Chapter 10
TEN
The bell above the door chimed softly as we stepped inside, and the scent hit me immediately. Roses. Lilies. Other floral scents I couldn’t name. It was warm and comforting, the air thick with the pungent, earthy scent of new life.
Buckets of flowers lined the walls. Some were already arranged into bouquets, while others stood in tall plastic containers waiting to be turned into something beautiful.
“How do you feel about flowers?” Marge asked.
“I love them,” I replied honestly. Though I’d never had flower beds at Steele’s house, I’d loved scouring the surrounding woods for tiny blooms.
Marge introduced me first to Sarah, who smiled and greeted me warmly. “So you’ll be taking over when I leave?”
I nodded, still a little dazed by how quickly everything was moving. “Yep.”
“Sarah will be here through the end of the month,” Marge confirmed, “then you’ll be on your own.”
I felt a little sick at Marge’s words. Instead of comforting me, she just cackled, then turned to Sarah. “Why don’t you go grab some lunch? I’ll take it from here.”
Sarah disappeared and Marge took control. “Okay. Let’s get to it.”
She strode through a doorway behind the counter and waved a hand around. “Here’s our workroom where everything is assembled.”
The workspace held a long table scattered with scissors, floral tape, and bundles of greenery. A large cooler hummed softly in the corner, its glass door fogged slightly from the cold inside.
I glanced around. “Do you grow your own flowers?”
“We don’t have the space here, and the climate is too unstable. We order flowers weekly from BFS. They’re a wholesale distributor,” she explained. “But depending on the season, you can sometimes get things cheaper locally. You’ll need to compare prices and decide.”
I nodded, gently weaving my way around the room, taking everything in. Marge pointed out the various tools and accessories, booklets with pictures of arrangements, and other implements.
Adjacent to the work room was a small private office. Inside sat a worn couch, a desk, and a bookshelf full of horticulture books and catalogues. A door at the far end opened into a cramped but surprisingly nice bathroom. And the best part—it had a full shower.
I turned slowly in the room, imagining living here. Working here.
Starting fresh.
Marge leaned against the doorframe. “We’ll start asking around—find you a small place, or even a room to rent.”
“No.” I shook my head, tempering my words with a smile. “Thank you for the offer, but this is perfect.”
She frowned. “You’d rather sleep on the couch?”
“I’d rather save my money,” I replied honestly. I was almost through the stack of cash I’d taken with me when I fled. Between the bus ticket and supplies, the money had dwindled quickly. I needed to save every dollar I could.
“I don’t need much,” I reassured them. “And without wasting money on rent, I can get you paid off faster.”
Betty Jo nodded approvingly. “Practical girl.”
Marge eyed me for another moment before shrugging. “Suit yourself.”
Marge believed in learning by doing. Which meant my crash course in running the shop began that very moment. She didn’t ease me into it—she threw me straight into the deep end.
She marched me through every corner of the business: How to place orders, and how to arrange various bouquets. How to process new flowers when shipments arrived. How to keep the cooler organized and how to keep the blooms fresh.
She ran me through the contacts for wedding venues, funeral homes, and other facilities. And—according to Marge—the most important lesson of all: How to deal with difficult customers.
“Validate their concerns,” I parroted back to her. “Don’t let them walk all over me, but make sure they leave happy.”
“And?”
“Charge them extra,” I said with a wry smile.
Marge grinned that evil grin. “Now you’re learning.”
I worked alongside Sarah during the daytime while Betty Jo helped Marge pack up her things. Evenings were spent hunched over receipts and invoices at the small desk in the back room. Marge showed me how to track orders, balance expenses, and figure out which arrangements actually made money.
“You can love flowers all you want,” she warned, tapping the ledger book. “But if the numbers don’t work, the shop doesn’t survive.”
It was overwhelming in the best way possible, but I loved every second of it.
A week later, Marge’s car was packed. Betty Jo stood beside her on the sidewalk outside the shop, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Oh, don’t start,” Marge grumbled even as her voice softened.
