Excerpt of The Lucky Shamrock by Carolyn Brown

“No, no, no!” Taryn slapped the steering wheel with each word. Nana Irene hadn’t said anything about bringing her two cousins, Jorja and Anna Rose, back to Shamrock for the summer. But right there, parked in front of the flower shop, were Jorja’s car, with its “Honk If You Love Jesus” bumper sticker, and Anna Rose’s truck, with its own statement to the world stuck to the back window: “Forget the Blarney Stone. Kiss a Cowboy.” Taryn jerked her phone off the dash holder in her SUV and called her grandmother.

“Are you there yet?” Irene asked.

“I’m here, but I’m not sure I’m even going in,” Taryn answered.

Irene laughed. “Suck it up, buttercup. You’ll be so busy that you’ll be glad for their help. I’ve put Clinton McEntire on the payroll as a full-time employee, too. It’ll take all four of you to keep up with the weddings and funerals this summer, on top of the small jobs.”

“Can I live in the upstairs apartment?” Taryn asked.

“Nope, I gave that space to Clinton last fall, when he came home from the service,” Irene said. “You’ll be living in the trailer out back with your two cousins. Believe me, they aren’t happy with the arrangement, either, but you’re three grown women. You don’t have to like each other, but you do have to work together till I get back. I’ve taken the guns out of the shop, so the only things there for the next few weeks are floral knives and a hammer in the storage room. We’ll see y’all on Saturday for a late lunch. One o’clock. Other than that, don’t be calling me every day. Learn to get along and work together. Bye, now.”

Taryn laid her head on the steering wheel for several minutes, then raised up and sighed. She’d promised Nana Irene that she would help run the flower shop—the Lucky Shamrock—after Nana’s best friend, Ruby, had fallen and broken her hip, and Taryn wasn’t one to go back on her word. Truth was, she was afraid of the lecture she’d get from her grandmother if she did, so she had no choice but to suck it up. She’d worked in the flower shop, right along with Anna Rose and Jorja, every summer since before she was old enough to go on the payroll. Nana Irene had given the three of them a generous allowance to help her in the summer months. She was of the firm belief that working together helped build friendships; Taryn thought that might have been the only time her grandmother had been dead wrong about an issue.

“She also said it was to teach us responsibility and to keep us out of trouble. The first part worked. The second, not so much—at least in mine and Anna Rose’s stories. Jorja didn’t do so bad, but then, she loves Jesus more than we do,” Taryn muttered as she got out of her vehicle.

A soft breeze ruffled the petunia blossoms in the hanging baskets on either side of the door into the shop. Nana Irene had taught her that some plants could withstand the hot western sun of the Texas Panhandle in early summer, but nothing would survive the scorch of July and August. Taryn made a mental note to take the baskets inside before that time came. She opened the door, heard the familiar jingle of the bells, and did her best to put a smile on her face.

Anna Rose looked up from behind the counter and frowned. “It’s about time you got here. We’ve got a funeral on Wednesday, and we’re swamped. I’ve been running back and forth between making a wreath in the back room and coming up here to take orders.”

“I’m ready to go to work.” Taryn wedged her purse beside two others on the shelf under the counter. One was pink with a Bible verse embroidered on the front. The leather one beside it was embellished with sparkly gemstones. “Where is Jorja?”

“She’s in the back. We’re taking turns waiting on customers.” Anna Rose tucked a strand of her curly chestnut-brown hair up into the messy bun on top of her head. She wore skinny jeans with a top that hugged her curvy body and showed just a little bit of cleavage. Her green eyes—the only thing all three cousins had inherited from their Irish roots—twinkled with mischief, just like always.

“Isn’t this awesome?” Jorja came out from the back room with a big smile on her face and wrapped Taryn up in a hug. “God is really good to give us this time together.”

Except for the eyes, no one would have ever guessed that Jorja was related to the other two women. She was tall and slender, and she wore her blonde hair in two thick braids that wrapped around her head like a crown. Somewhere, there was a nice figure, but Jorja hid it under what folks called mom jeans and a baggy chambray shirt that buttoned up the front. Taryn knew because she’d seen Jorja in a swimsuit before they all grew up and split seven ways to Sunday, as her grandmother had often complained.

Jorja took a step back. “We’re making the flowers for poor Miz Leona Gatlin. She only needed a few days to reach her hundredth birthday, but the Lord decided it was time to take her home.” Her tone reminded Taryn of the day they had found a dead bird on the porch of the trailer and Jorja insisted that they bury the poor thing and have a funeral. Anna Rose had dug a shallow grave with a spoon she borrowed from the kitchen. Jorja had wrapped the bird in a paper towel and said a few words over him—and her voice sounded the same this morning, even though more than twenty years had passed.

Anna Rose rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and pursed her full lips. Evidently, she was already tired of listening to religion, but Jorja was probably tired of listening to bar stories and jokes. Taryn just nodded and hoped they each took that to mean she understood.

“Well, I suppose . . . ,” Taryn started, but stopped when a tall man with black hair darkened the doorway.

“Hello,” he drawled as he stuck out his hand. “I’m Clinton McEntire. You must be Taryn.”

She shook hands with him. “Yes, I am, and I understand that you’ll be here, too, until Nana Irene can come back to work?”

“That’s right. Miz Irene gave me a job delivering flowers for her after I left the military last fall. When we didn’t have deliveries, she and Ruby taught me the business,” he answered. “I’m just part-time here, but Irene wants me to work full-time at least until the end of summer.”

“She usually knows what’s best,” Taryn said. “I understand that we’ve got a funeral this week, so I guess we’d better get busy.” She headed toward the back room, where all the work went on.

Clinton moved to the side to let her pass and then followed her. Nana Irene hadn’t told her that he had a limp—or that he was one of those tall, dark, and handsome guys Taryn was attracted to. Thank goodness he wasn’t wearing tight-fitting jeans and boots, or Anna Rose would have already staked a claim. Not that Taryn was thinking about flirting with him—oh, no. Never. She had a steadfast rule about dating men whom she worked with. Even though the last fiasco had been several years before, she remembered what could and did happen when things went south in a relationship, and she still had to work with the fellow. Nana Irene’s favorite saying, Don’t shit where you eat, came to mind. That applied to life in general, for sure.