April Flowers (The Coleman #12)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

V alentine’s Day at the flower shop was not for the faint of heart. Neither was being a small business owner on the most lucrative day of the year. From four thirty in the morning till seven o’clock at night, Margot was on her feet, greeting delivery drivers, double- and triple-checking orders, and writing “I love you” notes till her hand cramped. Through the speakers, her employee, Gabby, pumped her favorite love songs—“Let’s Stay Together,” and “At Last!” and “Love Will Keep Us Together.” Songs that made visitors blush or cry out, “I love this one.” Everyone was in high spirits. Everyone was either in love or wanted to be. Everyone except, of course, for Margot—but she preferred it that way.

She was in love with her flower shop. She was in love with her lonely life.

It had been fifteen years since Margot opened Margot’s Blooms, a boutique flower shop in a trendy and beautiful area of Boston called Beacon Hill. On opening day, she’d been only twenty-three years old, a bright-eyed entrepreneur who struggled her way through her first few years only to be named “one of the best business owners in Boston” by the time she hit twenty-seven. At thirty-eight, Margot's Blooms ran smoothly, providing customers with premium flowers and thoughtful notes for all holidays.

“Do you think we’ll survive?” Gabby, her one and only beloved employee, gasped around noon, whisking past Margot on her way to the back.

“We’ll survive, all right,” Margot said, laughing.

Gabby tied her hair into a loose bun and pulled a bouquet of roses from the top shelf. From where Margot stood, it looked as though they still had hundreds of rose-filled bouquets to give out. The smell was overpowering.

During odd times of the year, the scent of rose perfume on women would trigger Valentine’s Day flashbacks for Margot.

“What about your Valentine’s plans?” Margot asked Gabby now, licking an envelope and sealing it with expert precision. In it, she’d written a love note from a husband to a wife: To another fifty years!

Gabby blushed. “Matt is taking me to that new Italian restaurant around the corner. I told him I didn’t want to go far into the city after the day here. Dinner, wine, and then sleep!”

“He’s a keeper,” Margot said of Matt, whom Gabby had met here in the flower shop.

“What about you?” Gabby asked. “Are you going out with Pete?”

Margot’s heart stopped for a moment. Her hands were clammy.

“Uh-oh,” Gabby said, throwing Margot an eye roll. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Margot said, flaring her nostrils. Gabby was a full ten years younger than Margot, but when it came to relationships, she often spoke to Margot as though Margot was a great deal younger and sillier than she was. Maybe, from most people’s perspectives, this was true. Margot hadn’t had many long-term relationships. But it wasn’t that Margot got dumped all the time. Margot almost always did the dumping.

Nobody was good enough for Margot. Nobody fit well into her life. And she was fine with that.

“But are you going out with him tonight?” Gabby asked.

“I told him I would be exhausted,” Margot said, remembering a strained conversation over the phone. “So he insisted on cooking for me later.”

“That’s so romantic!” Gabby cried.

Margot shot Gabby a look that meant I don’t want to talk about it right now .

But at that moment, there was a distraction. Andy Brennen, one of her longtime regulars and a man in his late sixties, came into the shop wearing a frantic expression. Margot recognized it immediately because she’d already seen it fifty times that day. He’d forgotten Valentine’s. He’d forgotten to get anything for his wife.

“I don’t know what to do, Margot,” Andy muttered, bowing his head, ashamed of himself. “Stacy does everything for me, and I can’t even get my mind around a couple of flowers? A few chocolates? Am I a failure of a partner?”

Margot shook her head, teasing him. “Oh, Andy. What are we going to do with you?” But in a flash, she disappeared and returned with a bouquet she’d already set aside for Andy and Stacy. Just yesterday, it occurred to her that Andy had forgotten to order flowers. And because she loved Andy and Stacy, loved their love, and was well-practiced in writing handwritten notes from Andy to Stacy, she’d taken the opportunity to scribe something simple for him: I love you to the moon and back, my dear. Here’s to another beautiful year around the sun together. Yours, A.

Andy read the little notecard and blushed. “You’ve done more for my marriage than I can say.”

Margot waved her hand. “It’s my pleasure.”

She wasn’t lying. She genuinely loved love—as long as that love belonged to other people.

Was that why she’d gotten into the florist business in the first place? No, she guessed not. She guessed it had to do more with the garden she’d previously kept at her parents’ place. It had been her happy place, a place that, with enough sun and water and TLC, she could control.

From a young age, it had troubled Margot to realize that she could control so little in life. Things just happened to everyone, both bad things and good things, and it all seemed so random. But there was no randomness when it came to owning a flower shop. The same holidays came around at the same time every day. Roses were red, yellow, white, and pink. Lilies were always white.

In the same way, the years of Margot’s life had gone by predictably and safely.

