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Bloomed to Be Messy

By Dineen Miller

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“Wait…can you read that part again?” Sitting in a lawyer’s office on a Saturday afternoon is not what I call fun. And neither would my Aunt Paula. But here we are, just two weeks after her sudden departure from the living and one week after the funeral.
My aunt’s lawyer, Mr. Tate, clears his throat as he shuffles papers on his desk. “You have to run the business for one year before you can sell or close it.”
“From what date?” One needs to be clear on these things, right? Because, if I’m understanding things correctly, this is about to mess with my plans.
Big time.
He checks the document again. “The date of her death.”
I bounce forward in my high-backed chair and slap down the top of the pages so I can see the proverbial fine print. “Well, look at that. Says from the day of her death.”
“That’s correct.” In lawyer-y fashion, he shakes the papers back up. “Shall I continue?”
“Yes, please. Sorry.” I give him a grin-like grimace and shrug.
As Mr. Tate continues to read the stipulations of the will, sunlight streams through the bay window to my right, warming the right side of my body. I turn to gaze out at the bustle of this small Florida beach town that moves with the ebb and flow of tourism.
Mango Lane runs the entirety of downtown Sarabella and is known for its quaint shops and bistros that are mostly comprised of converted houses originally built around the turn of the twentieth century. Along with a close-knit community, the business district here shares a special camaraderie that hasn’t changed much in twenty years.
By the way, mangos are to Sarabella, Florida, as garlic is to Gilroy, California.
Big.
We even have a festival in the fall that boasts foods made out of mangos that you never imagined possible, like mango wine and savory mango fries made from green mangos. And the tourists make sure to arrive in time to attend this event that draws vendors, from all over the state of Florida and beyond, who sell their wares.
Being back here brings a flood of memories. Mostly good. Some not so much.
I left several years ago to pursue my own dreams, convinced my days of living under swaying palms and my mother’s brow-raising reputation were over. Yet now I’m yanked back by Aunt Paula, whom I adored, but she always had a unique gift of meddling.
Yes, I’m calling it a gift. Otherwise, I’d stomp out of the lawyer’s office, refusing to take over the flower business my aunt has so graciously willed to me—a ready-made business that has nothing to do with my dreams of being a communications and product designer in the Big Apple, something I’d imagined since being a high school senior in art club. Plus, New York had one of the best art schools in the country.
I could cite Mad Men as part of what cultivated my interest in the advertising world, but it only fueled it. In reality, Aunt Paula is to blame for that one because her father—whom I never had the pleasure to meet—was a real live Don Draper in his day. He even had the same first name!
Thus, I grew up listening to her stories about him and his life as an ad man in NYC that bordered on the scandalous at times. So in reality, she helped set the trajectory of my life, even though she would never have admitted it.
Not that I wanted to do something scandalous. I just wanted more. More adventure and excitement, to see more of this big wide world I lived in. And more distance from my mother’s notoriety, which never seems to fade when you live in a place with people who have long memories and sometimes loose tongues.
And finally—the final decider—I wanted out of this beach town that hummed half of the year and slept the other.
Mr. Tate’s throat clearing snaps me back to the present.
I give him a smile to reassure him I’m listening. Well, half listening. Most of what he’s relaying now has to do with his law firm’s involvement in the handling of the will, so I’ll just go back to justifying my decision to get out of Dodge nine years ago and reminisce about how well things have worked out.
Well…mostly…
When I moved to New York to go to art college, I figured the Big Apple had room for one more designer. So did my former classmate and current roommate, Sasha, who’s more of a fine artist. And since graduation, we’ve managed to scrape by (not starving, mind you) in a tiny two-bedroom walk-up. Not exactly ideal for creating art, let me tell you.
I’m still more of a production assistant at this point, and Sasha has to work on her paintings on the fire escape, which leaves a lot to be desired but makes cleanup very easy. As long as the downstairs neighbor doesn’t happen to be outside at the moment. That’s a story I relish telling at any and all opportunities.
But we’ve persevered, sustained mostly by the belief that our next break was just around the corner. Which one? We had no clue. We just kept turning those corners as they came. Early on, we lived mostly on ramen noodles, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the fancy appetizers at the art shows I frequented with Sasha. Plus, the occasional event my boss needed me to help him schmooze old and new clients.
