1. Bud

My brain told me ‘blue',but my mouth blurted—"Purple!"

Maggie gave an exaggerated look of approval. "I hear ya. I think the wall would look great in that color."

"I meant to say blue."

Maggie's eyes lit up. "Yes! Good choice."

"Or maybe we should paint it pink."

"Well, you know what they say… You can't go wrong with pink."

I threw my hands up. "Are you just gonna agree with everything I say? I need your help. I seriously can't decide. Oh we're never gonna get Bud's Blooms ready in time for the grand opening on Saturday. I'm gonna look like a complete failure."

"Hey, hey, hey, boss man. You turn that frown upside down right now, mister, because you are gonna do just great. Those roses over there are depending on you."

Maggie pointed to a cluster of flowers sitting in a bucket in a far corner of the half-finished store fit-out.

"Those are tulips," I told her.

"That's what I said. Those tulips need you. Not to mention those poor little buttercups over there."

"Those are hydrangeas."

"And what about those… um… carnations?"

"Orchids."

"And them… there… help me out here?"

"Lilies."

"And let's not forget about these colorful little cuties." Maggie picked up a small potted plant.

"Those are nasturtiums. Believe it or not, they're edible."

Maggie's eyes lit up. "Oh yay. I'm starving."

Before I could stop her, she lifted the pot to her face and started chowing down… before spitting every half-mauled petal onto the floor. "Oh yuck! They taste disgusting. What the fuck is that, Deadly Nightshade? Are you trying to poison me?"

"No! They use these in fancy desserts in expensive restaurants all over the world."

"Not at the iHop on the interstate, they don't. But putting your questionable knowledge of deadly shit-tasting plants aside, I have to admit you kinda know your stuff. You're a natural at this, Bud. Maybe one day a little of those super-flower-powers of yours might even rub off on me."

"I hope so. You are going to be managing the store, remember?"

Maggie swished my words away with a wave of her hand. "Being a manager isn't all la-de-da flower talk, Bud. It's about customer relations, and if there's anything I'm good at, it's dealing with people."

At that moment, the door to the flower shop opened and sweet old Mrs. Cuthbert poked her head in. "Excuse me, dears. Any idea when your new flower shop will open? The ladies in my bridge club are all so excited about it."

Instantly Maggie screamed at her. "Not until Saturday! It's written right there on the front window, are you blind? Now get out, we're working here!"

In a petrified panic, Mrs. Cuthbert shut the door and shuffled hurriedly past the front window.

Maggie turned back to me and smiled charmingly. "See? Dealing with people is as natural for me as naming flowers is for you. What a team we're gonna make! With you and me working together, this shop is gonna be a hit. I can't wait for the grand opening on Saturday."

"But what about the wall colors? If we don't get this place painted there won't be a grand opening on Saturday."

"Which is why I made a phone call this morning to bring in a little help."

"You did?"

Maggie crossed her arms proudly. "Yep. I've asked the one person in town with any sense of style to come in and lend a hand. As a matter of fact, she should be here any minute."

"Who?"

"Who do you think?"

The front door opened once again, and with a grand flourish of her sequined shawl, Aunt Bea confidently announced—"The fairy godmother of interior design is here, my precious little petals! Let the rain clear, let the clouds part… and bring on the rainbows!"

"Bea, we're inside. There is no rain," Maggie pointed out matter-of-factly.

"Really?" Bea asked, looking around her. "I could have sworn I felt the drizzle of drab the moment I walked in."

"Drab? You think it's drab?" Unable to stop them, my knees folded under me and I plonked myself down, cross-legged on the dusty floorboards. "Bea's right. This place is a disaster."

"Oh sugar-pie, I didn't say that. The place just needs a little pick-me-up, a little pizzazz, something to make it pop. A certain je ne sais quoi."

"I don't even know what that word means."

"It means… I don't know what."

"Neither do I," I told her. "That's what I just said."

"No, my darling Bud. The words je ne sais quoi literally translate to I don't know what."

Maggie put her hands on her hips, unimpressed. "Well, a fat lot of good that does. If you don't know what the place needs, then what help are you?"

