Natural Thorn Killer Page 2

  “Do you mind if we go to the shop first?” Elin asked as she maneuvered the Jeep onto Broadway and headed toward downtown. She wore a cable-knit sweater, jeans, and rain boots. Standard Portland attire. I couldn’t wait to ditch my Midwest layers for good.

  “Not at all,” I replied staring out of the rain-splattered window. “I’m dying to see the workshop.”

  Elin pointed out a variety of new buildings and high-rise condos as we made our way through downtown. Portland had grown dramatically since I last visited.

  I glanced toward the riverfront, where bikers and joggers exercised despite the rainy sky. I couldn’t do that back in Minnesota right now, I thought.

  After a quick drive, Elin steered the Jeep into Riverplace Village. My heart thumped with excitement. This was the home that I remembered.

  Riverplace Village is like its own little city within the city. It’s easily accessible by foot or bike from downtown. The Willamette River is just steps away from the village of eclectic shops, restaurants, and the famed Riverplace Inn. It’s a favorite stop for tourists, as there’s no need to leave the village. You can spend the afternoon reading a book and watching the geese on the grassy hill next to the river, stroll along the riverfront footpath, stop for an espresso, and of course grab a gorgeous bouquet of flowers or glass of Oregon pinot noir at Blomma.

  When Elin emigrated from Sweden she brought her European culture with her. Blomma is the only flower shop–wine bar in town.

  “It’s just like I remember,” I said, squeezing Elin’s hand as I stepped out of the Jeep. Blomma’s front windows were draped with olive leaf garlands intertwined with clementines, lemons, and gold LED lights. Forest green awnings hung above windowed garage doors that had been painted deep red. A sandwich board sat near the entrance. Elin had written a quote in her lovely handwritten script: “Deep in their roots, all flowers keep the light.” ~Theodore Roethke.

  I adjust the bundle of peonies. “What a wonderful quote.”

  Elin smiled. “It’s true. Wouldn’t the world be a much kinder place if we all held more flowers and light, yes?”

  “Yes.” I glanced at the blooms in my hand and then down the long cobblestone path that connected the other shops in Riverplace Village. Two doors down the windows of Demitasse, an artisan coffee shop, were thick with steam. Torch, a candle and specialty gift shop, sat on the other side of the street from Blomma. Farther down there were a hotel, an Italian restaurant, and an American bistro. Cherry trees strung with twinkle lights and antique lampposts flanked the path. Every storefront had tempting window displays, collections of outdoor seating, giant planters, and welcoming signage. I’d forgotten how quaint and homey the village felt.

  Thank you, Chad, I said to myself.

  Elin paused before unlocking the door and looked down at her feet. She bent over and picked up what looked to be a dead bundle of roses.

  “What are those?” I asked, pointing to the shriveled black roses.

  “Nothing. A silly prank.” She immediately unlocked the door and tossed the roses in the trash.

  Odd prank, I thought, following after her.

  She flipped on strategically placed lights and chandleries inside the flower shop. They cast a warm glow on Blomma’s gleaming hardwood floors. “I want to show you the cottage,” she said, smiling and waiting for me to take everything in. The shop was a sensory delight. Much had changed since I’d been away, and yet it was equally familiar. Elin and I had made a pact to stay in touch when I left for Minnesota. We had spoken every Sunday evening and she had constantly sent me photos of her progress in the cottage and pictures of her designs and arrangements.

  Branches wrapped in twinkle lights adorned the ceiling. Tins with fresh-cut flowers were placed on countertops, and antique furniture had been artistically arranged throughout the bright space with a cozy seating area near the front. Large butcher-block tables housed woodland creations and seasonal designs. A concrete workstation with all of the tools of the trade—wire cutters, thorn strippers, shears, and floral knives—took up the middle of the open-concept studio. The back of the shop had floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the Willamette River and a wine bar with a collection of Northwest wines.

