Tahira in Bloom Read online

  There was soil literally everywhere. Halfway up my legs. On my boots. In my boots. Some had even managed to get on my silk T-shirt. I spun to face the saboteur who’d done this to me. Or saboteurs, I should say, because two people were coming, a guy and a girl.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” the girl asked.

  I pointed at my feet. “No, I’m not okay! Look at my shoes. You two scared the crap out of me!”

  They’d reached me by then, and the guy scowled at me. “Are you serious? You’re worried about your shoes? Look at this mess!”

  I stepped out of the pile of soil. I could have cleaned the dirty plant water off my boots, but now, because of these two, they were completely ruined.

  I made an irritated noise and glared at the shoe wreckers. They both looked about my age, she was white and he was Black, and they were both wearing these short little green apron/tool-belt things that said WYNTER’S on them. The girl’s shirt had a cartoon rabbit with the phrase I WORK HARD FOR THE BUNNY under it, and the guy was wearing cutoff denim shorts and an even stranger T-shirt—pale orange, with a picture of a Stormtrooper mask made completely out of colorful flowers. Below the mask were the words, THESE AREN’T THE PLANTS YOU’RE LOOKING FOR.

  Where did these two buy their clothes? Was this the work uniform around here?

  But their faces were quite cute. Her lips were downturned with concern, but her eyes sparkled playfully. The long, curly auburn hair, fresh face, and happy eyes were all a bit . . . wholesome. She was very pretty but had kind of an Anne of Green Gables country vibe.

  The guy, well, he still had that killer scowl on his face.

  “Care to tell us what you’re doing here?” he asked.

  I tried to shake the dirt off my boots, but it was a lost cause. “I was trying to move this stuff so I could get a picture for my Instagram. You two work here?”

  The girl pointed at her apron. “Obviously.”

  I did kind of feel bad for them, both for those shirts and for the soil everywhere. “I’m sorry about this mess. I can help clean it up. And I’ll pay for the dirt—”

  “Can you not read?” Flower Stormtrooper Shirt asked, arms folded across his chest.

  I frowned. What was he talking about?

  He pointed at a sign that I hadn’t noticed on the wall of the barn. A camera and a phone with a red line through them.

  The redhead smirked. “I can help you decipher it—we keep the signs to a kindergarten-level comprehension. No pictures!”

  Okay, so maybe she wasn’t so wholesome after all. Anne of Green Gables in the novel had a temper, but she wasn’t mean.

  “I can’t take a picture of a wall?” I asked. “Is this place, like, IDK, a CIA front or something?”

  The girl snorted a laugh. “This is Canada! It would be CSIS, not CIA. However . . .” She peered at me through long lashes, pure mischief on her face. “I’m not denying anything.” She pinched her shirt and lifted it to her mouth, pretending there was a microphone in it. At least I thought she was pretending. “Code red. She’s onto us. The red bird has run out of seeds. I repeat, the red bird—”

  Flower Stormtrooper Guy smacked her arm. “Can you be serious right now?”

  I was in agreement—I wasn’t in the mood for this girl’s annoying brand of humor right now.

  “I can credit this place in my pictures to make it up to you,” I said. “I have over twenty thousand followers.”

  Flower Stormtrooper gave me a glassy stare. “Do you think we care how many mindless zombies you managed to attract with your bloated-ego thirst traps?”

  Wow. Way to rub salt in my wound. Or rather, dirt. I wasn’t posting pictures of myself on Instagram to make people desire me or something. I was building my brand.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  He waved his hands with agitation. “We’ve had enough of people like you coming out here to take pictures for your precious social media. We don’t need any more trampled lavender fields or beheaded roses. Last year someone took down a seven-foot sunflower stem outside the garden center when they grabbed it because a bird flapped near them. And now we have to clean up all this manure!”

  Sunflower stems were seven feet tall around here? After the parakeet thing, I kind of understood being afraid of a bird. But he was being rude. Even after I’d apologized. I offered to help clean up. I offered to pay for the spilled—wait, what?

  “What did you say this was?” I looked down.

  The redhead flipped her hair over her shoulder and smirked. “Sheep manure.”