"Bless your heart, Maggie-Pie, but you're missing the point. The phrase je ne sais quoi alludes to a special something that one can't quite put one's finger on. Not until you see it, not until you feel it, do you truly know what it is. Like falling in love for the first time; seeing someone across the room and realizing that that special someone is the someone for you. Because they have that certain… je ne sais quoi. Do you understand?"

I shook my head hopelessly. "How could I? I've never been in love my whole life."

Bea gave me a smile and a pat on the cheek. "Oh, it'll happen, my little honey drizzle. When you least expect it… it'll happen." She looked around the shop again and added, "But first things first. It's time for a makeover. On your feet, Bud. Tell me, what color are you thinking of painting the walls."

"Blue," I said, pulling myself up.

"God no."

"Purple," Maggie said.

"Oh pah-lease."

"Pink?" I asked.

Bea put a hand on her hip. "Are you going to be selling the flowers or the walls?"

"I don't understand."

"It's springtime, darling. Look at your product. Look at those beautiful, bold colors. The fuchsias and lavenders, the magentas and lilacs, they're the stars of the show. Give them a stage, shine a spotlight on them. Let them sing and dim the rest."

Maggie scratched her head. "Um, I don't know how to put this, but flowers can't sing."

"Oh my God, what is this? The place where metaphors come to die?" Tossing her shawl quite spectacularly over one shoulder, Bea walked determinedly toward me and Maggie. "Close your eyes, children."

She covered Maggie's eyes with one hand, and my eyes with the other.

"Hey, I can't see anything," Maggie whined.

"That's usually what happens when you close your eyes. Now be silent… and imagine if you will… black velvet curtains as dark as night hanging from every wall—"

"Black?" I shrieked. "Bea, this ain't a funeral home."

"It will be soon if you don't shut the fuck up and listen to your Aunt Bea. Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then conjure up a vision of tiny white lights shimmering against the black drapes, like stars in the heavens, a backdrop to highlight the bright bursts of color from the bouquets stacked on shelves and tables all around. Can you see it?"

"I think I can," I admitted, my imagination being led into Bea's dreamlike fantasy, timidly at first, but stepping more and more confidently into her vision.

"In each corner stands a tall Grecian urn, erupting with a rapture of chrysanthemums and cornflowers, while hyancinths and honeysuckles create a cascade of color spilling from antique birdcages suspended from the ceiling."

"I can see it," I said excitedly.

"Me too," breathed Maggie in wonder. "Even if the Chryslers and corncobs came as a surprise."

"Hush, children," Bea said, clamping her hands over our eyes even tighter. "Be silent and behold the podiums to the left where the baby's breath sigh with the sweetest lullaby, while over on the right the forget-me-nots whisper, ‘hey, don't forget me'."

"I won't," I whispered back. "I love forget-me-nots."

"Meanwhile above you, a dazzling, black quartz chandelier drips with daisy chains. And in the middle of the room, people throw coins into a Tuscan fountain crowded with water lilies and framed by cute little cupids carved from Italian marble and wearing freshly made garlands on their heads. Can you see it all? Is it not beautiful?"

"It's beautiful," Maggie cried. "I feel like a princess!"

"Me too!" I gushed.

Bea quickly took her hands away. When I opened my eyes, I saw she was squinting at me with a suspicious smirk on her face. "You feel like a princess too?"

"I mean prince! I feel like a prince. A very masculine prince, that's me!"

"Really? Because I think I heard you right the first time. Tell me, Bud, is there something you want to tell your Aunt Bea?"

"Actually, yes there is. I don't think I can afford a black quartz chandelier."

"I don't even know what one is," said Maggie.

"Don't you fret, my sugar babies. I know one or two second-hand treasure troves in Eau Claire where we can find everything we need for a bargain." With a clap of her hands she declared, "We have jobs to do. Maggie, you need to visit Harry at the hardware store and get your hands on some black paint. After that, I need you to pick up a brush and paint your little heart out, like you were the lovechild of Frida Kahlo and Henri Matisse."

Maggie nodded excitedly then asked, "Who are they? Are they new in town? Their names don't ring any bells in my head."

