Chapter Text
Sophie had just solved a month-long mystery. She didn’t know if she wanted to celebrate or scream. Unable to decide on an appropriate response, she plopped herself down behind her sleek glass checkout counter and glowered at the new storefront across the street.
A month prior, people had begun showing up at her flower shop, inquiring about inexplicable appointments—appointments she was sure she hadn’t made. Sophie kept a meticulously detailed day planner, and none of the mystery appointments matched any of the dates penciled into her eco-leather notebook. She had checked both the calendar and the day-by-day sections—she liked the day planners that had both, since she wanted to see all her appointments more broadly, the general arch of them, but also wanted the daily ruled sections in order to take down client notes or write to-do lists as needed. But her first, second, and triple-check amounted to the same thing: nothing. Her day planner contained the answers to almost all of life’s questions, but apparently not the answer to her mystery floral shop visitors.
The first time it happened, it was a sixty something woman dressed in expensive clothes. When the bell tinkled and she looked up, her mood soured on sight. A sour mood wasn’t exactly unusual for Sophie, but it was usually reserved for this woman’s ilk—wealthy and pushy.
The woman power walked to the counter and planted her hands on the glass. She surveyed the open, sunny storefront filled with early spring blooms—there were gads of flowers in here, but she was especially proud of her King Protea, sweet pea, and heather arrangement, and had made several nearly identical bouquets of them. Sophie gazed at them lovingly for a moment until the woman man cleared his throat. The customer’s confidence had dimmed slightly since entering the shop, replaced with a growing confusion. It budded on her face, intensifying the few wrinkles on her face. She swiped her hand through her neatly trimmed grey hair.
“I’m your two o’clock?”
It was a question. Sophie knew the woman wasn’t used to being unsure of herself. She braced for a rude exchange. Women like that didn’t like to be off-balance. She knew because she often sold them flowers for various events they hosted, and interactions often went south.
“I’ll double check, but I think my only appointment today was with my supplier at five.” She saw the woman’s eyebrows rise infinitesimally, so she added, for emphasis, “In the morning. Five in the morning was my first and last meeting for the day.”
The woman shook her head. “There must be some mistake.” She pulled out the latest model iPhone. “See here, you sent a text reminder of the appointment. That’s where I confirmed.” She jabbed at the screen.
Sophie took in what was plainly an automated text message, and her surety that this woman was in the wrong place increased.
“Yeah, so, I’m so sorry, but this looks like a confirmation for a hair appointment at a salon.”
“I take it this is not, in fact, a luxury styling shop, then?” She said luxury styling shop like she was correcting Sophie’s use of salon—and also like she might be hopelessly dense.
Irritation flared in Sophie’s belly.
“That’s correct.” The younger woman gestured around her at what could not more plainly be a flower shop, the movement broad enough to encompass and at the sign out front that read Stems in gold lettering. Martha had done a beautiful job. “I’m a florist, and this is a flower shop. Where I sell flowers.” Okay, so she shouldn’t have added the last bit, but really. Sometimes--often, actually--the customer was not in fact right.
“Well, this is the listed address of Oz.”
“Of what?”
“Oz. The new luxury barber shop in town.”
“Again, this is a flower shop. I can call around about the location of your luxury styling shop, though. I know a lot of business owners in town—we pride ourselves in our community connections here at Stems.” It was never the wrong moment to hype her business.
The woman’s mouth tightened. Okay, maybe now was the wrong moment to hype her business.
“This is the listed address of Oz,” the woman said. She turned his phone screen to her again. Sophie tried not to roll her eyes. “Look, on both my map apps, it’s listed as 32 Couch Ave.” Sophie blinked at the screen, frowned. Hovering right over her flower shop was a location marker. It read, quite plainly, Oz Color and Cut. She leaned in. That couldn’t be right. Where was her shop?
“Zoom in,” she demanded. Mercifully, the woman did. Her shop appeared, and she sighed in relief. At least her location was probably still searchable. Still, the other spot overlaid on her location was strange. She’d have to make some calls.
But in the next month, she’d made many calls, to no effect. She had no explanation and no solution. Folk waltzed into her shop over and over, looking for a haircut—an expensive one, by the sounds of it. Gads of women and a few men traipsed in and out of her shop. A few more middle-aged women (usually blonde—what was with that?) gave her a real hassle, but she talked her feelings out to her ferns in the atrium out back and managed, somehow—impossibly—to keep her cool.
By the hot day in mid-May when the sign went up across the street, she was well and truly and thoroughly fed up. Oz Color and Cut, it said. Two construction workers hoisted the sign above a sleek, modern awning. They made more noise than any two people ought, and she was irritable. But then, that likely had more to do with her broken air conditioner than the sound of the power tools.
She mopped her brow and looked miserably at her inventory. She’d called Bryce’s Heating & Cooling over two hours ago. Bouquets were beginning to droop in the heat. So was she. Sophie padded to a display and grabbed a particularly pathetic arrangement. She took it to the back to pour it some fresh, cool water.