Betty Jo turned to me and pulled me into a tight hug. “You take care of yourself, Lily.”
I hugged her back. “I will.”
“And call me,” she insisted.
“I promise.”
She squeezed me again before stepping back.
“I’m heading back to Kentucky tomorrow,” she added. “But we’ll stay in touch.”
Marge snorted. “She’ll call you whether you want her to or not.”
Betty Jo ignored her. Marge climbed into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window. “Good luck. It’s all yours now.”
I waved enthusiastically to Betty Jo as the car pulled away. I felt like I was floating.
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the shop until they disappeared down Main Street.
Watching them drive away was a little bittersweet. For the first time since arriving in town, I was alone again. But this time I wasn’t worried. I had something amazing to look forward to.
I headed back inside, determined to soak up everything I could.
Work was slow—the town was small, after all—but I didn’t mind.
Every spare moment I had was spent learning more.
I read everything I could find about soil, pruning, seasonal blooms, and greenhouse techniques.
Marge had mostly ordered their flowers from wholesalers, bringing in whatever they needed for arrangements.
But the more I studied, the more I realized something. I wanted to grow my own.
Gradually, a few at a time, I started ordering supplies—seeds, pots, fertilizer. I hooked up a grow light in the back and watched the tiny plants come to life. Some thrived. Some didn’t. But every day I learned something new.
Several months after I’d arrived in Pine Ridge, I gathered the courage to check the obituaries. My heart had raced as I pulled up the website of the old local paper and typed in his name. Shock had rooted me to the floor at the sight of not only Steele’s name, but my own.
I couldn’t believe it. In the eyes of the world, Ember Pearson was dead.
A huge weight lifted off my shoulders in that moment. I was finally free.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks became months.
The seasons shifted quietly around me, and Sarah finally headed to college. For the first time in my life, I felt rooted somewhere. And then, one bright spring day, I found the house.
It sat at the end of a narrow gravel road just outside town, settled in a clearing surrounded by towering trees. The place wasn’t big—a modest ranch with weathered siding and a wide front porch—but the moment I saw it, something stirred in my chest.
This was it—this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
And the best part waited in the backyard: a small greenhouse. I could already imagine it filled with seedlings. Rows of color. Life growing under my care.
I signed the one-year lease that afternoon. When I walked back outside, the late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, warming my face. Another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. And for the first time in a very long time… I felt like my life was finally beginning to fit together.
Eventually, a full year had passed. The realization came quietly one evening as I stood on the back porch of the little house, my hands wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold.
The woods stretched out behind the property, tall pines swaying gently in the breeze, the soft rustle of their leaves drifting through the evening air.
They reminded me of another forest.
Another night.
Another version of myself running blindly through darkness with fire lighting the sky behind me.
A year ago I had vanished into trees just like these. Lost. Terrified. Certain that I wouldn’t survive long enough to see morning.
Now I stood here. Safe.
The porch boards creaked softly under my bare feet as I shifted my weight, letting my gaze wander over the small backyard. The greenhouse glowed faintly in the fading light, rows of young plants resting inside after a long day of sun.
My plants. My work. My new life.
I loved this little house.
I loved Pine Ridge, too—the way people greeted each other by name. The slow rhythm of life that didn’t rush or demand too much. The routine that I’d fallen into—opening the shop each morning, trimming stems.
And most of all, I loved the security. A place where no one was looking for me. A place where I could breathe.
The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of soil and flowers from the greenhouse. For a moment, a familiar ache of loneliness stirred in my chest.
It crept in sometimes during the quiet evenings, when the shop was closed and the house settled into silence. When there was no one to talk to except the wind through the trees.
But I didn’t let it linger long. Because loneliness was a small price to pay for freedom.
I leaned against the porch railing and looked out into the darkening woods again.
A year ago I had run into the forest with nothing but desperation pushing me forward.
Now I had something else entirely. A life.
And if I was a little lonely sometimes… It didn’t matter.
Because I was alive.