At seven o’clock that evening, Gabby swung the Open sign to Closed and locked the door. Exaggerating her exhaustion, she fell against the counter and loosened her hair from its updo. Margot turned off the love song, and her ears rang in the silence that followed.

“Why did you turn that off?” Gabby asked, straightening up.

“I love those songs as much as anyone. But I think fifteen hours of them is enough,” Margot said.

Gabby giggled and removed her apron.

“What time is Matt coming to pick you up?” Margot asked, reaching for the broom to sweep up the petals and other debris.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Gabby and Margot turned to find Matt standing there with his own bouquet. Although Margot thought she might throw up if she saw another rose, Gabby didn’t look at all bothered by them. Gabby flung open the door, then leaped into Matt’s arms. Already, they were kissing. Margot tiptoed to her phone to play another love song, sensing that these lovers needed a soundtrack. She made sure to keep her eyes away from them, wanting to give them privacy as they whispered about their days and prepared to go.

“I have a few more things to tidy up,” Gabby told him.

Margot interjected. “I can take care of it. You two head out. Have fun.”

Gabby gave her a steely-eyed look, one that meant let me help you !

But Margot held fast. She wanted Gabby to grab a hold of her youth and vitality. She didn’t want her to let go of the magic she believed so desperately in.

You still believe in it! Margot wanted to say. Don’t you know how magical that is?

For the next forty-five minutes, Margot cleaned up. She switched the songs from lovey-dovey to normal indie rock with a hint of jazz. Her father, Frank, had loved jazz, and although it made her heart ache to remember him, she liked thinking of him in the living room with his head tilted, his eyes closed as he listened to his favorite songs. She liked remembering how much he loved lively piano solos and bass lines. She liked remembering him saying, “Margot, baby, listen to this. Really listen.” And she had, or she thought she had.

Suddenly, there was another knock on the door. Margot assumed Gabby had forgotten something, maybe her phone or her purse. But when she raised her chin, she found a familiar face gazing through the glass.

Her heart dropped like a stone into her stomach.

It was Pete.

She’d told him she would text him when she got home. (Actually, she’d been trying to come up with a good excuse to get out of tonight before then.)

Margot forced a smile and walked around the counter, trying not to react negatively to Pete because she didn’t have the energy for an argument. In his arms, he carried a bouquet and a box of chocolates. The flowers were from a shop three blocks away. She could tell because they always cut corners on their bouquets. They always added really cheap flowers and baby’s breath to fill them out. More than that, she genuinely didn’t care for the way they put their bouquets together. They always looked gaudy to her, like they didn’t really care.

Margot prided herself on caring about every single detail. Every single bouquet. That was why she was the best.

Margot unlocked the door and brought in a fresh and cold gush of air. Pete held out the flowers, his smile widening. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Margot heard herself laugh. She took the flowers and had the strangest reflex to throw them immediately into the trash. “Wow,” she said.

Pete blushed. “I know. The last thing you need is more flowers. But you’re always giving out flowers. When was the last time someone gifted flowers to you?”

Margot didn’t say, Last Valentine’s Day, Robert gave me an even worse bouquet than this. She’d never told Pete about Robert because she’d only dated Robert for three months, and three months didn’t seem long enough to merit a report. But she’d only been dating Pete for four at this point. Would she have to tell her next boyfriend (if there was one) about Pete?

“I figured it would be special,” he added.

“It is,” Margot hurried to say. “It’s really special.”

Margot stood there with the bouquet in her arms and wondered what to say next. A particularly wild jazz song came through the speakers, one that her father had loved. But Margot had never told Pete about her father. She’d hardly told him anything. When he’d asked her about her family, she’d said, “They’re back in Nantucket,” then stopped herself.

She’d wanted to laugh when he’d suggested they go to Nantucket to visit them this summer. Pete, still in her life by summer? That seemed outlandish.

“I got tons of supplies to cook for you tonight,” Pete said. “I spent over an hour at the grocery store.”

“Oh. That’s great.” As she’d been trying to come up with an excuse for tonight, she’d let herself dream of silence and a big empty bed.

“I’m going to make Italian,” he said.

It seemed everyone was eating Italian food on Valentine’s Day. Margot imagined that everyone was overstuffed with pasta and love.

“I have to finish a few things here,” Margot said, although she’d finished almost everything by then.

“Can I help you?”

Margot’s heart spasmed. She pressed her lips together. How could she get out of this?

But she found she couldn’t. Pete looked too hopeful. She put him to work with a few odd tasks that made him feel very important, like counting the cash register and taking out the trash. When finished, they walked back to her apartment around the corner, where Pete retrieved the ingredients for the Italian feast from his parked car. Once upstairs, Margot hurried to put the bouquet in a vase because she didn’t want Pete to think she didn’t care about the flowers. She did care about them, but only because she cared about all flowers individually. She always had. Even as a child, she’d picked dandelions from the fields of Nantucket. When she looked up from the vase, she found Pete already making himself at home in her kitchen, retrieving the good knives, the cutting board, and the olive oil. A shiver went down her spine.

