Chapter 1
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.”
Copyright © 2021 by Jess Dylan.
