybook match.

I know all there is to know about flowers, and she knows small Texas towns. Everything from how to make a homecoming mum to what makes a respectable centerpiece for the rotating Friday night Champers and Chocolates club, a gossip-fest overflowing with a veritable who’s who of Tenpenny’s elite. Membership is coveted, but I don’t care about joining. I just want those ladies with their big hair and even bigger diamonds as clients. They’re the key to success in this town, and Merry figured out exactly how to get our arrangements on their dining tables. Ever since I hired her, my sales have doubled. If we land this bridal thing, they could triple.

We spend the rest of the afternoon happily bickering about which arrangements to include in our booth at the upcoming wedding expo, and by the time six o’clock rolls around, my head is pounding and my eyes feel gritty. I need food, many drinks, and a hot shower.

I send Merry on her way and then quickly put away the various wedding props we used for the photoshoot: a veil, cheap gold rings that look like wedding bands, a few strands of fairy lights. The only thing I keep out is the tiara. It belongs to my neighbor’s daughter Fawna, last year’s Tenpenny, Texas homecoming queen—go, Titans! She let me borrow it for the day, but I promised to bring it back tonight. Fawna is a generational pageant queen and the shrine to her tiaras has a hole in it at the moment. Obviously, that cannot stand.

I grin to myself. My mother would have slit tires to get me into pageants when I was Fawna’s age. I’d have slit throats (metaphorically, of course) to get out of them. Fortunately, Dad came down on my side of the argument, a lucky-for-me tie breaker.

Once everything in Auraflora is tidied, I lock the shop and tug the hair tie off my wrist, pulling my unruly bronze curls into a puff at the top of my head. I give my neck a quick rub and then set off down the sidewalk, already regretting my decision to walk to work. It’s only a mile and a half, but today it feels like a marathon. At least I’m not in heels. The perk of owning my own business is that I can wear skinny jeans and cute sneakers with my pretty plaid blouse and no one will send me home to change.

I twirl Fawna’s tiara as I walk, enjoying the way the rhinestones catch the dying light and make prismatic little rainbows on the sidewalk. I have to admit, as small towns go, Tenpenny is a charming one. I never imagined myself leaving the city, but when I decided to start a business, I wanted to do it somewhere that didn’t have mass competition. Someplace with a quaint main street where my shop would attract passersby. A place where I might actually get to know my neighbors…one of these days.

Now, walking along the sidewalk under sweeping oak trees, I notice again how adorable this place is. The neighborhoods are a mix of midcentury ranch homes, Craftsman cottages, tidy Tudors, and displaced California storybook houses, which are my favorite. I can’t get enough of their craggy whimsy. I don’t own one yet, but I’ve already met with Phillipa Printz, the town realtor, to let her know I’m interested if one ever comes on the market.

If only my parents could see me now. When I was young, they were so determined to make sure I had the perfect life—perfect by their standards, that is—that they couldn’t wrap their brains around my own dreams. My dad insisted that I major in something “useful” in college, something that would lead straight to a career, like accounting. Ugh.

When I opted for botany, he was puzzled, but not too terribly concerned. After all, it’s a science, and lucrative fields like pharmaceuticals sometimes hire botanists alongside the chemists. I dunno, I guess maybe Dad imagined me leading an expedition through a rainforest, searching for some exotic fungus that could permanently cure psoriasis or something. I wouldn’t have minded the travel or the adventure, but I’ll take a pass on the fungus, thanks. Fungus is gross, and technically doesn’t even count as a plant.

As for my mother, a former Miss Dallas County, she didn’t care about my education or my career. She just wanted me to land a wealthy husband, somebody who’d install me in a big house and set me up for life. Her vision for me included a very large rock on my left hand, a house in a subdivision with too many bathrooms, and a whole closet for designer purses, all of them large enough to hold a purebred Maltese.

Hard pass.

They died several years ago, and I can’t help but wonder what they’d think of me now. If Dad would be horrified that I took my fancy science degree and became a florist. Or if he’d be proud that I own my own business. If Mom would be upset that I’m still single or pleased that I’mthis closeto buying a home, regardless of the number of powder rooms. They both wanted me to be successful in their own way, and I’d like to think they’d be happy with how I turned out. I might not be rich, but I’m independent, I have friends—well, okay, I have neighbors, but one day I’ll get around to making friends—and for the most part, I like my life. I’m proud that I didn’t have to rely on them, or anyone else, to get where I am.

That has to count for something.

Okay, yes, I put my personal life on hold to get here, which means I haven’t had a date in a year and Merry is the only person I talk to on a regular basis, but I’m getting there. One day soon, all my dreams will come true. And if things are boring in the meantime? Well, that’s the tradeoff: I can’t remember the last time I had fun, but I always have a steady paycheck.

I wander along, visions of spaghetti and wine dancing in my head, when, to put it delicately, the shit hits the fan. I’m only a few blocks from home—a sage green, one-bedroom rental with a cedar shingle roof—when the strangest thing happens. A ball of light appears in front of me, a swirling mix neon pink and purple and electric blue. I blink and take a step back, wondering if somehow the prisms from the tiara have been magnified by about four million percent.

But no, that can’t be it, because the riotous colors start…moving. Slowly at first, and then picking up speed, like an eddy of bright light. Almost as if someone melted down all the best crayons and made a whirlpool out of the wax.

It must be a trick of the light and shadows, because what else could explain the whirling vortex in front of me? I squint, trying to discern what in the world that spinning wheel of color could be, and lean forward slightly.

---