“Hang in there, little buddy,” she said to a slumping snapdragon. “He never takes this long. He’ll fix the A/C soon.”
Just then she heard a male voice from the front room. She must not have her heard the bell tinkle with the water running.
“Hello? Hello? Howell, I’m h—”
She passed through the curtain separating the two rooms and caught sight of a bewildered kid in the doorway. He held a giant cardboard box in his arms, readjusting it every few seconds as it slipped down the front of his body. Bryce sent a new hire then. Not ideal, especially since this boy couldn’t be out of high school yet, but she trusted whoever Bryce trusted. He was the best HVAC tech in all of Market Chipping—probably the whole county, really.
“Hi?” the kid said. “You must be—”
“Sophie, yes,” Sophie interrupted as Michael said what might have been the receptionist. She bristled but said instead, “You’re late.” She didn’t have time for pleasantries today. But at her words, Michael wilted like her tulips. She relented a little. He seemed sweet enough, with a soft voice and uncertain air. “Here, you can follow me to the back. Bad day for an A/C unit to break, huh? What’s your name, honey?”
“Umm, Michael. I’m Michael. It is pretty hot in here. Did he not have the A/C installed yet? I told him that was important. No one wants to sit for a half hour in this heat.”
Sophie gave Michael a look. “Yeah, Bryce installed it two years ago.” Back when she’d first opened up shop. “It’s just…broken?” They arrived at the unit in her back room. She shoved a stool piled with roses aside and stepped back, hands on her hips.
“Before you ask, it’s not the filter. It might be a refrigerant leak? I’m not really sure. Guess that’s why you’re here.” She gave him a smile. The boy sighed. He plunked his box down, the motion laden with defeat.
“So he wants me to fix the air conditioner unit?”
Sophie tried not to scream.
“Um, yes. I’d assume.”
Michael shook his head. “Of course he does.”
Sophie thought Yes, exactly. Of course your employer, the owner of a heating and cooling company, wants you to fix my A/C. She remembered how deflated he looked when she mentioned his lateness and didn’t share her thoughts.
“Right so. I’ll leave you to it.” She stayed planted there, though, with her hands on her hips, feeling that Michael still needed something from her. My lanta, kids these days.
Michael plopped onto the floor next to his box and began to pull items out. He gave the A/C unit a hard look.
“Okay, so the outside bit is the…condenser, I think,” he said. Sophie made a strangled noise. What had Bryce been thinking? Michael pulled out a pair of scissors—they looked cruelly sharp--and began unscrewing something on the A/C unit. Something meowed and she screamed. Michael had the decency to look sheepish when a black cat leapt gracefully out of the box and onto the stool. It perched imperiously in the roses.
“Sophie, meet Cal. He’s kinda mean—” the cat hissed— “but an incredibly intelligent and handsome fellow. He goes anywhere Howell does.” The cat looked mollified. Sophie made a mental note to strangle Bryce when she saw him next and wondered vaguely if Howell was another new addition at Bryce’s Heating & Cooling.
Michael shoved the left corner of the unit and it made a doleful plunking noise.
Sophie backed out of the room before she entirely lost it. The cat slunk out with her.
“You can’t just show up for repairs like that,” she told it in a whisper. “It’s not your fault, but it’s really unprofessional.”
She could have sworn cat glared at her. It hopped on the check-out counter and stretched its body across the cool glass. Sophie sighed, and pressed her cheek to the counter too. She supposed she couldn’t begrudge another creature a bit of cool on a day like this.
The bell attached to the door tinkled and she sat up, her cheek peeling from the counter as if reluctant to give up the cold. She hoped the glass hadn’t made her cheek red and that it didn’t look like she had been napping on the job. Sophie was so absorbed in that thought—in how embarrassing and lax that would seem to a customer—that when she looked up, it took her a moment to process the staggering beauty of the man who stepped into her shop. He was tall and lean in a way that was more lithe than slight. Light hair fell onto his forehead in a careful tumble. He brushed a strand from his eyes. Oh god. His eyes. They were a frosted green, and alight with humor. They were calm, cocksure eyes. She thought that word, cocksure, and felt immediately flustered, despite the fact that the word meant nothing sexual.
“Hi,” Sophie squeaked more than said. “Can I help you?” That was a bit better.
He smiled. “I’m sure you can. Did Michael step in here?”
Sophie smoothed a hand over the fabric of her tank top. “Um, yeah. He’s actually out back.” Sophie jabbed a finger toward the back room and confusion clouded the man’s face and he opened his mouth to respond.
Before he could, Cal leapt from the register to a display counter. He pawed at a bouquet there.
“Cal, you leave my anemones be, do you hear?” She used her most stern voice, which was really quite stern. The cat gave her a look. “Down,” she insisted. Cal jumped from the counter to the man’s feet just as he went to disentangle the cat from her display.
The cat looked at her archly.
The man looked at her in awe.
