“What the hell?” I murmur under my breath as I do a spin. I was only gone for half an hour. One of the delivery guys brushes past me and sets another vase on the staircase, then heads back outside to the van.
I grab one of them by the arm, a young guy in his teens. “Excuse me, who sent these?”
“They’re for some guy’s fiancée, Emmy.”
“That’s me.”
He grins. “Congrats. We’ve got another van coming, miss. I gave the note he sent to Babs.”
Everyone seems to know Babs. I’m not surprised he’s already found out her name.
“Did you say there was another van?” I ask loudly, then take a breath and settle. “No. Just no. It’s already a forest in here. We can’t take any more flowers. I need room for customers. I need room to work.”
The delivery guy fidgets. “Um, you don’t want them?”
I wave my arm around the store. “I have enough. What do you think?”
He gives me a lopsided grin. “I think someone must be crazy about you.”
Hardly. He’s just making a point. And all because Kian left me calla lilies.
Babs dashes toward me, smiling for all she’s worth as she waves a white envelope. “Aren’t they just gorgeous? Girl. What did you do to that man that he sent these? You must be a tiger in the sack. Roar!” She claws the air and does a little hip thrust.
Oh dear. I rub my temples as I turn to the delivery guy. “Do me a favor, please. Deliver the rest of them to the nearest hospital, and ask them to give them to patients who don’t get visitors.”
He looks uncertain.
“Please. They’re my flowers, and that’s what I want.”
He nods and turns away from me to make the phone call.
Babs pouts. “What? You’re not taking all of them? Are you crazy? The man loves you. He just wants you to know.”
Not true.
“I need some decaf tea,” I say as I head to the kitchen, with her following on my heels.
“Do you want the note?”
I take it from her hand and rip it open.
Darling,
You need another favorite flower. No more calla lilies.
Your future husband
I whip out my phone and send him a text.
With what you spent on flowers, I could have bought a small car.
But not a Lamborghini. Did you pick a favorite yet?
No.
Then I’ll send more tomorrow.
I groan aloud as I grab a croissant and take a bite. My future husband is a stubborn man.
I sent the last of them to the hospital for the sick people. Flowers eventually wilt and die, and then I’ll have a huge mess to clean up. I think you might be jealous of the secret flowers someone left me, I send.
Please. He’s not worthy. Pick. A. Flower. Darling.
I’ve been called Darling my whole life. Is that going to be your nickname for me?
Yes. It suits you.
Okay, Creamy.
Which flower?
I go back out into the store and gaze around. A large pink-and-orange bouquet full of roses and peonies is on the counter, and I touch one of the silky petals. It smells divine.
Peonies, I text back.
Why?
I groan louder this time as I type. They make me happy. I like their shape. Enough?
Peonies it is. See you soon.
Shaking my head, I go to my office.
It’s late in the afternoon and I’m going through invoices when Babs pokes her head in. her shoulders slumped. Her makeup is a complete mess from crying, and one of her lashes is missing.
“Everything okay?” I ask gently. Even though the sale isn’t final yet, Terry cleaned out his office earlier today and left to go fishing. She hasn’t recovered.
“Are you free? Your sister is here.”
Jane sneaks through the door. “Of course she is. I don’t need an appointment. And why does the store look like a florist? I could barely get in the front door.”
“Yes, they’re from Graham. It’s fine, Babs. Thank you,” I tell her.
Babs nods, sniffing. “All right. Do you still want me to give away a bouquet with each fifty-dollar purchase?”
“Yes,” I say. “And tell the staff they can take whatever they want home.”
She sighs. “Fine. I’ll bring you both some tea.”
My office is a good size, with a couch, my desk, and two big filing cabinets. Jane plops down on the couch and picks up a decorative pillow, her fingers threading through the tassels on the corners. She looks pale and ashen, as if she didn’t sleep well. Still, she manages to be pretty, even in joggers and a ratty Clash shirt.
“What’s going on?” I ask, settling back in my chair. She barely spoke to me last night after we came home. She read some books to Londyn, put her to bed, then went to her room. Andrew, on the other hand, forced me to watch football on ESPN. Apparently, if I’m going to marry Graham, I need a better grasp of the game.
She looks down at her hands. “I just wanted to see you. And talk. I was bitchy yesterday, and not cute, sisterly bitchy but ugly, bitcherly bitchy. I’m sorry I was rude to Graham. You are your own person, after all, but I don’t know him very well, and it makes me nervous.”
“Graham was an unexpected surprise. You reacted.”
“Hmm, yeah.” She chews on her lip.
“So? He sent me lots of flowers. He’s rich. I could do worse.” I shuffle papers around on my desk so she won’t realize my anxiousness.
“Let’s forget about him for a moment.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
Her eyes get a faraway look in them. “I woke up this morning, thinking about the past. Remember when we were little, and you played those hiding games with us—to protect us? I mean, I was a toddler, but I knew you were taking us to safe places.”
My throat tightens. “Yes.” The closet, the attic, under the bed . . .
Her hands clench around the pillow. “I remember the night you ran with us to the neighbor’s shed. I only recall it because Charlotte’s Web was on TV, and I didn’t want to miss it.”
“Your favorite book.”
Her eyes flick up at me. “It’s our favorite, me and you and Andrew.”
“If the Darling family had a crest, it would be a pig and a spider.”
“Even though you’d read the story to us tons of times, I kept thinking that Wilbur was going to die in the show, and you kept telling me he wouldn’t.” Her lip quivers, and tears glisten in her eyes. “Then Dad hit Mom right in front of us. I couldn’t see the TV because of them, and then you did what you always did—you snuck us out of the room and went to the shed next door. It was dark and cold and smelled like gasoline.”
Oh, sweet Jane . . .
My heart breaks.
“Mr. Brenner kept his lawnmowers there,” I say softly.
“You cleared us out a spot, or maybe it was already cleared out, but you made us a bed out of something . . .”
My lashes flutter as I recall the wooden shed that thankfully never had a lock on it. “Drop cloths, I think. He kept paint in there too.”
A wry sound comes from her. “Somehow you’d managed to grab my stuffed pig on the way out, and you gave him to me and said that as long as we had Wilbur, we’d be okay.”