  Most flower shops, like Blomma, had a specific flow. Fresh-cut stems were positioned in buckets and tins in the front of the store and near the garage doors in order to catch customers’ eyes as they walked past. The seating area for client meetings was tucked in the front corner. Glass case coolers with prearranged small vases and boutonnieres were located near the workstation, as was the intense wall of blooms and textures—curly willows, white ranunculus, blue iris, and blushing red roses—all waiting and ready to be made into spectacular bouquets. One of the differences in owning a European flower boutique was that in Europe flowers were considered part of everyday shopping, not a luxury. Elin made it easy and affordable for her customers to handpick a collection of stems or to create a custom masterpiece.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. “It’s gorgeous. Even better than I remember it.”

  “Wait until you see the cottage.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the back.

  Elin had purchased the space next door a few years ago. She’d been working tirelessly on transforming it into a cottage where she would teach workshops on floral design. Every time we’d spoken on the phone, I could hear the excitement in her voice when she filled me in on her progress. The cottage would officially open in two and a half weeks, and Elin had a celebratory bash planned that would rival Hollywood movie premieres and the most elegant wedding reception. Everyone in Portland from the mayor to the press had been invited to the grand opening party, where Elin intended to dazzle guests with floor-length gowns made entirely out of flowers and massive floral headpieces and costume art. In her words, my timing—actually Chad’s—was impeccable. She needed help with Blomma and I needed a job.

  We weaved our way through the shop. I stopped to admire the collection of wine she’d amassed on the wall. The Pacific Northwest had become one of the premier wine producers in the world in the last few decades, and it looked like Elin had a bottle of every wine produced. I’d have to spend some time familiarizing myself with our offerings. That shouldn’t be a difficult task.

  I rested the peonies on one of the far tables and watched as she slid two massive barn doors open to reveal her workshop. Once we stepped inside I gasped and rested my hand over my heart. No wonder her classes were so popular.

  The cottage was like something out of a fairy-tale. Old-growth timber beams crossed the ceiling. The walls were crafted out of stone. Ribbon, twine, design wire, and floral tape hung from wooden pegs. A large table constructed from barn doors sat in the middle of the room. An antique dresser housed drawers with shears, pruners, and wire cutters. Berries, dried flowers, leaves, glitter glass, ice and snow, grapevines, pinecones, shells, rocks, moss, fishnets, and every other possible floral design element were tucked into vases, pots, and furniture throughout the space.

  Wow. I had a feeling I could definitely rediscover my creativity in this space.

  “It’s amazing,” I said to Elin.

  “Do you like it?” She gave me an expectant look. “I still have a few kinks to work out, but I think it has come together well.”

  “I love it! It is seriously the most beautiful space I’ve ever seen.”

  “Tack!” A smile spread across her cheeks. “Oh, I’m so glad.”

  “It’s like a dream,” I said, running my fingers along the smooth tabletop. “I feel like I’m on the set of a play.”

  There was a single dead rose at the end of the tabletop. Elin noticed me spot it and quickly swept it into her hand. “See, this is why I need you, Britta. I can’t even keep up with the flowers.” She tossed the dead rose into the garbage.

  Her words surprised me. Elin was meticulous when it came to her blooms. Once when I was in high school she had me purchase samples of old roses from every vendor at the wholesale Portland Flower Market so we
could watch them to see how they opened. We kept each rose in a vase for two weeks and tracked how long it took them to wilt or drop their petals. I remember her instructing me not to pull off the guard petal on a rose that had started to droop. “Never go against nature, Britta,” she had said. “Mother Nature knows what she’s doing. Those petals are in place to protect the rose. The longer the petals are intact the longer the rose will last.”

  In her quest to provide her clients with the freshest blossoms she spent hours studying the life cycle of each stem and how best to preserve them.

  Could the dead flower have something to do with the black bouquet she had just tossed? “Is that part of the prank?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Oh no, it’s nothing.” After discarding the dead bud, Elin removed a pair of shears from the dresser and changed the subject. Placing the shiny shears in my hands, she said, “I had these engraved for you.”

  My initials were etched into the carbon steel. “You didn’t need to get me anything, Moster.”

  She pulled a pair of matching shears from her back pocket. They were worn and engraved with the letters E and J. “You need professional tools to run Blomma. This blade is good for flowers but also trimming small branches.” She pointed to a bundle of grapevine.