Pete played love songs from the speaker. She wanted to turn them off.

“Sit down! Relax!” Pete instructed her. “What time did you get up this morning?”

“Three,” she said.

“Three! It’s insane.”

“Valentine’s Day at the flower shop is like the Super Bowl for florists,” she reminded him, sitting at the kitchen table and stretching her legs out as far as they would go. They ached. Because the bouquet on the table smelled so much like roses, she thought she might get sick. She repositioned the vase and poured herself a very big glass of wine.

“Can you pour me one, too?” Pete asked.

Margot felt as though she couldn’t do anything for anyone. But somehow, she managed to fill his glass and take it over to where he sliced onions. It was then he found a reason to kiss her—gently—for the first time that night. It made Margot want to burst into tears.

But somehow, she got through dinner. She drank a glass of wine, then poured another to drink with the pasta, and listened to Pete’s stories about work, about how his mother had called him to thank him for the chocolates he’d sent for Valentine’s Day, and about how his boss had told him privately he was considering quitting to spend more time with his children. This would put Pete in the position to take his job—which would bring about a much higher salary but more commitment.

“It makes me think, you know?” Pete said, wrapping pasta around his fork. “When I have children, I want to spend as much time as I can with them. I don’t want to miss a second. Maybe, down the line, that will mean I have to find a different position. Maybe that means I won’t make as much money as I do right now.” He shrugged.

Margot felt sleepy and loose. She very nearly allowed herself to ask Pete why he was talking to her about children. We’d never talked about children! We’d only been dating for four months!

But she realized this was probably the sort of thing couples were meant to talk about at four months. She was thirty-eight. He was forty. Most of the women Pete met on the app were probably asking him about children on the first or second date. Why hadn’t they ever talked about it?

Because I don’t know if I want them , she thought. I’ve never known.

Suddenly, it was clear that Pete wanted them. Suddenly, it was clear that if Margot was a better or kinder person, she would tell Pete right here and now about her ambivalence and fears regarding children and thus “release” him into the wild to find another woman, maybe a younger woman, a woman who definitely wanted them, and soon. Thirty-eight wasn’t the end of the road, but it was getting up there. She didn’t have a lot of time to decide.

But Pete was suddenly talking about his career ambitions. Margot took a big bite of pasta and chewed slowly, noting the care he’d taken with the spices and texture. He was good at cooking; he was good at almost everything. Right now, she couldn’t fully remember what he did for a living (something in finance?), but she knew he was good at that, too. Why wasn’t he with someone who actually liked him, who craved being with him and a future with him? Why wasn’t he with a better woman?

Maybe that’s why , Margot reasoned. He sensed she didn’t like him that much. Women probably threw themselves at him, so he was confused by me. Some part of him felt he had to win.

Margot had encountered that in men before. She felt guilty. She always felt they should get the breakup out of the way right now.

Suddenly, Margot’s phone was ringing. It surprised Margot. She usually didn’t take phone calls that didn’t relate to the flower shop, and nobody would make a business call at this hour.

“What’s that?” Pete asked. “Flower emergency?”

Margot tried to laugh and dug through the pockets of her coat for her phone. When she pulled it out, she was surprised to read Sam E.

Sam E.? Margot cursed her inability to write full names in her address book. Since she’d begun dating in Boston twenty years ago (ugh!), she’d dated several men named Sam. Sam Flint. Sam Willis. The Sam who worked at the other flower shop who’d recently made it big on the West Coast. But who was Sam E.?

It continued to ring.

“Are you going to answer it?” Pete laughed nervously. He probably thought it was an old lover (on Valentine’s Day, no less!) and that Margot was weighing up whether she should take it.

“Nah.” Margot let it go to voicemail and turned off the sound.

Pete breathed a sigh of relief and reached for the bottle of wine. “A little more?”

“Sure.” Margot managed a real smile. She was nearing the end of the night. She could go to sleep soon. Miraculously, she had tomorrow off. Gabby was managing the shop in the morning and closing it in the afternoon. She couldn’t wait.

But who was Sam E.? Maybe it was a butt dial. Maybe Sam E. was out there, remembering something beautiful that had happened between them many years ago, wondering if she wanted a late-night drink on Valentine’s Day.

Maybe.

But then a text came in that changed everything.

It was from Sam E.

Pete chuckled. “They won’t give up, will they?”

Margot didn’t respond. A name wiggled through the back of her mind. Sam E. Sam E. Who was that?

She opened it.

The text read: Hey Margot. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I reached out. Years and years! I regret how long it’s been. Could you give me a callback? I need to talk to you.

With love from your (ex) sister-in-law, Samantha Coleman