"I dare say there hasn't been a ding-dong up in that belltower of yours for quite some time. But never mind, my little petal. You don't need to think, you just need to paint. Now quickly, off to Harry's Hardware you go. Skiddoo with you!"

Bea waved her finger as though it was a wand then pointed to the door.

Whatever spell Bea just cast, Maggie was under it, running out of the shop on her quest to find some black paint.

"What about me?" I asked. "What should I be doing?"

"My dear Bud, you and I are going on a road trip, and we shall not return until we have everything we need to bling the fuck out of this shop of yours."

"But I haven't finished unpacking my stuff in the apartment upstairs yet. In fact, I haven't even started."

"You plan on living above the shop? I highly recommend it if you are."

I nodded. "Last night I moved all the stuff out of the house I was renting. But I haven't had a chance to open a single box yet."

"Show me your things. Perhaps there's something in your possession that would fit perfectly in your flower shop. We could save ourselves a little money."

"You think? Sure, okay."

I led Bea into the back of the shop where there was a set of stairs up to the second storey. Upstairs was a small but cozy one-bedroom apartment with a small living room, a little kitchen and bathroom, and a view of Mr. Flannery's old bakery through the window.

As Bea followed me into the bedroom, she stopped and stared at the mattress on the floor and the two boxes sitting beside it.

"Bud, darling, where's the rest of your things?"

"Oh, this is it. But there might be something in one of those two boxes we could use, right?"

"What's in them… other than a toothbrush and the contents of your sock drawer?"

"Well… um… not much. Other than my toothbrush and the contents of my sock drawer."

"Are you serious? These are all your worldly possessions? Are you honestly telling me you can fit your entire life into two boxes?"

"There's the mattress too."

"My darling boy, a mattress without a bed is not a place to lay your head. Or a place to get laid, for that matter. Let's face it, there's nothing sexy about banging on the floorboards. What would the poor petunias downstairs think? They'll wilt faster than a willy in a nunnery."

I sighed. "Unfortunately, there's no banging going on in this bedroom at all. God, my life is so sad."

"Oh for crying out loud, get your head out of the oven, honey. Sylvia Plath needs the gas. It's time for you to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start taking control of your life. You've already taken the first step by making your dream of opening your own flower shop come true."

"It's not open yet."

"And it won't ever open with that attitude, young man. What you need is a makeover, both upstairs and down."

Concern suddenly struck me. "You're not going to wax my pubes, are you?"

"I'm talking about the shop… this apartment. It's clear to me that we need to decorate more than just the store downstairs. What we need to do is color your entire world."

Thirty minutes later, Aunt Bea and I were hot-wheeling our way out of town in a pickup truck, the sound of Petula Clark's Color My World blaring from the truck's CD player as Bea sat behind the wheel, lip-synching every ‘sunshine yellow' and ‘orange blossom' lyric with a cheery shoulder shimmy and a long-lashed wink. Yep, Bea had a knack for shaking the blues out of anyone. Every now and then she tapped the brake or tooted the horn in time with the song.

"I didn't know you owned a truck," I said while we drove along, our windows down as we filled the forest with music. "When did you buy it?"

"I didn't. I borrowed it."

"Who from?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out."

I opened the glove compartment and a speeding ticket made out to Bo Harlow practically fell into my lap. "I'm guessing it's Bo's."

"Well, it didn't take long to ruin that mystery."

"Why do you even have Bo's truck? Doesn't he need it?"

"He's off on one of his interstate runs, hauling freight from Milwaukee to Oklahoma City in his big rig. He calls this pickup his little rig. Sometimes he lets me borrow it when he's out of town."

"You're friends with Bo Harlow?"

"I wouldn't exactly call us ‘friends'."

"But the guy's an asshole."

"Yes, he's an asshole, but he has his moments. I guess he's just like the rest of us… a work in progress. Speaking of which, time is of the essence to complete your work in progress. I have a list of shopping destinations in mind for today, a few quaint little gems where we can pick up some rustic old farm buckets to make your flowers pop, not to mention one or two birdcages for the suspended floral displays, a fountain for the middle of the shop and those cute little cupids we're after. And while we're there, we're getting you a gorgeous French provincial bed for your upstairs apartment, some dresser drawers to match, a very butch cowhide rug or two and a big old wagon wheel repurposed into a coffee table. What do you think?"