  “What do you mean, running Blomma?” I asked, admiring the thoughtful gift.

  “My work is here. I need you to manage the front shop.”

  “Wait? Manage?” I placed the shears on the table. When I had called Elin to tell her I was returning to Portland she said she needed help with the shop, but she never said anything about managing it. “I can’t manage Blomma. I’m not ready for that. You don’t understand how lame my life has been. The most creative thing I managed to do at my old job was convince my boss to wrap our fresh-cut bouquets in butcher paper instead of plastic.”

  She chuckled. “Britta, you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re a talented floral artist.”

  “Floral artist? I wish.” I ripped a piece of dried lavender from one of the tin vases and rubbed it between my fingers. It smelled sweet with subtle balsamic and earthy undertones. “Really, I’m not trying to be self-effacing or anything. I honestly haven’t done anything interesting with flowers in the last decade.” I sighed.

  Elin stepped closer and patted my arm. “It doesn’t matter. I know what you’re capable of and I need you.” She motioned to a mannequin that she had strung with wire to create a hoop skirt. “That dress alone is going to take me at least a week to put together. Not to mention the floral jewelry, headbands, and shoes I have to finish before the launch.”

  Before I could protest further the sound of a soft knock on the barn door interrupted us. “Elin, are you back there?”

  “Come in, come in!” Elin turned to me. “That’s Nora. She owns Demitasse.”

  Nora entered the cottage balancing two cups of coffee in her hands. She kissed me on both cheeks. “You must be Britta.” Holding up the coffee, she continued. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I brought a latte and an Americano.”

  “Either sounds delicious.”

  “Your aunt has taught me that you Swedes need a daily fika—coffee break, right?” She handed me a paper mug. “Take the latte. It’s our house specialty.”

  “Right.” The latte was warm and smelled rich, not like the watered-down coffee that Chad brewed at home. I took a sip. “This is fantastic, thank you.”

  Nora waved me off and delivered the Americano to Elin. “That’s nothing. Come by the shop tomorrow and I’ll have one of the kids do a pour-over for you.”

  I didn’t want to ask what a pour-over was. “Sounds great.” I took another long sip of the creamy latte. “Usually I’m more of a tea fan, but I might have to switch allegiances if Demitasse’s coffee is this good. How long have you owned the coffee shop?”

  Nora wrinkled her brow. She and Elin looked to be about the same age, but that was where the similarity ended. Nora was short and slightly plump. Her hair was dyed platinum blond and cut in a cropped spiky style. She wore a black leather jacket and knee-high black boots. She could pass as Pink’s mother. “How long have I been here, Elin?” she asked. “Seven, eight years, maybe?”

  Elin nodded. “That sounds about right.”

  “I’ve heard all about you, Britta. You aunt is so excited to have you here. We all are.” She winked at Elin. “I’ve been telling her to hire help for years now. You couldn’t have picked a better time to come home.”

  “I’m happy to be home.” I smiled. That was true, but I wondered how much Elin had said about why I was back.

  Elin removed the lid from her Americano and took a sip. She caught my eye and gave me a slight nod. I hoped that meant she hadn’t said much. Not that it mattered, but I didn’t want to have to go through a lengthy explanation about my cheating husband to everyone I met. At least not yet.

  “It will be good to have another set of eyes up front here.” Nora’s expression shifted. “Have you heard anything more from you know who?”

  “No.” Elin’s lips tightened.

  “I thought I saw his delivery truck earlier,” Nora continued, but Elin gave her head a quick shake as if to signal Nora to stop talking. Nora looked surprised, but shrugged and dropped the subject. She glanced at her watch. “Listen girls, I’ve got to jet, but enjoy the coffee and be sure to come by tomorrow.”

  With that she waved as Elin and I called “tack,” in unison.

  “What was that about?” I asked after Nora left.

  “It’s nothing.” Elin busied herself stringing more wire around the structure of the hoop skirt. “Another florist in town who is trying to get under my skin. But it’s nothing to worry about. We have much to do and must keep our focus on the flowers.”

