She? Grace thought. She’d taken him for gay. Apparently not. He was about forty, a little too old to be delusional or closeted. Straight, she decided. With some affectations?

“And the partner?”

“Gone. I looked into a forensic audit, an attorney, a detective, that sort of thing, but in the end I’d be throwing good money after bad. She got away with about a hundred thousand dollars that I’ll never get back and I had to let the store go. You obviously didn’t do a background check or you’d know—I lost it. That simple. I filed bankruptcy.”

She had looked at him, for as much as internet research could do. She’d noted the bankruptcy. After meeting him, nothing more seemed necessary. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Germain?” she asked, surprising herself.

“That would be so welcome,” he said, sighing with relief.

“Let me put the water on,” she said. She didn’t have to go far; she had a little electric kettle on her desk. She rinsed it, refilled it and turned it on before going back to him. “I have chamomile, Earl Grey, peppermint and green tea.”

“Peppermint would be great,” he said. Then he raised a brow and glanced at her round middle. “Stomach issues?” he asked.

“From time to time,” she said. “And your mother?”

“She passed a little over a year ago.”

“I’m so sorry. And your sister?”

“Melanie is a special-needs adult and my mother took responsibility for her. We’ve had a little bit of a struggle since my mother died.”

“I see. You’re right—the perfect storm.”

She went back to her desk and fixed him up a cup of tea. She put it in front of him and took her seat again.

“This is lovely,” he said, admiring the arrangement that took up a great deal of her worktable.

“Thanks. Listen, Mr. Germain,” she began.

“Ronaldo, please.”

“Ronaldo, I appreciate your courtesy in coming back, apologizing, explaining, but...”

“I know. You don’t need me now. Well, the thing is, whoever you hired might not work out and you’ll be looking again. If that should happen, I’ll probably still be available. My shop wasn’t the biggest or most important shop in the business, but we did well. And I loved working with flowers.”

“How are things going for you now?” she asked.

He took a sip of his tea. “Getting by pretty well actually. I had to sell my house but I’m living in my mother’s house. My sister is in a group home right now and she wants to come home so much. My hours at the coffee shop are crazy and she needs some supervision. She’s very functional, but she can’t live on her own. She will never live on her own. She needs routine, however, and I can’t keep her with me, change her schedule every week and expect her to adjust. And she calls me,” he said, adding a laugh. “And calls me and calls me and calls me.”

“Tell me about your shop,” she said.

And he did, from the day he bought it until the day he closed it. He talked about his biggest jobs, some of his regular customers, pictures of his work that had been published, whether purposely or because they happened to be in the photograph of a grand opening or wedding or other major event. When he’d been up and running for a couple of years his sister began to work for him. She was a wonderful organizer and helped him keep the shop clean. His customers loved her.

His sister had been the victim of a near-drowning accident when she was a young child, been without oxygen for too long and suffered serious brain damage. He was clearly devoted to her, if he was to be believed. Finding a good job in a flower shop didn’t materialize, but when he saw the ad for a manager, he thought he might be able to get back to flowers.

“I miss it,” he said. “I miss designing, unruffling the hysterical brides, placating the matrons whose parties I provided flowers for, the churches that came to me first, even the funerals that hoped for something special. I delivered and staged my own flowers...”

“So do I!” she said.

“I’m not letting anyone else set up my flowers, deliver my bouquets to events,” he returned enthusiastically. “Staging is half of it. A third, anyway.”

“Tell me something, Ronaldo—why don’t you move? Go to a bigger city? Portland would be good. San Francisco would be better. Somewhere a good florist can make real money.”

“There’s the magic word—money. Relocating like that can get expensive. But it’s emotional also. I’ve lived in Grants Pass my whole life and I’m not sure Melanie can cope with a move. Like it or not, even with a group home, I’m going to make sure Melanie has what she needs.”

“That’s a good brother,” she said.

“Have you lived in this little town a long time?” he asked.

“I came here to buy the store. I’d been looking for one. I worked in a shop in Portland, with good friends who trained me.” She rubbed her tummy. “Lifelong friends, really. I have to visit them before the baby comes.”

“And after. What brought you to the flower business, besides good friends?”

“A very difficult but in the end rewarding journey,” she said. And then she told him everything, beginning with once being a champion figure skater, an Olympian. He was thrilled by this; he loved to watch the skating. She explained about her exit from the stress, her flight to Thunder Point, falling in love with the hottest teacher at the high school, reconciliation with her mother who was here now. “A rich dowager who lives with us, or we with her, and this little shop is my haven. I love it. It means so much to me.”

She was completely oblivious to the time as they compared mothers, flower shops, friends, favorite work projects. And then the back door opened and Justin stepped inside. He grinned his lovely boyish grin. “You have my deliveries ready?” he asked.

“Justin!” She looked at her watch. “Oh, my God, I lost all track of time. Yes, yes—just about. There are five in the cooler and this one is nearly finished. I need five minutes.” She stood up. “Ronaldo, I enjoyed the conversation.”

“So did I,” he said. “If anything materializes for a florist...”

“Absolutely,” she said. Justin was taking the arrangements for delivery out the back door.