I’m in the best shape of my life. I’m a Grammy-award winning singer-songwriter, blissfully married to my true love, an Italian model—
No, wait. Make that …
French actor.
No. Brazilian. Yes. That’s it.
… my true love, a Brazilian actor and model who worships the ground I walk on. We live in a chalet on the coast of—
“Sierra?”
I gave a start and snapped my notebook shut, rattling the spoon next to my coffee cup. I was at my usual table in the corner, up against the turquoise-painted wall adjacent to the picture window. The bright wall featured a rotating display of local artwork, while the window supplied natural light and a view of the pink-petaled cherry tree on the street outside. White cursive lettering on the window announced the shop’s name—Coffee Art Café—and conveniently hid me from any strolling passers-by. This spot usually afforded me a smidge of privacy for dreaming and doodling in my vision journal. Apparently not today.
“I thought that was you, Sierra Ravenswood! Still sporting short bangs and a bob, just like in high school.”
I looked up at the stylish, well-dressed woman who had just entered the coffee shop. She fluttered across the checkered-tile floor, as light and graceful as a butterfly.
“Why, Deena Lee! What a surprise!” I plastered on a big smile, the kind you use when you run into an old classmate you haven’t seen since graduation ten years ago—and you’re wishing you’d worn anything but the overalls you’d grabbed from the bedroom floor that morning. She smiled in return.
Deena Lee was always nice enough back in the day, though we never ran in the same circles. I was a band geek—not that there’s anything wrong with that. And when I wasn’t practicing my clarinet or my guitar, I usually had my nose in a book. Deena, by contrast, was one of the popular, smart kids. If there was an academic team, she was probably on it—debate club, scholastic bowl, student council, you name it. Of course, she was pretty too and the only Korean-American in our school. When I last saw her, at our ten-year class reunion last summer, she’d been positively glowing with all her successes.
She flipped her long, black hair in a casual, carefree way. “What are you doing in Aerieville, Miss Sierra? Visiting your folks?”
I kept my smile firmly in place. “No, ma’am. I live here now.”
She arched her perfectly-shaped eyebrows. “You do? I thought you moved to Nashville!”
“I did, a while ago. I moved back in January.” Four months ago, not that anyone’s counting. Before she could launch into the third degree, I quickly turned the tables. “How have you been? Last I heard you were working on your PhD—in Chicago, wasn’t it?”
“Still am.” She laughed gaily. “Perpetual scholar, that’s me.”
“You visiting your folks?”
“Mm-hmm. Daddy’s birthday is this weekend. He doesn’t want a fuss, but we’ll have cake and ice cream.”
“How long you in town for?”
Deena flinched, and for a second, I thought Miss “Perpetual Scholar” was offended by my grammar. Well, she grew up here too. In my opinion, when your conversation is colloquial, the usual grammar rules don’t apply.
To my surprise, her lower lip began to tremble. She covered her mouth as if to hide it, but I could tell she was upset.
I hopped up and pulled out the chair opposite mine. “Sit,” I said, touching her arm lightly. I didn’t know if it was my upbeat personality or my sympathetic face, but folks tend to confide in me. They always have. My mom liked to say I could’ve been a therapist. I sat down across from her. “What’s wrong, Deena?”
She heaved a great sigh. “I might be here for a while, that’s what’s wrong. Steve left me.”
“Steve? I thought your fiancée’s name was Troy.”
“Troy? That’s old news. He was two relationships ago.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m a smart woman, right? Why do I have so much trouble holding on to men? It’s like I keep falling for the same type—the wrong type—over and over again.”
An idea popped into my head, and I impulsively clapped my hands together. “Listen, I’m no psychologist, but I do know something that might help.”
She looked startled, as if she hadn’t really expected an answer. “You do?”
“Flowers.”
Her surprise turned to confusion. “Flowers? What do you mean?”
“I mean pretty, sweet-smelling, cheerful flowers—and the mood-boosting art of arranging them.”
“Um.” Deena looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head. It didn’t bother me. I was used to it.
