Chapter Six #3
Flora rolled her eyes. Finn was back at school on the East Coast, and this seemed like a lie. Especially since there was no one around to counter her claims.
“Good for you.”
“You don’t believe me? Well, I’ve got proof. I know he’s a good kisser now, and no one else knows that around here, unless you’ve got a secret too…” She eyed Flora even more devilish now. “But by the looks of it, I can assume I’m safe.”
She motioned to Flora’s hair.
“No, I totally believe you,” Flora replied flatly, hoping she’d go away.
“Then why the face?”
“I’m doing math homework and you’re interrupting me with this story that I didn’t ask for and, honestly, don’t care if it’s real or fake. You’re nineteen. Aren’t you supposed to be in college or something? Not telling tall tales to the local fourteen-year-old.”
“Make fun all you want, four eyes, but I did it.”
“Four eyes. Wow. Original.”
It seemed like a highly unlikely story, but Flora had never known the truth. Though ever since that unfortunate encounter, she’d been dying to know if it had happened and if Finn’s exterior was the truth or nothing more than a performance.
A while later, Finn emerged from the pilot’s cabin.
His eyes landed on Flora, who was in the corner reading.
Somehow, she’d done exactly the thing he didn’t want her to do— sit in the corner with her book raised and ignore him completely.
She didn’t even look up when he entered the cabin.
He looked at her for a moment longer, wondering if she was as brave as she seemed, and decided to test her. He sat directly across from her.
She didn’t look up. She didn’t move the book. She didn’t so much as blink.
“You don’t have to sit across from me,” was all she said, finally lowering her book after the plane had taken off. “You don’t have to make conversation. I know it must pain you.”
“Pain me?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
“Small talk is universally acknowledged as one of the worst things about being human, next to taxes and traffic.” She raised her book again. “I wouldn’t force anyone into it. Especially you.”
“Why does it have to be small talk?”
“Finn, what do we have in common? You are the twenty-nine-year-old CEO of one of the world’s biggest tech companies and I’m—”
Finn waited to see if she’d say, “the chauffeur’s daughter.”
“—I’m a twenty-three-year-old ex-fashion intern and part-time photographer.”
“And…? You’re saying what exactly?”
“I’m saying we live in different worlds.”
“Flora, we grew up on the same estate. Five-ish years and a fashion internship isn’t exactly Spain to New Zealand. We have some things in common.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Flora said, picking up the book again. “I just mean that we, the two of us, don’t need to force any conversation and I don’t want you to feel obligated to talk to me and try to find commonalities. You’ve hired me to take photos. You don’t need to watch me.”
Flora was referencing the night of the storm.
“So, no Cheaper by the Dozen then?” he asked.
“I still stand by that choice of movie. I always wanted twelve brothers and sisters. Being an only child was lonely… is lonely.”
“Your dad is a quiet man, isn’t he? He’s like that at home too then?” he asked, interested.
“Yes, he just reads all the time. He stayed a driver because he just wanted to read. That’s his passion, and he never wanted to give up his free time to chase paper. Sort of the opposite of you. Not that either is right or wrong.”
“And yet you have a preference.”
“Balance is my preference.”
“We all crave balance,” he replied. “Though seldom get it.”
“Very true,” Flora said, setting her book down again. “It is hard to achieve if you aren’t perfect or a master at time management.”
“You seem to have found a bit of balance.”
“I have not found anything except rampant confusion about who I am and where I fit into this world.”
“Twenty-two and twenty-three are trying ages. Not many people say it, but it is a very… actually quite horrible time. Your twenties are just horrible. Everyone rants and raves about them, but I just don’t get it. I’m turning thirty this year. I hope it’s better.”
He looked out the window now. Flora wondered what he was thinking about. He clearly had something specific on his mind. She assumed his father.
Harry Woodhouse had been the best sort of man—the kind that deserved the success, not the heart attack.
Tall, thin, refined, with a staunch Scottish accent and an heir of English importance, he had none of the arrogance that usually came with his level of renown.
He was kind, scholarly, reminding people more of a professor than a businessman.
When Finn found him collapsed near the treadmill and later learned he had died at the hospital, something in him broke. But he was not allowed to show it. Instead, he was handed the company on a not-so-silver platter and was expected to continue as if nothing had happened.
Create profit, create headlines, and for goodness sake, keep moving!
He wanted to fall apart, but he didn’t want to let his dad down even more, so he took the sadness, crushed it, and went to work.
