Light Me Up. Isabel Sharpe

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      Shrugging, she poured a cup of coffee and wandered out of the bakery, stopping to peer into the window of the business opposite, Bonnie Blooms. Beautiful shop, flowers everywhere, arranged in buckets at different levels, like a floral jungle.

      Gretchen was in such sticker shock over florists’ prices, she was ready to give up on flowers except for a bridal nosegay of daisies. As if! Melissa would check this place out. If the owner could produce a nice, relatively inexpensive bouquet, the shop might be a good candidate for her sister’s limited-budget wedding.

      She approached the counter and smiled at the shop’s proprietor, whose red hair was set off dramatically by a yellow-and-black bumble-bee-striped minidress.

      “Hi, there, can I help you?” The woman returned Melissa’s smile, then blinked, looking surprised, then slightly puzzled.

      Oh, no. Not her, too.

      “I’d like a mixed bouquet—whatever you think looks nice.”

      “Okay. Sure.” She hadn’t stopped staring long enough to blink. “How much did you want to spend?”

      “About twenty dollars.”

      “Coming right up.” The woman backed toward a bucket to her left and was reaching for a rose, when her attention was caught by something across the hall, toward or in the bakery, Melissa couldn’t see. The woman froze for a moment, eyebrows lifted, peeked back to find Melissa watching her and jerked her head away.

      What the hell was going on in this place? “Is something wrong?”

      “No. No. Sorry.” She laughed nervously. “I … thought I knew you.”

      “Seems to be a lot of that going on around here.”

      “No, no.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “I was mistaken. You, um, look like someone we used to know.”

      “We?”

      “Angela.” She gestured to Melissa’s paper bag. “At the bakery. I’m Bonnie. We, uh, went to college with someone who looked freakily like you.”

      “Okay.” That was more comforting than the devil-cult explanation, but Bonnie hadn’t sounded quite convinced, so Melissa wasn’t, either. “I went to Pacific University in Oregon.”

      “Definitely not you, then!” She laughed awkwardly. “Have a look around. I’ll just be a minute.”

      “Sure.” Melissa meandered through the shop, stopping to inhale over a blossom here and there, the soft fragrances enhancing her temporary inner peace. Really a lovely place. And Bonnie seemed pleasant and anxious to please, apart from the weird staring incident. Her talent remained to be seen.

      “All set. Here you go.”

      “That was fast.” Melissa returned to the counter and caught her breath. The bouquet surpassed her expectations. Hardly a skimpy bunch of carnations and baby’s breath, the assortment was lush, full and gorgeously shaded with the burgundies and pinks of Peruvian lilies, a few exquisite roses and pale greenish-yellow tightly bunched flowers Melissa didn’t recognize. If she had to guess how much it cost, she would have said twice what she’d asked to spend. “Oh, how beautiful.”

      “Enjoy it.” Bonnie rang up the purchase, adding one of her cards to the bouquet. Only eighteen dollars and change. Gretchen could have herself a very talented florist here.

      “Thank you.” Melissa buried her face in the delicately scented blooms as she walked out, glancing farther down the hall then at her watch. She had about fifteen minutes before she’d need to get her car, drive to work, shower quickly in the company exercise room and deal with a rather fishy sexual harassment complaint. It was the third one from Bob Whatsisname in three years, as if he was really desperate to be sexually harassed and hadn’t been able to get anyone to cooperate yet. But having finally stepped into Come to Your Senses after passing it so many times, she was curious to check out the building’s other occupants.

      Past the flower shop she came to a photography studio: Jack Shea. In his front window hung wedding pictures, anniversaries, graduation shots—the usual, but with a creativity that set them apart. A bride caught in profile descending a medieval-looking curving stone staircase, a graduate in mid–celebratory leap. Melissa lingered at the window, drawn to the images. Gretchen should definitely check him out, too, though he’d likely be too expensive.

      She moved to the other side of the entrance and encountered a picture in a completely different style. Horrifying, disturbing, but also incredibly powerful, with a poignancy that kept her riveted for far longer than she could usually stand still. The photo was a close-up of a naked back on which a network of cracks had been superimposed, like those on asphalt or an eggshell, so that the skin looked as if it was scarred or about to disintegrate. Melissa stood for a long time absorbing the extraordinary concept and the strong emotions the image evoked.

      It seemed hardly possible this work of art was by the same person who’d done the sweet celebration pictures opposite. Melissa peered curiously into the studio, unwilling to venture inside since she had to get to work. But she should at least pick up Jack Shea’s card, even if he was out of their pathetic price range. Gretchen had been fine with the idea of passing out disposable cameras to the guests to take photos of the ceremony and reception. Melissa wanted her sister to have something better to frame.

      She took a step inside, feeling as if she were trespassing, though a sign hung on the door said Open. Another step, her soft-soled sneakers making no noise. On one back wall hung more wedding, baby and family portraits. On the other, more of the artsy style, including the distant rear view of a lone figure on a pier staring out at the ocean beyond him, nothing but gray-blue sky, gray-blue water and his questioning solitude. Again, she was mesmerized, taking in the image for an endless moment, feeling called to something she couldn’t name.

      A noise from the back made her jump. Through the open doorway she saw a line of hanging prints, which seemed to be of—

      The sound of a chair scraping across the floor distracted her. Was that Jack Shea? She felt unaccountably nervous, almost guilty, as if she’d been caught prying into his private life.

      Footsteps approached. Melissa tried to picture him. The wedding images were so fresh and vibrant, full of hope—Jack would be a younger man. Except the depth and pain in the torso images pointed to more life experience than a young man would generally—

      He appeared in the doorway.

      Oh.

      For a good five seconds they stared at each other.

      Jack Shea, if this was Jack Shea, was not the weird, skinny young man she’d pictured, nor was he the bearded Bohemian child-of-the-sixties. This guy was …

      Well, she’d just say her yoga-calm was in serious trouble.

      Brown eyes, brown hair, nothing particularly thrilling to describe. But what he did for those brown eyes, which jumped straight into hers, and the brown hair, tousled sexily like a rock star’s, set off all kinds of electrical reactions. Add to that broad shoulders straining the seams of a maroon T-shirt that showed off the solid planes of his chest and highlighted firm biceps and trim jeans-covered hips.

      Yum. And wow. Melissa did not generally respond СКАЧАТЬ