When the Wind Comes, the Flowers Open

At 3:17 on Thursday afternoon, I was elbow-deep in a bucket of tulips when my phone buzzed against the counter. I recognized Noah Mercer's number before I wiped the water from my fingers. For the last two weeks, his messages had arrived like little weather bulletins addressed to me alone. NOAH: Wind shifts east after six. Secure anything you've left on the sidewalk. The first time, I'd been grateful. A gust had knocked over my chalkboard sign before I could drag it inside. The second time, his warning about a hard rain had saved the paper-wrapped bouquets I'd left by the back door. The third time, he'd predicted a king tide. I'd spent an hour hauling stock up onto the shop's shelving, then wondered why he'd texted me personally instead of posting the forecast where everyone could see it. Today's message appeared beneath a neat little chart of clouds and temperatures. NOAH: Clear after six. Would you like to have dinner with me? I stared at the screen. The cooler hummed behind me. Outside the front windows, people hurried along the sidewalk with their collars turned up against a wind that smelled like the sea. I set down the tulip and typed, deleted, and typed again. ME: Are you warning me about the weather, or asking to see me? The reply came quickly. NOAH: I'm asking to see you. That should have been enough. Instead, I read it three times, searching for some invisible qualification. An apology. A joke. A reason he'd decided to be direct. I'd known Noah since we were seventeen. He had grown up in Bellwether Cove, a town of steep streets and white clapboard houses pressed between the harbor and a rocky stretch of coast. He'd left for college, then returned two years ago to work as a marine forecaster at the North Point Weather Station. I'd stayed and taken over my aunt's flower shop, Windward, after she retired. We had always been friendly. We'd never been anything else. At least, not in any way either of us had admitted. ME: Yes. Dinner. I regretted the period immediately. It looked too formal, like I'd accepted an invitation to discuss property taxes. His next message rescued me. NOAH: Seven? The Lantern Room. I'll be the one pretending not to check the radar. I laughed, and a customer turned from the doorway to look at me. "Good news?" she asked. "Possibly," I said. The Lantern Room sat above the harbor, with wide windows and a kitchen that made the whole block smell of butter after dark. I closed the shop at six, changed in the tiny office, and wore a green dress I'd bought for a wedding that never happened. I told myself it was a practical choice. The fabric didn't wrinkle easily. Noah was already at the restaurant when I arrived. He stood when he saw me, then seemed unsure what to do with his hands. "You came," he said. "You asked." "I did." The pause between us had the careful shape of a first meeting, which was ridiculous. I knew the sound of his laugh. I knew he always ordered coffee black and took a second to consider before answering a question. I knew that when he was listening closely, he tilted his head as if the rest of the room had gone quiet. But I didn't know what he wanted from me. We ordered chowder and grilled fish. We talked about the shop, his work, the unusually warm start to the fall. Noah told me the station had put in new equipment for measuring offshore gusts. I told him I'd been testing a line of dried-flower arrangements for winter. "What made you decide to ask me?" I said. He set down his water glass. "I've wanted to for a while." "And the weather reports?" His expression shifted. "I thought they were helpful." "They were. But you sent them to me like you were trying to tell me something." "I was trying to tell you something." "What?" He looked through the window at the dark harbor. For a second I thought he might turn away from the question, as he had turned away from so many chances before. Then he looked back at me. "That I think about you." The words landed between us, plain and startling. I could have made a joke. I could have asked how often. Instead, I felt my chest tighten. "Why didn't you just say that?" "I'm asking now." "You are." The waiter arrived with our food. Noah thanked him, and I spent the next few minutes pretending my appetite hadn't vanished. Dinner was easy after that. Easier than it had any right to be. We talked until the restaurant began stacking chairs in a corner, and when he walked me back to Windward, he didn't try to kiss me. At my door, the wind lifted my hair and tossed a loose strand across my mouth. "Good night, June," he said. "Good night, Noah." I went inside and checked my phone. No new weather alert. No hidden message. For once, I was glad of the quiet.