But when the first breath of warm spring weather touched the shores, it had been time to put all their winter plans into action. Those plans so carefully written up in bullet point lists and sublists in Truman’s special Thorn planner were ready to become reality. While Ash had made contacts about the flowers and the jars, Truman had gotten to work designing multiple Owl Island stickers for Ash to choose from. In the end, Ash loved them all, and they decided on three different designs that might appeal to all kinds of tourists.

There was one where a stern and vaguely spooky owl perched on a branch with the shoreline of the island behind it. One had a brightly colored background of wildflowers and a wise-looking great horned owl in the foreground. The last had a vintage-inspired drawing of Maine with the state tree and flower, the white pine, featured behind a small flying owl and lettering that looked like it was made of logs.

Truman had believed deeply in the product when he suggested it, but when the first ferry of tourists had touched down, he was awash with nervous energy. What if Ash had trusted him with this and his idea was a flop? He’d practically bitten his fingernails to the quick waiting, but soon enough, the shop bell tinkled and a family with two teenage daughters walked in, interested in the signs they’d seen around downtown about creating a signature souvenir bouquet.

Truman had smiled calmly and shown them how to create their bouquets, upselling to the parents as well, while inside he was swooning on a fainting couch with relief.

It had gone on like that through all of May and June, Ash barely able to keep up with the demand for wildflowers and making plans to grow his own the next year to supplement supply. Now, as they rolled toward July, Thorn was functioning like a well-oiled machine. They’d sold enough bouquets to cover the shop costs through the winter when it was slow—although Truman had a lot of ideas to help—and were now using some of the profit to expand the small collection of cards they’d begun carrying along with flowers.

The night before, Ash had even told Truman that he’d be excited to expand into other flower-related merchandise, a holdout that had up to that point been based more in fear (in Truman’s opinion) than lack of interest.

“Whoa, Tru, hang on.”

Ash grabbed Truman around the waist to steady him and took the flowers from his arms, placing them into the waiting tubs of water. Then he wound his arms around Truman’s waist from behind and nuzzled his chin in Truman’s neck. “Damn, you smell good,” he said.

Truman turned in his arms and squeezed him tight. “So do you.”

Ash’s smell was something that he now got to savor every morning and night.