A Trace of Romance

By Ann Swann

Laynie & Trace. The first day of her new second-grade school year in tiny Beach Way, Oregon, Laynie and Trace became fast friends. Through the years, their friendship deepened into young love. They did everything together. Then tragedy took the life of his beloved sister, and because of the circumstances of her death, Trace felt compelled to move as far from Beach Way as possible. Laynie was left behind, heartbroken, and alone. But she was no quitter. She picked herself up and, with her family’s help, made a wonderful new life for herself. She heard he’d done the same down in Texas. But now he was back, standing in the doorway of her precious flower shop, taking up all the space the same way he’d always done. Her Trace, larger than life. What was he doing here, after all this time?

• Language: English
• Publisher: 5 Prince Publishing
• Release date: Feb 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9781631123580

Book preview

1

THE SHOP

Laynie Connor pulled her Jeep into the slanted space outside her Beach Way, Oregon business, The Flower Shop, and put the gear in park. She could’ve pulled around back where no one would see her, but she wanted folks to know the shop was open.

She turned off the engine and pulled up on the hand brake. A tiny chill tightened the skin across the back of her neck.

Laynie looked up, expecting to see someone approaching, but there was no one.

She glanced at the front of the shop but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Laynie studied the sidewalk. Her intuition was seldom wrong.

Sure enough, down the street, going in the front door of the Beans & More coffee shop, there was a shape. A familiar, too-large shape with wavy, dark hair. Can’t be, she thought, rubbing the nape of her neck with her gloved hand, he hasn’t been back to Beach Way in over six years.

She sat a moment, willing her heart to stop sputtering, then went back to gathering up her things. The day seemed a little dimmer now, a little less cheerful, seeing his shape, knowing it wasn’t him. Couldn’t possibly be him.

Laynie shook it off. Memories were funny things. Traces of the past woven through the day-to-day, waiting above, around, and below nearly every experience.

She took a deep breath, put the past back into the past, and set her thoughts firmly on the shop. Everything in Laynie’s life revolved around the shop. And she didn’t mind that at all. Some might say flowers were her life. That didn’t bother her, either. In fact, that’s exactly the way she wanted it.

Flipping her thick, red hair over her shoulder, Laynie unclipped her seatbelt and then took one more sip of her homemade coffee from her travel mug, reviewing her internal agenda, staring through the Jeep’s windshield at the small business she loved so well.

Through the plate glass front of the shop, Laynie could see the shiny red bubble hearts dangling from the ceiling. Further back, she knew the special orders were tucked into their cold cases. There would be a riot of roses peeking out of the floor to ceiling glass coolers.

In another stand-up, an abundance of red, white, and pink carnations would be poised to burst through their glass, ready to make someone’s day a little brighter and a lot more colorful.

Laynie grabbed her tote bag then took her sunglasses off and hung them on the sun visor. Her mom had always insisted she wear them any time she was outside, since her sea-green eyes were so light, but it was overcast today. Laynie knew if she wore them into the shop, she’d most likely forget them altogether.

The first thing she would do once she unlocked the door and got her things put away would be to turn on the lights and glance through the blooms to make certain there were no wilted petals or droopy leaves. Everything had to be superb, even the dark roses and dyed carnations she stocked for her quirkier customers.

Laynie smiled at the thought of the seldom utilized spools of black and purple ribbon dotted with stark-white hearts and big-eyed skulls. They weren’t for everyone, but she wanted to make certain they were available for the ones who wanted them. It was a slow process, but she thought she might be making a bit of headway into the twenty-first century since taking over the business from her aunt several years earlier.

Last year, she’d only had one customer who’d called for the more eccentric type of arrangement, but that one had been so much fun to make, she’d made certain to order a few extra supplies this year. The funny thing was the age of the woman who’d started it all.

Carlotta may not have been young, but she was definitely unconventional.

Just the thought of her made Laynie hum as she crossed the sidewalk to unlock the heavy glass door.

This place was her home away from home. It had been since the day she and her mom had arrived in Beach Way after her dad’s unexpected death in a motor vehicle accident when she was only seven years old. Now, she was no longer the owner’s niece, since her aunt had retired, she was the owner. But even as a kid she’d toted her things back and forth.

She thought about her dear aunt as she carried her bag and coffee cup to the office. You’re a gatherer, her Aunt Maud had said the first time she’d seen Laynie’s bulging-at-the-seams school bag. You gather bits of comfort to haul around like a turtle, carrying your home with you wherever you go.

Laynie didn’t mind the comparison. It felt true. She was a homebody, through and through.

She hung the strap of her tote over the back of her office chair and stepped out into the shop. The current client list appeared in her head like the credit roll at the end of a movie.

Most of her customers were patrons from way back. They were loyal, long-standing clients. Laynie treasured them all. They were the ones for whom she ordered the wide red and white rolls of ribbon and plush handmade bows. They didn’t always appreciate the more modern arrangements. Nevertheless, there were a few who did.

Carlotta, the tiny-but-feisty biker-granny, had first appeared outside the shop on the back of a huge Harley-Davidson. She’d been wearing a tie-dye brain bucket—her words—and when she’d pulled it off, and stepped into the shop, Laynie had been delighted to see that the woman’s choppy white hair sported streaks of every color of the rainbow.

The young man to whom the Harley belonged was not her son, as Laynie had first assumed, instead, he was introduced to her as Dune, one of my best good friends. Then the woman had held out her hand and said, And my name is Carlotta, but most everyone calls me Car.

Her smile had been so wide, Laynie had automatically found herself mirroring it.

Pleased to meet you, she remembered saying, falling into formality the way she’d been taught. I’m so glad you found us.

I simply typed ‘best hip florist near me’ into Google, the woman had said. And up popped your delightful website. So of course, I asked Dune to bring me immediately. After examining the photos in my floral portfolio, she went on to say, I’m here to order something special for my granddaughter’s thirtieth birthday.

Laynie had mentally pumped her fist in the air thinking of all the hours she’d put in on the colorful website and the portfolio. She’d also been certain to include information about the different custom orders that were available. Like the spiky Burtonesque heart and skull ribbons picked to complement the darker hued blossoms and balloons. Something about the woman’s black leather vest and unique hair hinted that she might be one of the modern customers Laynie had been courting.

The petite woman described to