"Like I said before, I think it all sounds out of my price range."

"Don't be silly. We're getting everything second-hand. Maybe even third- or fourth-hand. The older the better. We want the junk that's ready to fall apart at the flap of a butterfly wing. That's when the bargaining begins. It's all about the haggle."

"I thought you were going to color my world, not fill it with junk. What's the use of buying stuff that's gonna fall apart before the grand opening on Saturday?"

Bea laughed. "Oh, cherry-blossom, walk a mile in these heels and you'll learn there's nothing that a hot glue gun and some gloss nail polish can't fix. Make the most of everything, that's the drag queen way. As my Grammy always said—when life gives you lemons, get out the tequila."

As Bea began a perfect lip-synch of Petula Clark's Downtown, we continued on our journey, heading along the road to downtown Eau Claire.

Bo's little rig handled more furniture than I first expected it would. We'd spent our time in Eau Claire darting from thrift stores to second-hand warehouses, with Bea showing off her super-efficient retail skills and haggling talents at each stop, nabbing one bargain after another which I then lugged to the pickup. Hell, we even found an old fountain that Harry from the hardware store could get working with a few hose fittings.

Like a Tetris champion, Bea then ordered me to maneuver every bulky frame and wooden leg this way and that onto the back of the truck, until every last inch was filled.

"Right then, all we need now is the pièce de résistance—the chandelier."

I looked from Bea to the tightly packed pickup and back again. "Where the hell are we going to fit a chandelier?"

"One problem at a time. First, we need to find one. And I think I know just the place."

Five minutes later we were peering through the cracked windows of an abandoned store. The door was boarded up and the sign above it was now swinging by a single chain from the awning.

"Is that rat dead?" I asked, squinting into the empty, dust-covered store.

"Either that or it likes to sleep on its back with its legs in the air." Bea gave a frustrated sigh and stepped away from the window. "Damn it, I remember seeing the perfect chandelier in there last year. Let it be known, never put off till tomorrow what you can purchase today. Now that's what I call buyer's remorse."

"I thought buyer's remorse was when you regret buying something you shouldn't have bought."

"Said no drag queen ever!" Something suddenly caught Bea's eye. "Wait a minute, what's this?"

There was a note taped to one of the windows.

Bea looked at it and read aloud—"Due to an irreconcilable feud with my ass-hat of a landlord, this store will be closed until Satan himself roams the earth. My collection has been relocated to my private residence at six-nine-six Old Fortune Road. Visit me there if you dare. Signed, Wendell Winshaw." She placed a finger on her chin and gave me a contemplative look. "Wendell Winshaw… Wendell Winshaw… Now why does that name ring a bell? Oh! I know. He's the psychopathic hillbilly who nearly killed Benji and his cousin Connie when they tried to give him their moose."

"Is that whole sentence code for something, because if it's not it sounds totally weird… and downright scary."

"I'm afraid it's not code at all. There's not even a single innuendo involved. Benji and Connie—you know, gorgeous Benji Larson from the BnB—well, he and his cousin Connie ventured out into the dead of the woods in search of Wendell Winshaw to try and fob off an old moose head that belonged to Benji's grandfather. But that's a whole other story. Anyway, when they found his cabin at the end of"—she referred back to the note—"Old Fortune Road, wacky Wendell tried to shoot them with a rifle… or cut them up with an axe… or hack them to death with a machete. I can't quite remember which."

"That detail seems kinda important."

"It doesn't matter. They lived to tell the tale, and if memory serves me correctly, Mr. Winshaw has the finest collection of scrapheap souvenirs you've ever laid eyes on. Come on, let's go."

"Wait a minute. We're going shopping with an axe murderer… or rifle shooter… or machete hacker?"

"That's correct."

"Bea, a psychopathic hillbilly's cabin in the woods is no Fifth Avenue."

"Darling, nothing west of Fifth Avenue is or ever will be. Now chop-chop!"

I cringed at the words.

