Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chloe
Blackhill mornings were always quiet.
I woke at seven every day. Brushing my teeth, I could hear Mrs. Douglas next door feeding her chickens, sometimes her old hound dog yawning once or twice.
I left at seven-thirty, walked ten minutes down Main Street to the flower shop.
On the way, I passed a bakery where the red-faced owner waved and called out, "Hey, morning, Mrs. Gray! "
Mrs. Gray. Took me a whole week to get used to that name. Now I was Ella Gray, a widow from Los Angeles, husband killed in a car accident, moved to this small town alone with an unborn baby. Anna had built the story for me—simple, clichéd, but people in places like this didn't ask questions.
They only cared if you were a good neighbor.
I worked at a flower shop near the town center.
The owner was Ruth, a woman in her seventies with a slight hunch who moved slowly but worked fast. First day I walked in, I just saw the help wanted sign and wanted to ask about it, never expected to get hired.
But Grandma Ruth glanced at me and my belly, put me to work that same day.
No interview, no résumé, no unnecessary questions. Life was so peaceful I almost wished I really was Ella Gray, just an ordinary pregnant woman working at a small-town flower shop.
Life here was simple and stable, people warm and friendly. My belly grew bigger every day, and lifting heavy flowers got harder, but Grandma Ruth quietly took over all the heavy work without a word, leaving me to handle the counter and wrap bouquets.
Today was market day on the weekend. More people buying flowers than usual. I fumbled with the ribbon on a mixed bouquet, tied it wrong twice, and the third time I finally got it right, my palms were soaked with sweat.
Grandma Ruth's grandson Noah was helping out, too.
Early twenties, brown curly hair, a dimple when he smiled, studying agricultural management at the community college, came by weekends to help his grandmother.
He was the kind of young guy who'd clearly never been beaten down by life, always spoke with this thoughtless warmth.
He was hauling a bucket of lilies out of the cooler when he suddenly spoke up.
"Mrs. Gray, I've been wanting to ask. Why'd you move to a middle-of-nowhere place like this all by yourself?"
My hand paused.
"A big city like New York's got everything—food, fun, you name it. You come running to our little nothing town, did something happen?" He set down the lily bucket, wiped his hands, tilted his head at me. "And where's the baby's father?"
I wasn't used to those excuses yet and could only think through it in my head. But before I could answer, Grandma Ruth had already poked her head out from the back workroom. "Noah! I wish you'd run your mouth a little less. You gonna dig at a pregnant woman's scars?"
"I didn't mean to dig at scars." Noah spread his hands, expression not guilty at all. "Maybe I'm not here to open wounds, maybe I'm here to heal them."
Grandma Ruth grabbed a long pruning pole and waved it at him. "Here you go again. Can't you think about something else? Last time it was the baker's daughter, time before that the postal intern. Can you settle down?"
"Grandma, those were two completely different things!"
"How were they different? Same sweet-talking routine every time!"
The two of them bickered away right in front of me. I watched them, couldn't help smiling. This kind of petty family squabbling, noisy and warm, no malice in it. Worlds away from the cold family life in my memories.
When they finally settled down, I answered Noah's question.
"I wasn't married." I kept my head down, kept wrapping flowers, voice flat. "My husband died in a car accident. I was too heartbroken, so I left New York. Wanted to find somewhere quiet to start over."
Noah's smile faded. He was quiet for two seconds, then said softly, "Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Gray."
"It's fine." I smiled. At least leaving New York was something worth being happy about.
"If you need any help," he scratched the back of his head, "you can always find me. I live close, five-minute drive. Raising a kid alone's not easy. Moving stuff, fixing pipes, whatever. Just call."
Grandma Ruth snorted from the back. "Just call. That's what you told your ex-girlfriend, too."
"Grandma!" Noah's face flushed red.
I couldn't help laughing, kept working on the flowers in my hands, mood much lighter. Their genuine interaction always touched my heart. Even though they seemed to argue constantly, Noah found ways to come help every day, and Ruth always saved his favorite treats for him.
"Chloe," Ruth called from the back, "customer at the counter pre-ordered a bunch of white daisies. I already wrapped them. Can you take them out and give them to him?"
"Sure, coming."
I turned and picked up the wrapped white daisies from the work counter and walked toward the front. Only then did I notice someone standing at the counter.