  “Manure?” This was manure, not soil. Literally, shit. I closed my eyes.

  “I mean,” she continued, “it’s composted manure, so it’s mostly sterilized. C’mon, you look like the type to bathe in curated poop at one of those fancy spa places. Manure is no big deal.”

  Flower Stormtrooper scowled again. “It is a big deal that there is manure all over the gravel.”

  I glared at them sharply. “Can you stop saying that word?”

  The girl chuckled. “Would you prefer we called it sheep shit? Poo? Excrement? Softened turds?”

  Honestly, I would’ve preferred they both stopped talking.

  I sighed. I was far from home, covered in poo, and had completely lost my will to fight back. “I just wanted a picture.”

  “Well, this isn’t your personal photo booth,” said Flower Trooper. “It’s a business, and we need to work, not argue with wannabe influencers or clean up your messes.” He took a deep breath, preparing himself for more. “No trespassing, no moving stock around to suit your whims, and no pictures. Now please leave so we can clean this up.” He snorted at my shoes, shaking his head.

  I didn’t need to be told twice. I walked toward Mom’s car. Which was gross, because I could feel the squish of manure in my boots with every step. I wanted to vomit.

  “I don’t want to be here. I don’t like your fucking town!” I called out without turning back.

  Two feet from the car, I unleashed a series of sneezes that I swore pulled a stomach muscle.

  I really, really didn’t want to be in Bakewell.

  3

  TINY HOUSE OF PINE

  I had no choice but to leave my poop-covered boots on for the fifteen-minute drive to my aunt’s. There were six other pairs of shoes in the trunk, but I wasn’t about to change, or even go barefoot, until I took off (and burned) these socks and scoured my feet clean. All I could do was wipe the suede with a napkin while Mom tried not to laugh. I gave her a much-deserved pout.

  I texted Gia that there was no way my first day in Bakewell could get worse—there was only uphill from here.

  Mom pointed out the window. “Look, we’re in Bakewell.”

  Yup. There was the town welcome sign. A large carved wood monstrosity with the words WELCOME TO BAKEWELL, FLOWER CAPITAL OF ONTARIO surrounded by painted wood flowers. It was speared next to a highway overpass on a little patch covered, of course, with real flowers in shades of . . . well, all the shades. So many colors. Too many flowers, if you asked me. I was glad I’d packed the Costco-size bottle of antihistamines. I’d need them.

  I added to the text.

  We may have made a colossal mistake.

  Gia didn’t respond. I texted Matteo, but also, no answer. They were probably still at that baptism.

  A few minutes later, Mom turned onto a street, saying, “Here we are, Tahira.”

  The street looked kind of weird. Since this was the so-called flower capital of Ontario, it was no surprise that all the houses had pretty, well-maintained gardens. But they were spaced farther apart than I was used to, and they were all different sizes and colors.

  Mom pulled into the driveway of a standard, small redbrick house with a green lawn and a nice garden out front. “This is Sharmin Aunty’s place,” she said, but I couldn’t help staring at the house next door. It was also redbrick with a beige garage, but it was twice as big as my aunt’s place and had a massive, overstuffed garden with weird winding paths and a la
rge statue of . . . was that a rabbit? About four feet high and made of twigs and flowers, it was perched in the middle of the yard and surrounded by enough flowers to make the overpass look like a barren field.

  Way. Too. Many. Flowers.

  I imagined an overly nosy garden-obsessed retiree lived there. Hopefully they’d stay out of my and Gia’s hair this summer.

  “Come, let’s say hello before we bring in your things,” Mom said, taking the path to Sharmin Aunty’s front porch.

  “Sabina! Tahira! You’re here already?” Sharmin Aunty floated out the door, her long, flowy summer dress dancing in the breeze behind her.

  My aunt (Mom’s cousin, not her sister) was a couple of years older than Mom, so probably in her early fifties. She’d always been the Why walk when you can sashay? type. She’d worked in the lingerie department of a posh store in downtown Toronto for years, which was great because she’d kept me stocked with Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue fragrance with a new bottle every Eid since I was twelve. After her ex traded her for a Mercedes-AMG GT a year ago, it was no surprise to the family that Sharmin Aunty promptly bought her own store with her divorce settlement. That had always been her dream. Though why she bought one in the middle of nowhere was anyone’s guess.