Bea noticed. "Ooh, poor choice of phrase, granted. I'd apologize but we're in something of a hurry. Remember, time is of the essence. Come Hansel, into the woods we go!"

The boards of Dead Man's Bridge groaned and everything in the back of the little rig shifted an inch to the left, then jolted an inch to the right, as Bea peered out the driver's window and said, "If we end up at the bottom of that ravine and one of us has to eat the other to survive, just remember that drag queens make a living out of being tough and tasteless."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm one salty bitch, so you might wanna go gently into that good night first. For the sake of the tribe, of course."

"How can we be a tribe when there's only two of us?"

"Bud, darling, my personality is a tribe unto itself." Bea shrieked as a plank on the bridge snapped. A second later she put her foot to the floor and with a bounce and a boing, Bo's pickup charged off the dilapidated bridge and continued deeper into the woods along Old Fortune Road.

As we both looked at our side mirror to glance back, Bea said, "Well, there's good news and bad news. The bad news is we have to drive back over that death trap to get out of here."

"What's the good news?"

Bea pointed through the windshield to a log cabin through the trees. "The good news is, it looks like we've reached our destination. Although I'm not entirely convinced you'd call that good news at all."

As the rundown cabin came into full view, we saw a porch packed with rusty old furniture, random antique items and just about every dead stuffed critter you could imagine.

"Do you think that's Mr. Winshaw there?" asked Bea. "No, wait. That's just a coat stand covered in animal skins. Oh, there he is… No, that's an old store mannequin with its arms on backward. Oh wait, there he is… No, wrong again, it's just a goat that's been taxi-dermied to hell and back."

"Maybe we should turn around and just go," I said nervously. "I'm happy to forget the whole chandelier thing."

"Hold your tongue, sugar-plum. One does not compromise on style."

"Does that rule still apply if you're dead?"

Bea herself gave a nervous glance through the windshield. "I guess we're about to find out."

She pulled the car up in front of the cabin.

We paused a moment longer as she uttered, "I hope you brought your banjo." Warily we both opened our doors and stepped out of Bo's truck.

For a moment it crossed my mind that the place was deserted. "I don't think anyone's home. We should go."

Suddenly, from out of the darkness beyond the junk-packed porch, a cranky old voice hollered, "Somebody's home, all-righty. And he wants to know what the hell you're doing on his property."

Between a keyless pianola and a stuffed bear, a figure loomed.

Bea clutched my hand and I clutched hers.

The menacing silhouette lurched forward before shuffling to the front of the porch, his beady eyes squinting to get a better look at us as his wispy-haired chin bobbed up and down, munching on one end of a strip of jerky.

As he stepped out from the shadows of his porch, Bea let go of my hand and sighed with relief. "Oh thank God, he looks normal. Relatively speaking."

The old hillbilly glared at her, offended. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Bea said with an innocent flutter of lashes. "It's just nice to see that you're not wearing someone else's face over yours, that's all."

Without a word of warning the man plucked up a rifle that had been resting against the inside of the porch railing, out of sight. Raising the weapon, he pointed it straight at us.

Bea and I gasped in unison as she clutched my hand once more, tighter than ever.

"Ah, excuse me, sir," my voice wavered. "Do you really think the gun is necessary?"

He scowled at me. "Do you really think you should be telling me what to think? Who the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing trespassing on my land?"

"My name is Bud, and this here is Aunt Bea."

The man with the gun gave us both a suspicious look. "She don't look like your Aunt."

Bea replied, "Oh I'm not his aunt. I'm more like the idea of an aunt. Many people need a good strong aunty figure in their lives. Wouldn't you agree?"

The hillbilly spat a wad of jerky. "My aunty was my sister."

"And what a fine aunty-sister she must have been," said Bea, blinking back the shock. "As much as we'd love to stay for a fireside chat about family, we're actually here on a shopping trip. You see, we saw your note on the window of your second-hand store in Eau Claire. You are Mr. Winshaw, are you not? Mr. Wendell Winshaw?"

"The one and only."

"And I pray that's true. In the meantime, we were specifically hoping you had a chandelier for sale. I'm sure I saw one in your store a year or so ago, and part of me hopes you have that exact same chandelier buried deep inside that cabin of yours somewhere."

