CHAPTER 9
I ’m curled up in bed with a romance novel I found on the bookshelf, letting the steady patter of rain against the window soothe my frazzled nerves. Another nightmare jolted me awake before my alarm had the chance to, and now I’m trying to lose myself in this story. I don’t want to give Matt more power over me. Over my moods. Over my peace. So instead of obsessing over the bad dream, I’m attempting to redirect my mind toward made-up stories with a happy ending.
Even though I have to drop Sophie off with Ms. Lucy and head to the flower shop for my first day of work soon I can’t help but steal a few more minutes with my book.
Suddenly, a massive thunderclap vibrates the house. Sophie bolts upright in our shared bed, her eyes impossibly wide and tears already streaming down her face as she clutches Mr. Hoppy close to her chest.
“Mama!” she cries, scrambling over to my side.
“Oh baby, come here.” I set my book aside and scoop her into my arms. “It’s alright, it’s alright.” I stroke her wild hair down. “You know what that sound means, right?”
She shakes her head, burying her face in my neck.
“Well,” I say, pulling back so I can look into her eyes, “that’s just God bowling up in heaven. When you hear that big boom? That means He just got a strike, and all those pins are scattering around.”
Her tears still flow as she processes this. “Really?”
“Really really,” I say, wiping her cheeks dry. “Want me to do your hair?”
She nods and turns around settling cross-legged in front of me on the bed. I run my fingers through her tangled bed head, I can tell she’s still scared, her shoulders are tense as she clutches Mr. Hoppy to her chest.
“Did you have good dreams?” I ask, carefully working out a stubborn knot.
Sophie nods, her little shoulders relaxing slightly. “I dreamed about butterflies, Mama. Big ones with purple wings.”
“Purple butterflies? That sounds magical.” I separate her hair into sections.
“They were dancing in a garden.” Sophie’s voice grows animated as the thunder momentarily fades. “And there was a bunny just like Mr. Hoppy, but real! He was hopping around and eating carrots.”
I smile against the back of her head. “That does sound like a wonderful dream.”
“And you were there too, Mama.” Sophie turns slightly, peeking up at me. “You were growing pretty flowers, and you weren’t sad.”
My hands pause. A lump quickly forms in my throat.
“And there was someone giving the bunny carrots. And–” She stops herself, and my heart clenches.
“That sounds like the best dream ever, baby girl” I resume braiding, keeping my voice light despite the heaviness in my chest.
“Can I draw the butterflies later?” She asks, clutching Mr. Hoppy tighter as another rumble of thunder, more distant now, rolls through the sky.
“Of course you can. Ms. Lucy told me she got some new markers and crayons you can use while I’m at work today.” I secure the braid with a hair tie and kiss the top of her head. “All done, princess. Now, let’s get you dressed and have some breakfast before we have to go.”
She turns and wraps her little arms around my neck. “I love you, Mama.”
“I love you more than all the butterflies in the world,” I whisper back, holding her close.
The rain continues to fall outside our cozy little home, but Sophie’s fear has transformed into excitement with each rumble of thunder. Sometimes the simplest explanations are the best ones, and watching her imagination turn something scary into something magical makes my heart full. These are the moments I want to remember, the ones that make all the hard times worth it.
I maneuver through the cool room, checking order slips and carefully transferring arrangements from the cooler to the delivery van. The gentle hum of the cooling system provides a soothing backdrop as I work methodically. Five deliveries today, not too bad considering the gloomy weather.
I pause my loading when Mary Beth appears at the cooler door. She watches me work for a moment, a gentle smile on her face.
“How are you feeling about the deliveries today, Bailey? Not too many, but that’s good for your first run.”
“I think I’ve got it,” I say, carefully positioning a vibrant arrangement of sunflowers and daisies in the van’s cargo hold. “The addresses are all programmed in my phone.”
She nods, leaning against the doorframe. “Just so you know, sometimes folks invite you inside to help place the arrangement. Especially the older customers or for special occasions.” She adjusts her glasses. “Just use your best judgment. If something feels off, you can always say you have more deliveries waiting.”
My stomach tightens slightly at the thought of entering strangers’ homes, but I force a smile. “Got it.”