  We did that desi kiss-on-both-cheeks thing, and then Sharmin Aunty took me by both hands. “Let me look at you, Tahira. So beautiful. I think you’re even taller than the last time I saw you. When your mother reminded me that you’re applying for college, I nearly fainted. The girl who used to rummage through my purse looking for lipstick is not allowed to grow up.” She put a dramatic hand to her forehead. “I feel like an antique. Now I’ll be taking makeup tips from you!” My aunty smiled at me. “Come, I’ll show you the main house first.”

  “U-um,” I stuttered.

  Mothers, of course, never felt secondhand embarrassment for their daughters. “Tahira needs to wash her feet. There was an incident at the nursery.”

  “Of course, of course,” Sharmin Aunty said. “Let’s go to the flat first, then. Did you go to Wynter’s?”

  “Yes,” Mom said, beaming. “We got you that fountain!”

  We went back to the car, where there was much squealing, thanking, and insisting Mom was much too generous while I stood there, trying to hide my impatience to rid myself of manure.

  After we finally grabbed my things and headed to the backyard, the total explosion of flowers that greeted us there didn’t surprise me. What was a shock was that the massive space behind the houses wasn’t divided into separate backyards. No fences at all. I could kind of make out some property lines between Sharmin Aunty’s yard and several of the houses on the one side because of different lawn-mowing habits, but there was no hint of a property line at all between her yard and the flower-vomit house’s yard. In fact, a stone patio with a low table and wicker outdoor sofas was positioned right between the yards, exactly where I would have thought a fence should be. Seemed my aunt was close to the garden-obsessed lady. Privacy was going to be in short supply here.

  Also, I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from this “granny flat,” but I wasn’t seeing anything that resembled an apartment in Sharmin Aunty’s yard. There were two structures—a cool-looking wood and glass greenhouse on the neighbor’s side and, closer to my aunt’s house, a yellow shed with a red screen door and one window. It was . . . little. God, that couldn’t be the . . .

  “Here’s the granny flat!” Sharmin Aunty said, wheeling my suitcase over the uneven stepping-stones leading to the yellow shed . . . er . . . flat.

  “It’s charming, isn’t it?” she continued. “I bought this house from Joanne and Leeland Langston when they moved to a farm last year. Leeland’s mother lived in this flat for years—she’s in a nursing home now. She’s almost ninety-nine years old!”

  “It’s so adorable!” Mom said.

  In front of the teeny structure with a wide-open door was a little concrete pad with two old lounge chairs.

  “I’ve been airing it out all day. Here, let’s let in some light.” She pulled open the window curtains. I had my sewing machine in one hand and a duffel bag over my shoulder, and I was pushing my dress form (whom I’d named Ruby) on her wheels. I put the sewing machine on a pine table a few feet into the room, put Ruby on the pine floor near a pine ladder, and dropped my duffel bag on the pine-backed sofa. The pine table on the pine floor was a bit much, but the pine walls, pine coffee table, pine chairs, and pine cabinets needed an honorable mention, too. As a whole, it was . . . a lot of pine. The place was more like a small wooden living room than a “flat.” Not that I knew what a flat was—but I’d expected something like a bachelor apartment.

  “You or your friend can sleep here. It’s a daybed,” Sharmin Aunty said about what I thought was a sofa with, you guessed it, pine legs and many, many pillows. One of which had a wood-grain print. “It’s only a single, but there’s a loft with a bed up there.” She pointed to the pine ladder / steep staircase thing at the end of the room leading to a platform that covered about half the square footage of the place.

  “Just like when you used to sleep on the top bunk when you were a girl!” Mom was still being super enthusiastic.

  “Bathroom is here.” Sharmin Aunty walked three steps to a sliding door on a heavy iron rail near the ladder. “I know it’s a bit snug, but I think you’ll be comfortable.”

  “This will be fine, right, Tahira?” Mom asked.

  I gritted my teeth and nodded. “It’s cute as a button,” I said. “Gia and I are tight; we’ll be fine.” I opened the duffel and pulled some clean clothes out. “I’ll just go . . .” I squeezed past Mom and Sharmin Aunty and went into the bathroom.