  I dropped the subject but couldn’t help wondering if there was more to the story. I knew Elin didn’t want to worry me, and yet if there wasn’t anything to worry about why had she cut Nora off like that? For more reasons than my own well-being and sanity I was glad to be back in Portland. My aunt wasn’t telling me everything, but we had time. I would—as Nora had suggested—keep my eyes open and find a way to get Elin to open up about whatever was going on between her and a rival florist.

  Chapter Three

  I spent the next two weeks taking extensive notes on Elin’s process, customer order forms, delivery schedules, and the other details of running a successful floral boutique. By the time we called it quits every evening, my head was swimming and my hands were clammy. I felt a rush of excitement that I hadn’t experienced in years mixed with a gnawing anxiety that there was no way I was going to be able to do this. The launch party was three days away and we were kicking things off with a soft opening for Blomma’s best customers tomorrow night. There was so much more to be done before the soirée. Blomma was practically swimming in arrangements, boxes upon boxes of floral jewelry, and mounds of garland decorations.

  Elin didn’t appear fazed, despite my insistence that I wasn’t sure I could manage the shop on my own. I attributed her confidence to our Scandinavian roots. Swedes tend to be a bit more stoic. Not in a negative way. More like in a highly capable way. Maybe it was due to the climate of Sweden—the arctic winters and long dark days bred a steadfast resilience in its people. Chad had accused me of being standoffish and cold. I used to wonder if he was right, but watching Elin made me realize it just might be my genetics. Except that internally I was freaking out.

  Nora interrupted my thoughts when she danced into the shop on the day before our soft opening. “Fika!” she called, entering through the roll-up garage door. “I thought you might need your daily coffee fix, girls.”

  Elin placed her shears on the countertop and momentarily abandoned a sherbet centerpiece with pops of fresh mint and blackberries. It looked good enough to eat.

  While I might have been craving raspberry sherbet, settling on Nora’s latte certainly was no mere consolation prize.

  “Are you all set for tonight?” Nora asked, of
fering each of us a coffee.

  “Yes.”

  She paused and looked at me. “You’re probably exhausted after the past couple weeks. I’m happy to run you home before the meeting.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, holding up the frothy latte. “Especially after this. I’ll be awake for hours. What meeting? I thought the soft opening was tomorrow night?”

  Nora ran her fingers through her funky hair. “We’re having the Riverplace Village business owners’ meeting here tonight. Your aunt kindly agreed to let us use the store.” She glanced to the wall of wine. “It’s a good thing you have plenty of wine on hand. We’re going to need it. I have a feeling things are going to get intense.”

  “Why? I thought everyone in the village got along well.” The latte tasted better with each sip. I wondered if Nora had added an extra shot. The espresso flavor was intense, but without any bitterness. If Nora kept stopping by with coffee my tea-drinking days were going to be a thing of the past.

  Nora shook her head. “We do. Well, most of us.” Rolling her heavily lined eyes, she made a face and picked up a sprig of mint. “Except for Frank Jaffe.”

  I looked to Elin, who nodded in agreement. Could Frank Jaffe be the rival florist that Nora had alluded to a while ago? “What business does Frank own?”

  “He doesn’t. He owns a real estate firm, Jaffe and Associates.” She locked eyes with Elin and scowled. “He thinks he owns all of us. He wants to bulldoze Riverplace Village and put up luxury condos. Portland has tough land-use laws, and waterfront property is hard to come by. He’s dangling a bunch of cash in front of us in hope that he can get the association to sell.”

  “You wouldn’t sell, though, would you?” I turned to Elin. I was surprised that she hadn’t mentioned anything about Frank Jaffe since I’d been back.

  “This?” She motioned to the cottage workspace. “Not for a million dollars. I’ve put so much work into this space. Blomma is my life.”

  Nora chimed in. “None of us are going to sell. We’ve told Frank Jaffe he can stick it where the sun don’t shine—if you know what I mean—about a hundred times. He needs the entire Riverplace Village Business Association to agree, and none of us have any intention of selling. He just can’t seem to get that through his thick skull.”