“Listen,” I said. “There’s a bouquet-arranging class tonight at Flower House. Seven o’clock. You should come.”
“Flower House? The old florist shop on Oak Street?”
“The one and only. I work there part-time.” I had worked at the flower shop off and on during my high school years. Fortunately, the owner was happy to give me my old position when I returned to town. I checked my watch and scrambled to my feet. “Speaking of which, I gotta run. It was good seeing you!”
I waved at the kid behind the coffee counter and stepped outside into the springtime sun. As usual, my eyes were immediately drawn upward, from the flapping American and Tennessean flags on the green mound across the street to the redbrick clock tower (the tallest structure in town) to the misty-blue Smoky Mountains in the distance. Some say the mountains are Aerieville’s defining feature, providing everything from resources and recreation to a sense of history and pride. For the Cherokee, the mountains were a sacred place, and I tended to agree. Of course, the tales my grandmother would spin—from my childhood to the present—surely influenced my thoughts on the matter.
Breathing in the magnolia-scented air, I took a moment to savor the warmth and beauty of the morning. Gratitude was key to a happy life. If you have a grateful heart, you’re bound to attract more of what you’re grateful for. With this in mind, I ticked off all my blessings, like the overflowing flower baskets hanging from the lampposts, as I walked down the sidewalk toward my car. Good health. Loving—if quirky—family members. A cute house. A decent job.
Positive thinking worked. I knew it did. I was a believer, through and through. A few years ago, I’d moved to Nashville with nothing but the guitar on my back, and within a week I’d manifested an awesome loft apartment, a steady gig, and a promising new boyfriend—all exactly like I visualized.
Unfortunately, it didn’t last. One by one, I lost them all. But I didn’t let it get me down. I told myself all those losses were the Universe’s way of saying I had bigger and better things in store. I just needed to get clear on what I really wanted and set new intentions. That was all.
When I reached my car, a little two-door Fiat in bright electric orange, I patted the hood with a smile. This little baby was something else I’d attracted into my life. And, so far, I’d managed to hang onto it.
On the short drive across the village, from tiny Main Street to Old Town, I watched the scenery roll by. The dollar theater marquee advertised a second-run movie. An elderly gentleman twirled a cane outside the bank, and a young couple entered the Tasty Cone ice cream shop arm in arm. Near the ballfield, a red balloon rose lazily toward the treetops.
In my experience, signs were everywhere, if you only paid attention. Messages from the Universe, that’s what they were. Sometimes just a wink and a nod, sometimes a warning. Sometimes an invitation. Heck, running into Deena this morning was probably no accident. I hoped she would drop by the flower shop later.
The instant the thought crossed my mind, a delivery truck caught my attention at the intersection in front of me. The placard on top read Friendship Pizza.
Ha. Come to think of it, I could stand to add more friendship to my life. Most of my peers had moved away, and I hadn’t gotten out much since returning to Aerieville.
I should add “fulfilling friendships” to my vision journal.
I was still daydreaming when I parked my car along the street a block away from Flower House. My boss, Felix Maniford, wanted to save the parking spaces in front for customers. I didn’t mind the walk. It was a nice day and a pretty, tree-lined boulevard. Mature oaks stood over a mix of residential and commercial buildings, including an antique store, a bakery, and the home of Aerieville’s historical society (volunteer-run and almost never open). In no time, I was approaching the converted Victorian, an elegant if somewhat faded painted lady, long known as Flower House.
My eyes always went first to the picture window next to the front door. Since I was in charge of the display, I wanted to make sure it was attention-grabbing and tidy. We usually featured seasonal floral arrangements in the window along with a few charming gift ideas—mainly sachets, mugs, and vases. I liked to mix in little wooden signs featuring motivational word art whenever I could: Believe, Create, and Dream were my favorites.
Today, however, something distracted me. It was the Closed sign on the front door. My shift didn’t start until ten o’clock, but Felix always opened by eight thirty. I tried the knob, and it was locked.