He was scared that he would never measure up. That he would ruin the business. Idleness made it all worse—too much time to think and the grief came back with claws, digging for blood.
He glanced back at Flora, suppressing yet another memory.
Yet it was hard to suppress memories when looking at her because she’d been a hallmark of his childhood.
His father had loved her and her “absolutely ridiculous wonderful hair.” He’d been the one who taught her Latin plant names and often said, “that girl is going to be someone quite interesting one day.”
Finn was beginning to agree.
“So why are you called Flora?” he said, looking at her hair now.
She had it tied back, but the curls were escaping, one bouncing free from its hair tie prison. He kept the smile off his face.
Flora studied him, contemplating the merits of answering, then set her book down.
“My mother was Rosemary. She was a gardener for huge English estates—on call at Windsor according to my father. I never knew her. I was barely one when she left. When she found out she was pregnant, she wanted to call me Dahlia, but she didn’t like the nickname Lia.
She went through Rose, Lily, Daisy, Clover—thank God that didn’t stick—and Violet.
But my dad tells me that she didn’t want me to be just one flower.
So… she resolved to call me all of them. It literally means flower or blooming.”
Finn found himself quietly charmed, but he masked it.
“That’s quite the story.”
“It’d be a better story if she hadn’t left before I turned one,” Flora added honestly. She then paused, her brow knitting together. “Sorry. I’ve been told that sort of comment makes people uncomfortable.”
Finn shrugged. “Maybe. But those sorts of people obviously don’t understand life. We all carry something. I am sorry about your mum.”
“I used to be too, but it is what it is, you know? I can’t change it. I love my dad, and I had your mom around too.”
Finn laughed. “Yes, you did. She loves you a great deal, even if she shows it strangely.”
Flora nodded, smiling. “Your mom is… something else. I love her. So, why Finn?”
“Finn is short for Finley. You knew that. Finley means fair hero in Gaelic. My mum isn’t much for meanings. I’m sure she was tempted to name me Harry, after my father, but he was dead set on Finley.”
“And your middle name?”
“My middle name is Maddock. Means fortunate. The nurse misheard Chadwick, if you can believe it. My mum ended up liking it, so it stuck. Thank God, because I’ve never heard a worse name than Chadwick.”
Flora smirked. “How fortunate.”
“The fortunate hero,” he muttered. “That’s a stretch.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Finn’s eyes flicked to her. “What’s your middle name?”
“Althea. Means healer.”
“The flower healer,” Finn said. “That’s a fit.”
Silence fell.
“Yes, well…” Flora said, clearing her throat, “I do like my name. My older cousin’s name is Georgiana. I think that’s lovely.”
“Georgiana? What a mouthful.”
“She went by Georgie.”
“Went? Past tense?”
Flora shifted in her seat. “She went missing when she was around sixteen. She hasn’t been seen since.”
“Oh my goodness. That is terrible! How old would she be now?” Finn asked, leaning forward slightly.
“She was about three or four years older than me, so around twenty-seven?”
“Good grief, Flora. I’m so sorry.” Finn shook his head slowly. “I was going to say how happy I am that I wasn’t named Jim or Ed, but now I’m just happy all my cousin’s whereabouts are still known.”
Flora snorted. “I had a dream once that I was called Caroline. I woke up crying.”
Finn felt a grin spread across his face. He once had a dream he was named Carlton. He’d checked his driver’s license when he woke up to confirm nothing had changed overnight.
“Also, Finn, you fit your name quite well. Your dad was always ahead of the times—not just in business.”
Finn felt a strange wave of gratitude. “He was a visionary, that’s for sure. He always liked you.”
“Well, I loved your dad,” Flora said simply. “He was the best of us.”
“He was.”
The conversation never lapsed. There wasn’t an ounce of small talk. Anything but. To be fair, Finn had an idea of what she might like to talk about, but he never had to bring any of it up.
When the plane landed in a small airfield near Carmel Beach, Flora was surprised. The hour had felt like ten minutes.
She followed Finn off the plane, crossing a field to a small bridge over a marsh. The field was full of bleating sheep, pine trees lined the property, and the ocean crashed only a few yards away.
She wondered why in the world they’d ever sell a home surrounded by such beauty.
Finn pointed toward a house overlooking a small cliff jutting into the ocean.
“That’s ours,” he said. He grabbed the heavy camera bag off her shoulder. “Here. Let me help you.”