3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Joe
I’ve barely been back in Honeysuckle Ridge for twenty-four hours, and already, my mother is scheming.
I stand in the kitchen of my childhood home, cradling a steaming mug of coffee while snow flurries dance outside the window. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla lingers in the air—Mom’s signature candle choice this time of year. The familiar creak of the old wooden floors under my socked feet is oddly comforting, a stark contrast to the luxury condo I own in Louisville.
I stare out the kitchen window, longing to play in the snow like I did as a kid. Louisville mostly gets rain in February. Freezing, miserable rain. But Honeysuckle Ridge gets proper snowfall. A thick blanket of snow covers the ground and gathers on trees and rooftops, making the entire town look like something out of a snow globe.
If nothing else, being home means I can enjoy the winter the way it’s meant to be. I f only I didn’t have the bitter sting of defeat weighing me down.
We didn’t even make the playoffs. Ouch. Worse than that, my performance was questioned at every turn. The media started whispering that I wasn’t worth my record-breaking contract. That I’d peaked too soon. That my best seasons were already behind me.
I clench my jaw and take another sip of coffee, forcing myself to push the thoughts away. Dwelling on it won’t change the past. I have to be better next year, simple as that.
"Joseph, are you even listening to me?"
Mom’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I turn to find her standing at the stove, flipping pancakes with the same no-nonsense expression she’s worn my entire life. Maureen Matthews doesn’t tolerate sulking, even from her grown son.
"I’m listening," I lie.
She narrows her eyes. "Oh, really? What did I just say?"
I scramble for an answer but come up blank. Mom sighs, setting the spatula down before crossing her arms over her chest.
"I said, since you’re home, you can help deliver the Quarterback Cupid flower arrangements this year."
I groan. "Mom…"
"Don’t ‘Mom’ me. You started this charity, remember?"
"Yeah, but I’ve never delivered the flowers myself. Aren’t there volunteers who handle it?"
Mom purses her lips. “No. The florist handles it all herself.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Isn’t that a lot for one person?”
“We pay her well,” Mom says, waving her spatula dismissively.
I shrug. “Well, there you go. The florist is fully capable of handling the deliveries without me.”
"This year, you’re going to help her," she insists, completely unfazed by my protest. "People in this town love you, Joseph. Whether you have a winning season or not. You need to see that.”
I exhale heavily, rubbing the back of my neck. She isn’t wrong. Quarterback Cupid started as a simple idea. It was a way to honor my late grandmother, who always made Valentine’s Day special, even when money was tight. When I was a kid, she worked in the cafeteria at the local nursing home. And the day after Valentine’s Day, she’d buy the discounted flowers to deliver to the nursing home residents. I loved going with her to make those deliveries.
Everyone loves flowers, Joe. See how they brighten a person’s day? And I did see. The residents all looked happier—and younger —after we gifted them with a lovely bouquet.
After Gram passed, I wanted to keep that spirit alive. So, I started the little charity, funding deliveries of floral arrangements to the nursing home in my hometown. But I’ve never been the one handing them out. I’ve never done that without Gram by my side.
Mom must sense my hesitation because her expression softens. "Your grandmother would be so proud of you. She loved Valentine’s Day so much.”
I sigh, defeated. "Fine. I’ll do it.”
Mom’s lips twitch in triumph as she plates a stack of golden pancakes. "Good. Now eat. You’ll need your energy."
I sit at the table, watching the snow fall outside as I smother my pancakes in syrup. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe this is exactly what I need to get out of my own head.
And if nothing else, at least it will keep me busy.
“How old is Mrs. Greenlee now?” I ponder, thinking of the florist. I remember buying a corsage for my prom date in her shop and thinking she resembled a mummy. So, she must be very old now. “She probably shouldn’t be handling the deliveries on her own, anyway—even if we are paying her well for it.”
Mom shakes her head incredulously. “You really need to come home more often, Joe. Mrs. Greenlee retired years ago.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling a bit sheepish. “So, who owns Greenlee’s Flowers now?”
“Ella’s Blooms,” Mom corrects. “An old classmate of yours owns it, actually.”
I nearly choke on a bite of pancake. “Ella Banks?”
Mom nods. “That’s right.” She narrows her eyes at me, looking like a wolf on the hunt. “Were you friends?”
“Not really,” I admit. “But I remember her. She was very artsy. Last I heard, she was planning to move to New York to pursue an art career.”
Mom shrugs. “I guess she settled on floral design.”
“I guess so,” I say, taking another bite of pancake, and remembering Ella. She was quiet but smart. Whenever the teachers called on her, she always knew the answer. But what I remember most about her is that she was always drawing—on her notebook, on her locker, on her backpack. She even doodled on her shoes. And she was beautiful . I was Mr. Cocky back then. At least, I pretended to be.
Still do, if I’m honest.
But Ella was the one girl who always intimidated me. We didn’t talk much, but when we did, I always felt like her moss-green eyes could see right through me.
“Does she still have purple hair?” I ask Mom.
Mom’s face scrunches like she’s bitten into a lemon. “It’s pink now.” She says pink like it’s the nastiest of all the four-letter words.
Pink, huh? I’m glad some of that artsy spirit still remains in Ella, even now.
And for the first time in weeks, I feel a genuine smile stretch across my face.