  The bathroom was remarkably lacking in pine but was also teeny. All I needed was water and soap right now, and thankfully it had that. After scrubbing my feet red under the tap in the shower stall, I dried off with one of the towels from the shelf above the toilet and put on fresh socks and a clean shirt. I checked myself in the mirror. The shirt was another one of my own designs—a short-sleeved and collarless button-up. Down one side I’d appliquéd the letters HOT, which stood for House of Tahira, the name of my someday fashion line. I tied the hem into a knot and returned to Mom and Sharmin Aunty.

  “Tahira,” Mom said, pointing out the window, “Sharmin was showing me some of the improvements to the garden since I was last here. It’s quite a change.”

  “It’s really cool,” I said, nodding. I couldn’t comment on any of the changes, though. This was my first time visiting. Between school, fashion show committee, photography club, and my evening sewing classes, I hadn’t had a chance to come up here with Mom before. Also, I was the last person to judge the aesthetics of a garden.

  Sharmin Aunty led us outside. “All this is Rowan’s and Juniper’s doing. They’ll be thrilled I got the fountain we wanted.” She pointed to a patch of dirt over by the patio. “They’re putting a new flower bed there. The ground is giving them trouble, though. The soil here is rich clay—great for growing but hard as sin to dig out. Come. Let’s get some chai on back at the house.”

  “This couple, Rowan and Juniper, they own the house next door?” Mom asked as we followed Sharmin Aunty up the path.

  Sharmin Aunty laughed as she slid open a sliding glass door into the main house. “Couple? Oh no. Rowan and Juniper are about Tahira’s age. Their parents own the house.”

  Mom beamed at me. “That’s wonderful! You’ll have friends right next door!”

  I nodded noncommittally as I stepped into the kitchen. Honestly, I didn’t need friends in Bakewell other than Gia. Work at the store, then work on my portfolio. That was the plan. Not hang out with country folk who put four-foot rabbits on their front lawn.

  “I ended up hiring Juniper in the store part-time,” Sharmin Aunty said as she put some mugs on a tray. “Her father wanted her to work at the nursery with Rowan, but June was adamant she didn’t want to work there. You’ll like her—she’s a sweet girl. Last week, I took her to the j
amboree in the town over to watch her brother and their friend in the rabbit obstacle trials, since their mother had to cover for the other doctor in town. You should have seen the little bunnies hop through hoops! I can’t imagine how long it took to train them.”

  What? What was with this rabbit obsession? These kids sounded weird. Clearly, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Or rather, I was a lot closer to Kansas than I’d ever been.

  “You’ll have to keep the rabbits away from Tahira,” Mom said. “She’s allergic.”

  Sharmin Aunty laughed, patting Mom on the arm. “I know, I know. You told me her entire medical history.” She winked at me. “C’mon, let me show you around while the tea brews.”

  The inside of the house was really . . . well, country. Wagon wheel coffee table, dried flowers everywhere, and a lot more wood than I expected. Not as much pine as the granny flat, but still. My coolest aunty had gone full-on backwoods bumpkin since moving out here. The house was bright, though. And it smelled like masala chai, just like my home.

  “It’s a bit small, I know,” Sharmin Aunty said as she showed me the living and dining room. “But I’ve had so much fun furnishing with antiques. I even picked up one of those old-fashioned sewing tables for you.”

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll have Rowan and Juniper bring it out from the garage. Oh, and here.” She handed me a stack of linens that were on the dining table. “I bought new bedding for the loft bed, but with my back there’s no way I could set it up. Do you mind, Tahira?”

  I smiled. “No problem. I’ll do it now. I want to unpack some of my stuff before Gia gets here, anyway.”

  I took the sheets and went back out the kitchen door to the granny flat. I took stock inside for a moment, looking around without having to praise it just to be polite. The apartment was minuscule, but it wasn’t that bad. The window was huge, so the space was bright at least. There wasn’t much storage, but I could probably fit my sewing supplies under the table. I put the new sheets on my bed in the loft, then climbed back down and started unpacking my sewing machine and supplies.