Over time, Sasha and I have upgraded our menu and splurge on an occasional night out on the town. Not exactly how I imagined my life would look at this point, but it is what it is, right?
“Ms. Wilde, do you have any other questions?” My aunt’s lawyer blinks at me through his designer glasses as he neatens the stack of papers in front of him. He sits behind a broad desk with a stack of folders on one end, an overflowing inbox on the other, and a wall of books behind him that appears rather dusty on the upper shelves. Just like his head.
“Did I understand you correctly, her condo is mortgage free?”
He shuffles through a separate stack of papers on his desk. “That’s correct. Just the property taxes due at the end of the year, and the monthly HOA fee.”
Mr. Tate clears his throat before giving exact figures with his official lawyer expression of authority. I had no idea how pricy living in this beach town had become, which has sprouted and expanded quite a bit in the last five years alone. Not so sleepy anymore, it seems. I do a quick calculation in my head. Less than what I pay for my half of the rent in New York but not by as much as you’d think.
He continues reading where he left off, but my mind has flitted to yet another thought.
“Any stipulations about selling it?” Even I can hear the edge of desperation trying to peek its way out in my voice. Maybe Aunt Paula’s meddling—I mean generosity, of course—could be used to my advantage for once.
And the way Mr. Tate raises one brow tells me he knows exactly where I’m headed with this. “Once the transfer of ownership is complete, it’s yours to do with as you wish. But if you don’t mind a word of advice?”
“Yours or Aunt Paula’s?”
“Mine.”
I give him a nod.
“Sarabella has grown a lot in the years you’ve been away. Property is valued at an all-time high, but that has thrust rental prices through the roof as well. A one-bedroom apartment would cost you more than twice the HOA fees on your aunt’s place.”
Okay, closer to New York rates than I thought. “So, keep the condo?”
Now his other brow rises to create a uniform, fur-lined wrinkle in his brow. “You need a place to live, don’t you?”
Boxed in again by my crafty aunt. She always did have an interesting sense of humor that tended to break the rules of decorum but in very subtle ways. To meet her was to be immediately enchanted by her Savannah-born and raised southern charm. The woman knew how to get people to do what she thought was best for them. All out of love, she would tell you. But despite that somewhat irritating trait (only because she was usually right), she was one of the strongest and noblest people I’ve ever met.
Mr. Tate clears his throat again.
Clearly, he’s trained his guttural sounds and facial muscles from years of lawyering. (And yes, that’s a word. I looked it up.)
“Any other questions?”
“No, just trying to figure out what my aunt is up to.”
He gives me a knowing smile that tells me he knew Aunt Paula better than most. “Paula always had a mission.”
“That’s one way of saying it.”
Mr. Tate either didn’t hear my mumble or chooses to ignore me as he slides a set of keys across his desk. “These are to the store and her condo.”
I hook the ring on my finger and count five keys. “That only accounts for two keys.”
“Paula loved a good mystery, too.”
I drop the keys into my bag as I stand and extend my hand. “Thank you, Mr. Tate. I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but the verdict is still out on that.” I smile and give him a short laugh so he’ll know it’s nothing personal. I know who’s still pulling the strings in this scenario, even if she’s watching from the heavens she so dearly loved.
After shaking my hand, Mr. Tate comes from behind his desk to walk me out. He’s taller than I realized and towers a good ten inches above me. And I’m not short. Now I understand why he’s seated in his family picture that sits on the shelf behind his desk. The camera would have been hard-pressed to fit his wife and kids without him looking like a giant.
“I’m here if you need anything. Paula was very special to my family, as well as the firm. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, Mandy.”
“Amanda, please.” What I don’t say is that since my mother, born Josephine Wilde, hijacked my nickname to create her stage name, Mandy Wild, I preferred not to bring her up at all in this scenario. But knowing my aunt as I do—did—Mr. Tate is probably aware of our history to some degree.
He blinks and drops his gaze. “Of course. I forgot…” He clears his throat and his gray sideburns stand out against the blush darkening his cheeks. “Whatever you need, I’m happy to help…Amanda.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tate. I’m sure I’ll be in touch.”
I leave the Law Offices of Tate and Tate, which makes me think of the expression ‘tit for tat’—a phrase that aptly describes this scenario. My aunt’s scheme could very well be her way of telling me moving to New York was a mistake, which at this point in my life, I could be persuaded to see it that way if she were still alive and having this conversation with me.
But she’s not and now I’m a prisoner in her little scheme for the next year or more. The next task on my agenda is to let my roommate know that I’ll be gone for a while. Maybe she can sublet my room.
And then?
Check out the flower shop I now own and am required to run successfully for an entire year.