“Oh, and when you get back,” she continues, “I’ll need your help prepping tomorrow’s arrangements. We’ve got that big wedding order coming up, and those centerpieces won’t build themselves.”
“Yes ma’am. Sophie’s at Ms. Lucy’s until three, so I’ve got plenty of time.” Even though I’m missing my daughter like crazy I know she’s in good hands.
Mary Beth’s eyes soften. “That little girl of yours is precious.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a genuine smile spread across my face.
“You’re doing good, Bailey. Real good and I’m here if you ever need to talk”
I nod, grateful for her kindness but still cautious about getting too comfortable. A couple weeks in this small Texas town, and I’m still looking over my shoulder, still startling at loud noises, still wondering if Matt will somehow find us.
“Thanks, Mary Beth. I’ll be back as soon as I can to help with those arrangements.”
“Thank you.” She waves at me as I close the vans door and climb into the driver’s seat.
The rain hasn’t let up, but I don’t mind. There’s something peaceful about it.
The first four deliveries go smoothly, a birthday arrangement at the Urgent Care, anniversary flowers to the bank manager, a sympathy piece to a funeral home, and a cheerful mixed bouquet to the elderly care facility. I check my last delivery slip and input the address into my phone. It’s not far from where I am now, just a few streets over in one of those charming older neighborhoods with big oak trees lining the sidewalks.
Rain drums steadily on the van’s roof as I drive, and I find myself humming along to the radio. The wipers keep time with the music, and I can’t help but smile. Even on a dreary day like this, there’s something special about delivering flowers that keep this smile on my face.
I slow down as I approach the house, double-checking the address against my slip. It’s a cute craftsman-style home with what looks to be an overgrown garden.
I put the van in park and make my way to the back doors. I carefully lift the arrangement, a stunning mix of blue hydrangeas and white roses, from the holder the vase was placed in. The card tells me they’re for a Mr. Locke, and I shield the flowers with my body as I hurry up the walkway to avoid the steady drizzle.
The small porch offers welcome shelter, and I take a moment to check the arrangement one more time. Working with Mary Beth at the flower shop has taught me to be meticulous about the details. I press the doorbell and hear it chime inside, followed by the slow shuffle of footsteps.
The door opens to reveal an older gentleman, probably in his mid-eighties, with kind eyes and the purest white hair I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing a maroon cardigan despite the warmth of this dreary summer day, and his smile reminds me of Ms. Lucy’s, warm and inviting, with that same gentle wisdom in his eyes.
“Hello,” I say brightly, brushing a few raindrops from my sleeve. “I have a delivery for Mr. Locke.”
His face lights up when he sees the flowers, weathered cheeks crinkling with joy. “That would be me, dear. Come in, come in, you’re getting soaked out there.”
I hesitate for just a moment, Mary Beth said to use my best judgment about entering homes, but his grandfatherly demeanor helps put me at ease. Plus, the rain is starting to pick up again, drumming steadily against the tiny porch roof now.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping into a cozy living room filled with photos and well-loved furniture. The air smells of coffee and something sweet. “These are from Magnolia Blooms. Where would you like me to set them?”
“Oh, those are just beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, hands clasped together at his chest. “Right there on the coffee table in between those two chairs would be perfect. My Laura always loved hydrangeas.”
I place the arrangement carefully on the indicated table, noting the black and white wedding photo prominently displayed on the worn wood surface. A much younger Mr. Locke stands proudly dressed in his Sunday best beside a beautiful woman with a simple but elegant wedding gown, her veil trailing behind her down the weathered steps of a small brick church.
“Today would have been our sixtieth anniversary,” he says softly, answering my unspoken question, his eyes never leaving the photograph. “I order flowers every year, just like I used to bring them home to her. Mary Beth always knows exactly what to create.”
My heart swells with emotion, and I force myself to swallow past the lump forming in my throat.
“The blue hydrangeas matched her eyes perfectly,” he continues, reaching out to touch one of the blooms gently with trembling fingers. “She used to tend the most beautiful hydrangea bushes in our front yard. Haven’t had the heart to maintain them since she passed five years ago. The garden just isn’t the same without her singing to the flowers every morning.”