"I do indeed have such a chandelier inside."

Bea caught her breath with excitement. "Please tell me it's intact."

"It is."

"Please tell me it has the teardrop crystals like I remember."

"It does."

"And please tell me we don't have to climb over the corpse of your last visitor to get to it."

Wendell gave Bea a surly look and cocked his rifle.

I quickly elbowed her. "Maybe you should change the subject."

Bea nodded and asked him, "Which do you prefer, Mastercard or American Express?"

The chandelier jingle-jangled in the backseat of Bo's little rig the whole way back to Mulligan's Mill, sometimes chiming in time to the music as Bea lip-synched her way through Ain't No Mountain High Enough by Diana Ross, while I was busy thanking my lucky stars that we got in and out of Wendell Winshaw's cabin alive.

When we arrived back at the flower shop, Maggie had done exactly what Bea had asked her to do—she'd painted her little heart out, and almost the entire interior of the shop was black by the time Bea and I walked in the door.

"Oh, my precious darling Maggie," cooed Bea, looking around in admiration. "What an exquisite work of art this is."

"I know, right?" beamed Maggie. "Blacker than a heavy metal drummer's heart."

"Not quite the analogy I had in my head, but it'll do. Job well done, sugar-plum."

At that moment there came a knock at the door. "Hello? Anyone home?"

We all turned to see Mitch, Gage and Ginny peering in through the door.

"Oh, hey you guys!" I grinned with excitement. "Come on in!"

I opened the doors wide for Ginny's wheelchair to get in.

"I see you've already built the ramp over the front step." Gage nodded in my direction, somewhat impressed.

"It was the first thing I did. Everything else is still a work in progress, but thanks to Maggie and Bea we're getting there."

As Ginny wheeled herself in, she gazed around in awe at the black walls and ceiling. "Oh, this is super cool, Bud. You changed your mind on the flower shop and you're opening a planetarium instead!"

"Absolutely not, young lady!" corrected Bea dramatically. "This is merely the blank canvas on which Bud's Blooms will… well… bloom."

"I can picture it," Mitch said. "I think it's gonna look awesome."

My best friend gave me a hug for encouragement.

"You think so? I think so too. It's finally all coming together. Maggie's been painting all day and Bea and I have been out shopping for stuff. Don't ask where, it's seriously better left unsaid. But there's a whole heap of cool stuff in the truck outside."

"Want some help bringing it in?" Mitch glanced at Gage and asked, "We've got time to help, don't we?"

Gage looked at Bea. "Boss? Do I have time to help?"

Bea glanced at her petite diamante-studded watch. "You've still got an hour before your shift starts. Please, by all means, put those muscles of yours to good use. I'm sure we'll all appreciate it."

I gave a wave. "Follow me everyone."

Gage and Mitch followed me outside.

Maggie put down her brush and rushed after the boys to help. "Don't forget about me!"

Meanwhile, Aunt Bea took Ginny's wheelchair by the handles, wheeling her outside as she leaned down and said to Gage's niece, "Just an FYI, you and I won't be lifting a thing. I practically break a nail just looking at a removalist's van."

As we stepped up to Bo's little rig and began untying the ropes from the back of the pickup, it was Maggie who glanced across to Mr. Flannery's old bakery next door to see Milton Morris, the town's one and only realtor, putting a Sold sticker on the front window of the long-abandoned bakery.

"Well would you look at that," Maggie said with an elbow to my side. "Looks like you're getting a new neighbor."

Everyone turned and the gasp of excitement was like a Mexican wave.

"Oh, I hope they're nice," said Ginny.

"And handsome," added Bea.

"And friendly," Maggie said. "Trust me, there's nothing worse than an unfriendly neighbor."

I had to admit, my nerves returned. Not only was I finally opening the store I'd always dreamed of opening, but now I had a new store-owner next door to impress.

I hoped that they weren't planning to open something that might compete with my flowers.

I hoped that maybe they were going to sell something that would go hand-in-hand with a bouquet of roses or a handful of daffodils.

But most of all, as Maggie herself had said, I hoped they were friendly.

I liked friendly people.