“He never listens to me. He never listens to anyone.” He grinned, delighted.
“Yes, well.” Sophie wasn’t sure what to say. Get that cat the hell out of my shop?
“You know his name, so I assume you’ve met,” said the beautiful man.
Michael popped through the door at her back, startling Sophie. He had his box under his arm now, so he must be finished. She hadn’t heard him approach.
“They have,” Michael said. “Please get Cal the hell out of the shop.” Bless him. “You shouldn’t’a put him in the to-the-shop box, I didn’t realize he was with me until I was half way to Market Chipping.” Howell opened his (perfect) mouth, but Michael threw up a hand to stop his reply. “I thought we talked about this. He’ll scare customers off, and some people are allergic. And Howell,” Michael flung his arms out, “what is with all the flowers? Where are the chairs and mirrors?”
Sophie was indignant. “Well, what should I display? I’m a florist.”
Michael blinked. Howell stared a moment and then asked calmly, “You didn’t think this was Oz, did you, Michael?” Michael looked aghast. “I—I mean, my GPS said that…” He took in the room. He saw, for the first time, apparently, the sign out front. The one that didn’t say Oz. Then he looked past it, directly across the street to the one that did. It was plain on his face the moment he absorbed it.
“Damn, How. We did it. She looks good.” He blinked again. “Wow, the sign looks so fucking great.” He started talking in an excited rush. “I knew this wasn’t right. It didn’t look anything like the progress shots, and I knew you’d never put so many flowers out—” Sophie felt defensive “—and she was all, fix the A/C, which was fine, not the weirdest thing you’ve asked me to do but yeah, wow, of course this isn’t Oz.” He stared lovingly across the street. Sophie looked between the boy and the man. She was still thoroughly confused.
She turned on Michael. “So you’re not from Bryce’s Heating and Cooling?”
He said “Ummm,” while Howell began to laugh.
She tried again. “Are you here for the salon across the street? Because it’s not open yet, but I think the internet says it is, and for some reason the internet also thinks 32 Couch Ave—so like, right here—is the address for that swanky, super-not-open salon. I’m always turning people with hair appointments away.” She’d said this in kind of a rush, but finished quietly, suddenly aware that the men were staring at her.
Howell ended the silence smoothly. “Ah, yeah. That would be my bad. I’m the owner of that swanky, super-not-open-salon. I must have accidentally opened our website for booking a month early.” He winced deprecatingly. “And I definitely listed the wrong address for Oz. Know that one for sure, but I wasn’t sure how to fix it so.” He shrugged, as if to say, you know how it is. But Sophie didn’t. She really didn’t.
Because there it was. Mystery solved. Question answered. This Howell had incorrectly listed his address and caused her a month of hassle, and now here he stood, not seeming very remorseful, or really at all inclined to rectify the situation. Sophie cleared her throat slowly. She breathed in. Michael looked suddenly very interested in his shoes.
“You’re telling me,” Sophie said slowly, “that you have known for a month that you input the wrong address for your business and that, in fact, this was the address of another business and you never thought to call said business, whose number is readily available online?” Her voice climbed an octave from the beginning to the end of her question.
Howell looked insulted. “I didn’t know for a month. I just figured it out last week.”
“Oh my god.” Sophie clapped a hand to her head. “I don’t know if that’s better or worse. You’re really the owner of Oz?”
“You say Oz like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m just saying, what kind of name is Oz for a hair salon?”
“Well, first of all—and I let it go earlier to be nice, but since you brought it up—Oz is a luxury styling shop, not a salon, and not a barber shop.” Sophie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like ha, but he ignored her and said, “And second, it’s Oz because I’m a wizard with hair, see.” He gestured toward his gorgeous blonde head.
Sophie gaped at him. “You do know that the Wizard of Oz turns out to be a fraud right?”
Howell looked affronted, but also a bit rattled.
“Oh. My. Lanta.” Sophie laughed for the first time all day. “You didn’t know. Ohmylanta, ohmylanta.”
Michael could no longer feign interest in his shoes and now looked like he would rather fix a hundred A/Cs in ninety degree weather than stay for this conversation.
Howell drew himself up, trying to look dignified. “Michael, Cal, come on. We’re leaving this mean lady.”
Michael looked sheepishly at Sophie, but she wasn't deceived. She knew he would give a boyishly chubby left arm for the interaction to end. He inched toward Howell as if Sophie might seize him to make a point. To be fair, this man made her feel like there was no depth of petty to which she would not sink to prove a point. When she didn’t stage a kidnapping, Michael sighed happily and waved when he reached the door. Cal curled around Howell’s ankles twice as he swept them all onto her stoop. Howell turned before the door had eased shut completely and said over one perfect, surprisingly broad shoulder, “Literally no one says oh my lanta. Goodbye, Sophie.”
And good riddance, she finished as the door swung shut with a silvery note. She watched the three figures disappear into the severe black shop across the street.
Sophie folded her arms and told a daffodil, “He hasn’t heard the last of this.”