When had he come in? I hadn't heard any footsteps.
The man wore a dark baseball cap pulled low, most of his face hidden in shadow. Wide sunglasses completely covered his eyes. He wore a dark gray sweater.
He was tall, the kind of oppressive build that made the cramped flower shop feel even more crowded.
An intensely strange familiarity hit me instantly. My heart skipped a beat. But I immediately told myself it was just post-trauma psychology.
I'd become a nervous wreck lately. Everyone looked like Enzo. Two days ago at the supermarket, I'd just seen a tall guy with dark hair and nearly crashed my cart into a shelf. Turned out to be an ordinary tourist visiting town.
"Sir, here are your daisies." I forced myself to stay calm, walked to the counter, and gently placed the flowers on the surface in front of him.
The man didn't answer.
He stood there quietly. A few seconds later, he slowly pulled his hand from his pocket, fingertips touching the wrapping paper on the daisies.
Then suddenly he turned and strode out, pushing the door open.
The bell on the door chimed crisply. By the time I snapped out of that inexplicable tremor and rushed to the door to look, his tall figure had completely disappeared into the bustling street.
That bunch of white daisies still sat lonely on the counter.
"Strange, he paid for them already. Why'd he leave without taking the flowers?" Noah poked his head out from the back holding scissors, looking at the counter, totally confused.
"Probably changed his mind." I picked up the flowers and gently touched the petals. "I like daisies anyway. I'll take them home today."
I could take a few flowers home every day to put in a vase, Ruth's special privilege. She was without a doubt the best boss in the world, not only incredibly kind to me, but her interactions with Noah were always entertaining.
If anyone wants to get paid to watch their boss fight every day, they should really try this flower shop.
Evening came, and I closed up shop, carried the daisies along the seaside path home. Got inside, changed into slippers, and put the flowers in a glass vase on the kitchen windowsill. The white petals glowed faintly warm in the sunset light. Beautiful.
I was bending down trimming the stems when knocking sounded at the door.
My hand froze mid-air.
Strange. I didn't know many people here. Mrs. Glass had left on a three-day trip. Who would come looking for me at this hour?
I put down the scissors, slowly walked to the door, and pulled it open.
A tall figure stood outside. At first glance, I only saw his chest. I slowly raised my eyes. That face that had appeared countless times in my dreams now stood on my doorstep, less than a step away.
Enzo wore the same outfit as that stranger in the flower shop, just without the sunglasses. Those daisies—he'd bought them. He'd stood in the flower shop watching me talk to Noah, watching me laugh, watching me turn his real identity into a dead husband.
He'd heard everything.
Facing this face—so familiar it was carved into my bones—the feelings I thought had died completely in that pool of blood in New York surged up with pain beyond my control.
Enzo looked much thinner, jawline drawn tight, those deep black eyes locked on me, churning with too many emotions I could barely withstand.
God, even after all that cruel hurt and betrayal, in this second of reunion, my body was still pathetically aching for him.
But this fatal weakness lasted only an instant before despair flooded my heart.
He'd still found me. No matter how far I ran, no matter how deep I hid, he still tracked me down to this remote town like a ghost I could never escape. The new name, new identity I'd worked so hard for, the freedom I'd finally won back—all declared worthless the moment he appeared.
I gasped, stepped back hard, hands gripping the doorknob, using every ounce of strength to slam the door shut.
But Enzo was faster. He stepped onto the porch in one stride, hand blocking the door, then pressed forward, arms locking me tight in his embrace.
"Get out! Get the hell out!"
I felt my eyes heating up fast, but the terror of being taken away made me struggle desperately. I kicked his shins, pounded his chest with my fists, and rammed my shoulder into his chin. But he didn't make a sound, didn't move, arms tightening further until my ribs hurt.
I couldn't budge this monster of a man, but I still fought back—opened my mouth and bit down hard on Enzo.
My teeth sank into the spot between his shoulder and neck. I used all my strength. I felt my teeth break through skin and flesh, tasted rust. Enzo groaned but still didn't let go.
"I'm not going back!" My voice squeezed through clenched teeth, shrill and shaking. "You hear me? I will never go back with you! Let me go!"
"Chloe." His voice came from above my head, hoarse and nearly broken. "God, Chloe. You're alive."
My struggling stopped for a second.