Natasha scans downtown Hamilton with a jaundiced eye. It’s a perfect distance from Nashville: close enough for an afternoon shopping trip, far enough to be a getaway from the capital of country music. Main Street is tidy and prosperous-looking. She’s a business owner, she knows good real estate when she sees it, yet she can’t help but sniff at the kitschy antique shops and too-cute boutiques. God, she wouldn’t last a week in this bumpkin-ville. Judging from the looks she’s drawing on the street, Hamilton is surprised to see her too. With her halter maxi dress of water-colored silk, long burgundy hair, and tattoo that takes up her entire back, she doesn’t exactly blend in with the capri pants and matching twinset crowd. Neither does Emmett, with his full sleeves and shaved head. It’s hard to understand what he sees in this place. She’d understand New York, Miami, San Francisco. But this countrified small town would be the last place she’d pick to open a tattoo shop. Every time she comes to visit, she’s struck anew by the miracle that his shop is still in business. It helps that she wrote generous terms into his loan; he’s paying her back at two points below market rate. Not a sound investment on her part, but holding the mortgage on his shop allows her to make regular checkup visits, and she’d pay a lot more than a couple of points on a business loan for that right.
When she called, Emmett said he was at lunch, so Natasha kills an hour browsing through several stores. She’s been away from her own shop on a buying trip for almost two weeks, the whole time counting down until today. Her blood hums at the thought of seeing Emmett again. It’s been a year since she last saw him. It’s been nine years since they dated in high school. But that magical feeling is still there. Just his voice on the line brings out that shimmery ache. Being with Emmett is like pushing on a bruise. It hurts, but in a good way, and she can’t seem to stop. So she finds herself in this ridiculous place full of nostalgia for a way of life that never existed.
At one god-awful shop full of potpourri and candles, dying to pass the time, she ends up striking a conversation with the shop owner, a plump lady in her late forties. There’s a momentary lull in customers and as one small business owner to another, they quickly settle into a surprisingly frank discussion of expenses and income, foot traffic and profit margins.
“I owned a store in Fredericksburg, Texas,” Marianne says in her soft Southern drawl. “That’s a lovely little town. But, I tell you, Hamilton beats the pants off Fredericksburg. You should think about it. Tennessee’s not that far from Florida.”
Natasha laughs at the suggestion, but even as she does, a tiny idea begins to grow. Hamilton would never be her kind of place, but Natasha is always open to possibilities and opening a second tea shop, expanding her brand, holds some undeniable possibilities. She’ll never close Steeped in St. Petersburg. That’s her baby, her proudest achievement. But opening a sister store … That’s possible. Natasha feels a sudden surge of excitement. When she returns to Florida, she’ll research the market to see if the area could support a tea shop. In some ways, it’s amazing that the thought never occurred to her. She’d have a much stronger reason for regular visits; though, of course, she’ll have to find a decent manager and those, she knows from experience, are very hard to find.
A couple tourists enter the shop, cooing over the display of wine glasses painted to look like giant flowers.
Feeling both inspired and bemused at the idea of franchising Steeped, Natasha compliments Marianne on the attractive window display—the woman does have an eye for color—and as a way of showing thanks, mentions she’ll be back to buy those wine glasses after her meeting ends. She feels the weight of the tourists’ eyes as they glance at her and then the glasses on the shelf. The door closes behind her on what is an almost-guaranteed sale.