Wrinkling my forehead, I fished my keys from my purse and let myself in. It was possible Felix had closed the shop to make a delivery. But he usually waited for me before doing that. And from the looks of things, the shop hadn’t been opened at all this morning.
I flipped on the overhead light and walked to the lone checkout counter in the center of the foyer-turned-storefront. Looking around, I hugged my arms to ward off a shiver. With its high ceilings and old windows, the Victorian was always a bit drafty. Fortunately, the abundance of colorful bouquets usually provided an inviting, homey warmth to the shop. At the moment, however, many of the fresh flowers were missing, undoubtedly still in the cooler in the back. And the refrigerated display case along the wall was dark. One glance at the cash register told me it was still empty from the night before.
Where was Felix?
I had just reached for the phone under the counter, when the front door burst open. And there’s my answer, I thought. Standing on the entry mat, dropping papers from both hands, was my illustrious boss, Felix Maniford. As usual, his shock of white hair was in need of a trim and his plaid shirt in need of an iron. His jeans were rolled up at the cuffs. At five foot five (just a smidge taller than me), his pants were always on the long side—and he never bothered to have them hemmed.
“Oh, good,” he said, his mouth twitching into a distracted smile. “You’re here.”
I crossed the room and picked up the fallen papers—which I now saw were fliers advertising tonight’s flower-arranging class.
“Where have you been?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Fine. Everything’s fine. I just need to pick up something, and then I’m on my way.”
“On your way?”
“Yes, I got a call just now. Well, a few minutes ago. It was the call I’ve been waiting for. Then I remembered—” He stopped himself, finally noticing my confusion. “I’m sorry, Sierra. I get ahead of myself sometimes. Now, where should I start?”
“How about with these,” I suggested, waving a sheaf of fliers.
“Oh, right. Let’s see. I was watering the garden this morning when I remembered your class—”
“My class?” I interrupted. It was true the class had been my idea, but Felix was supposed to lead it. He was the expert florist, not me.
“I knew there was something I was forgetting,” he continued. “Then it hit me. I forgot to place an ad in the paper last week.”
“Felix!”
“I know, I know. But then I had the idea to post some fliers around town. I printed off a bunch of ’em this morning.”
“Did you hang any?” I asked.
“Well, yes. I hung one on the bulletin board at the library, and one at Bread n’ Butter next door. I was gonna put up more, but then I got the call. The one—”
“The one you were waiting for,” I finished. “Who from, Felix?”
His eyes darted past me to the checkout counter. “Excuse me, dear. I think I left my GPS here.” He scuttled past me, as I shook my head in exasperation.
His GPS. That could mean only one thing. “Really, Felix? That’s what has you so preoccupied? Geocaching?”
Ever since his wife, Georgina, passed away a dozen years ago, Felix had begun to spend less time on the business they’d created and more time on his hobbies: fishing and geocaching. He even moved out of the apartment on the second floor of Flower House to live in a little cabin in the woods, not far from his favorite fishing hole. But in recent years, he’d become especially enthusiastic about geocaching—the outdoor treasure-hunting game where players use GPS coordinates to find items hidden by other players.
“Here it is!” Felix announced, holding up a handheld navigating device. “Now, where’s my flashlight?”
He headed for the workroom, with me close on his tail, then stopped so abruptly I almost ran into him. “Silly me. It’s in the truck!”
“Felix, are you really going on a hunt now? When will you be back?” I followed him to the front door, feeling like a puppy dog. When he opened it, I had to resist the urge to grab his shirttail.
He paused long enough to turn back and give me a quick, fatherly nod. “Mind the store, will you? I could be a while.”
“But, Felix! What about the class?”
“Class? Oh, yes. Have fun! You’ll do great.”
“But I’ve only been making bouquets for four months! I’m not ready to lead a class!”
My protests were futile. Felix was already scurrying down the sidewalk toward his pickup truck. He hopped in, slammed the door, and took off down the street—leaving me to shake my head in bewilderment.