“Who locks up? And what if I get here on Monday before anyone else? Do you think I should have a key?”
“Well, the last person to leave usually locks the door, and we all have keys.” He scratched his head. “Ask Bentley about that on Monday.” He smiled. “Just don’t get here before eight. That’s when she arrives, and she’s always the first.”
Before heading out the door, I checked in my bag to make sure that Marlette’s flower was still tucked between the pages of Can’t Take the Heat.
The Secret Garden was on Sweetbay Road, just past the railway station. Walking along the cobblestoned High Street, I turned right at the fountain, making my way toward Walden Woods Circle. I loved walking past these charming cottages, left over from the town’s Illumination days, when they served as spacious rental units for a contemplative retreat site. As part of Inspiration Valley’s refurbishment, these cabins were renovated and sold as private homes. Painted in an assortment of pastel colors, their tiny gardens were enclosed with white picket fences, and although there was an element of sameness about the neighborhood, each home had its unique character.
My heart went aflutter when I saw a For Sale sign in front of a creamy yellow house with blue shutters. Its garden was filled with abundant hydrangea bushes ready to bloom, and the path leading toward the house was made up of stepping-stones in the shapes of leaves. I wondered if I could afford this endearing cottage and jotted down the phone number of Ruthie Watson, whose name was listed on the Sherlock Homes Realty sign in bold blue letters.
When the picket fences ended, I turned onto Sweetbay and found myself walking next to an old stone wall covered with trumpet vines. It led to the entrance of the Secret Garden, an arched double gate with pink and white roses climbing up trellises on either side. The wooden doors stood open, revealing pathways leading to various sections—trees, shrubs, garden plants, supplies. For a moment, I felt like Frances Hodgson Burnett’s heroine, Mary Lennox. Gazing around the blooming paradise, I whispered, “‘She liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place.’”
A man in denim overalls was watering plants but paused to wave as I passed by. Knowing that Addison worked in the gift shop, I headed straight there, even though I was intrigued by the many colors and species of flora outside.
A little bell jangled as I opened the door, and I was instantly surrounded by a plethora of floral scents.
A young woman stood behind the counter arranging irises in a vase as she chatted with a handsome man I immediately recognized as Carson Knight, the literary agency’s charming author. Surprised to see him back from New York already, I hesitated, not wanting to interrupt the obvious camaraderie between Carson and the pretty garden center employee. She was petite and dainty and wore an apron printed with wildflowers, which she smoothed coquettishly before giving Carson a playful poke on the arm. He laughed, reached over the counter, gave the long, tawny braid that hung over her shoulder a brief, playful tug, and then exited through a side door.
By the time I drew up in front of the counter, the young woman was still grinning, wispy curls escaping around her face. Freckles dotted her nose, and her blue gray eyes sparkled as she looked away from the flowers to smile at me. “Can I help you?”
Placing my bag on the counter, I rooted around inside for Can’t Take the Heat. “Yes, I have a flower I’d like you to identify. Are you Addison Eckhart?”
“I am. Do I know you?”
“No, not yet.” My fingers finally closed around the book’s spine, and as I pulled it free from the rest of my clutter, the bag fell, scattering a hairbrush, a packet of tissues, and query letters all over the floor. Muttering over my clumsiness, I dropped the book on the counter and bent down to retrieve all that had fallen.
“Let me help you,” Addison said as she came around and proceeded to pick up papers. Rising, she straightened the pile she’d collected and glanced at the letter on top. “Do you work at Novel Idea?” She handed them to me. I felt like a giant standing beside her.
My cheeks flushed. I put the pages back into my bag. “As a matter of fact, I’m the new intern. I just started today. I’m Lila Wilkins.”
“Is that why you’re here?” She looked a little disgruntled. “I thought you wanted to ask me about a flower.”