* * *

As I walk up the steps and unlock the back door of the shop, I’m transported to the past and the fragrant memory of flowers and greenery. I spent most days after school helping Aunt Paula at the shop and always had a guaranteed job during the summer, which was a mixed bag of love and hate. As in, loved having money to spend at the movies or at the mall but hated being stuck at the shop, working while my friends hung out at the beach.
But as I open the door, the putrid stench of rotted flowers assaults me, making me gag. Seems things have been neglected much longer than anyone realized. And let me tell you, the smell of rotting greenery is like none other.
The culprit is a large garbage can of discarded flowers and clippings that clearly never made it to the dumpster before Aunt Paula’s sudden departure. With my hand over my mouth and nose, I drag the can outside, walk a few steps away, and inhale the humid mid-morning air that carries a hint of the beach in its scent.
For a moment I’m tempted to lock the door and head in that direction—to the beach and deal with whatever else lurked in the flower shop of death tomorrow. But I’ve never been one to put off what I can get done today. Especially in light of the big picture. The sooner I get the place up and running again, the better my chances of making it through this next year so I can move on to my original plan. Maybe even with a financial cushion to give me more time to make NYC notice my creative talents.
I snicker out loud at my own thoughts. What does that tell you?
“Mandy?”
I whip around and see a face that brings a flood of childhood memories that includes building sand castles on the beach and hanging out at the movie theatre on Friday nights. All the wonderful memories of growing up in Sarabella.
“Zane!” A flood of warm affection launches me into his bear hug.
“How are you doing?” He steps back but hangs onto my hands, giving me that look that requires only the truth. “I wanted to stop by sooner, but I had to fly out for a conference in California right after the funeral.”
Zane Albright is the quintessential surfer, who turned his childhood passion for the beach into a full-blown career. He worked as a lifeguard at Mango Key Beach straight out of high school. Not long after, he revamped the training program for the Sarabella County Lifeguards and now he’s Director of Operations.
“A conference full of lifeguards? That sounds like way more fun than a funeral.”
“Seriously, how are you?” Zane gives me his concerned, big brother look, which always made things seem better in high school. He’s also the only one who completely supported my dream of moving to New York.
“I’m okay.”
Overwhelmed by the concern I see in his eyes, I drop my chin, feeling the heavy weight of grief twisting around my neck like the string in my gym shorts caught in the dryer. I refuse to shed more tears over my aunt while I’m still wrangling the mess she’s left me to clean up.
Maybe it’s payback for all the years she wound up raising me while she waited for my mother—her little sister—to “hit it big” and come back to claim her daughter. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
His voice rumbles up in a deep baritone. “I know.”
I shield my eyes against the sun that’s now peeking over Zane’s sun-bleached head and blasting me with its brightness and heat. Sweat trickles down my back. Though nearing its end, summer is still very much present, as is the humidity.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the beach?” I finish my words with a laugh.
“Mom figured you’d need some help. She called me when you left Mr. Tate’s office.”
Sally is the owner of The Pink Hibiscus, a super cute clothing boutique, and has been my Aunt Paula’s best friend since they opened their shops around the same time. Supporting each other in their businesses translated into a close friendship in other areas of life, which meant Zane and I pretty much grew up together.
“How did she know when I left his office?” I know the answer to this question, but I still have to ask.
“She told him to call her when you left.”
The small town grapevine was alive and well in Sarabella. I look over my shoulder at the can of putrid death oozing its noxious smell like an evil gas looking for a new victim. Who knows what else lies in store for me inside? Maybe giant cockroaches have invaded and set up shop. Or one of those ornery raccoons Aunt Paula always complained about raiding the dumpster behind her shop because she shared it with Peppery Pete’s Wine and Cheese Shop.
Now there’s a rank smell in the summer.
Zane glances at his watch. “I can spare a couple of hours before I go on duty. How about I help you figure things out?”
Gratitude nearly brings me to tears again. “Thanks. I can really use the help.”
He winks at me before grabbing the garbage can and tipping it over into the dumpster. His face scrunches up as he turns his head away, revealing his pure disgust, which says a lot for a guy who’s had to deal with red tide and rotting fish.
Therefore, I am vindicated that I nearly barfed my own putridity at my first encounter with what shall forever be referred to as ‘The Can.’ God only knows—Him and my Aunt Paula, that is—what else lies in wait for me in the place.
Somehow having Zane’s help to navigate the unknown jungle inside boosts my lagging confidence that I might be able to handle what lies in store. In that store. I go back inside and scan the back room, which used to be a kitchen when the place was a residence. A plant cooler sits where a refrigerator used to go and a work counter and stool filled the place where a stove might have once stood.
At least that’s what I imagined as a child when I helped my aunt. The cabinets needed some paint and small repairs—one seemed to be missing its door—and smears of green, yellow, and red stained the wood table. Evidence of who knows how many floral arrangements crafted over the thirty-plus years my aunt owned the shop.
The storefront itself is spacious and thankfully free of giant cockroaches and angry raccoons. Aunt Paula didn’t have much set up display-wise, except for a rickety greeting card display near the counter, a bookshelf with various mugs and decorative pots displaying plant themes, and a table near the front door that touts several dead flower arrangements, an emaciated cactus, and a few orchids that still have blooms—the only things still living in the place.
Three glass-front coolers line the wall to the right, one unlit. The flowers and greenery in the buckets inside have either dried out or drooped over the sides. I can only imagine the stench waiting inside to greet me. Although the baby’s breath seems to have persevered.
Does baby breath ever die or does it just dry out?
Zane comes alongside me, toting the can he just emptied. “How about I empty the coolers while you water what’s still living over there?”
He must have seen the look of horror on my face as I stared at the contents. “Thanks. Not sure I can handle any more of that smell.”
I open the front door to create a cross breeze, giving up the air conditioning for some hot but fresh air. Outside, I turn around to look at the sign above the door.
Bloomed to Be Wilde.
If you’re thinking of the Steppenwolf song, you’re on target. My aunt loved that song. So much so she modeled the name of the flower shop after the title, using the spelling of our last name, which aptly describes the women in my family, it seems. Aunt Paula said it was the family motto, which my mother seemed to have lived up to in spades.
And here I stand, the new owner of her legacy.
I glance upward and sigh. Aunt Paula had to be loving this.

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