I notice his hands trembling slightly as he adjusts the arrangement. “These are absolutely perfect.” He smiles and then looks up at me, “Would you like some tea, dear? It’s awful weather to be out delivering flowers.”
“That’s very kind,” I say, checking my watch. Mary Beth won’t mind if I take a few extra minutes, especially on a day like today. “I’d love some tea.”
Mr. Locke shuffles to the kitchen, and I follow, taking in the cheerful yellow walls and the collection of teacups displayed in a corner cabinet. He moves slowly but purposefully, filling an electric kettle and pulling out a tin of Earl Grey.
“My wife was English you see,” he explains, measuring out the loose tea. “She taught me proper tea can cure almost anything, even a broken heart.” He pauses, a trembling smile playing at his lips. “Though I’m not sure she was entirely right about that last part.”
We sit at his small kitchen table, the rain creating a cozy backdrop to our conversation. He tells me about meeting his late wife in London during his time in the military, their whirlwind romance, and their life together here in this very house. I listen intently knowing that it’s what he needs right now.
“It does my heart good to meet young people like you,” he says, patting my hand. “Reminds me that there’s still kindness in the world.”
I pause at the connection, but his demeanor reminds me I’m okay. I give him a warm smile in return.
When I finally stand to leave, the rain is still steadily pouring, and he walks me to the front door and grabs a black umbrella from a coat rack hook and hands it to me.
“Here you go.” He takes my hand and places it on the wood handle.
“Oh, Mr. Locke, thank you but I’m okay, really.”
“Sweet girl, my Laura would have my head if I let you walk out in this rain without it,” he says with a gentle and insistent tone. “She always said an umbrella was like a helping hand, you should never hesitate to offer either.”
I can see there’s no arguing with him, so I accept the umbrella gratefully, stepping out onto his covered front porch and I open the black umbrella, its fabric stretching taut against the metal ribs. I can’t help but return a smile at his kindness.
“Thank you for the tea,” I say, “and for sharing your stories about your wife.”
“Thank you for listening, dear. Sometimes an old man just needs someone to talk to.” He looks at the flowers one more time. “Please tell Mary Beth she outdid herself. These are exactly what I needed today.”
As I walk back to the van, I find myself blinking back tears. This moment, this unexpected connection, this made every delivery today worth it. I make a mental note to tell Mary Beth about Mr. Locke’s reaction to the arrangement, knowing it will make her day as much as it made mine.
Starting the van, I take one last look at the house. He stands at the window, adjusting the flowers, and I wave before pulling away.
I’m halfway back to the shop and the rain has picked up quite a bit and the wipers automatically pick up speed. I’m stopped at a red light when my phone rings through the van’s Bluetooth. Assuming it’s Ms. Lucy, I press the button on the steering wheel to answer the call without looking at the screen.
“Hello?”
Nothing but silence greets me. The sound of rain against the windshield suddenly seems too loud.
“Hello?” I try again, my voice smaller this time.
The line goes dead with a click that seems to echo in the small space. My hands tremble slightly as I pick up my phone to check the call log. Unknown number. My heart rate slowly returns to normal as I reason it out, probably just another spam call. Telemarketers are relentless.
Still, something about the silence…
I shake my head, pushing away the creeping anxiety. I’m being silly. It’s just a wrong number or a robocall that glitched because of the weather. Nothing more, I tell myself, clinging to the logic even if it doesn’t fully settle the nerves curling in my stomach.
The light turns green. My instincts are still screaming at me to call Emma or Lisa. I need to know if Matt’s shown his face again. My fingers drum anxiously against the steering wheel as I try to calm my nerves. They’ve both been through enough already after the last time he confronted them, and I hate the idea of reopening that wound. Still, I can’t shake the feeling, something isn’t right.
I head back toward the shop, trying to focus on the next few hours. Mary Beth will be there with her cheerful smile and endless knowledge about flowers. Maybe she’ll show me a new arrangement technique while we prep tomorrow’s orders.
But the thought doesn’t bring the usual comfort. The knot in my stomach stays tight, and even as I pull into the parking lot, that uneasy whisper in the back of my mind refuses to go quiet.