Chapter 4
Maisie
I’m in my shop early today to complete floral orders, when my mom slips in for a quick visit. We try to chat several times a week to maintain our close relationship.
I watch as her gaze drifts from the hanging eucalyptus bundles near the back to the vintage step-ladders I use to display garden roses.
Each rung holds a row of wide-mouthed jars, sorted by color: blush to coral to the dazzling Mr. Lincoln red.
The blooms spill forward as if they’re reaching for something soft.
I know it’s not how normal florists do it.
But I’ve never cared to be like everyone else.
Mom’s eyes sweep over the chalkboard signs next, some clipped to baskets, others slotted into carved wooden bases that look like place card holders for a fancy dinner. I found them at a flea market, but I never got around to staining them.
I change what’s on the chalkboards every week: names of flowers, prices, pairing suggestions, and unadvertised sales. Sometimes a quote, if the flowers seem to need one. Today the sign by the tulips reads: “Every storm runs out of rain.”
Then her eyes lift to the back wall, where I’ve hung bundles of dried flowers above the antique dresser I turned into a display shelf—baby’s breath; purple and blue statice; yellow, pink and orange strawflowers; even a few Douglas asters from mom’s own flower garden last summer.
They’re not necessarily for sale. Drying flowers has been a life-long hobby and seeing them inspires me, knowing they live on, even after the freshness has gone from them.
I’ve dangled twinkle lights around the bundles, not strung straight—that’s boring.
I draped them how it felt right, and how they seemed to want to swoop.
Finally, Mom steps further in and pauses by the counter where a half-written card lies beside a wrapped anniversary bouquet I created for a phoned-in order.
I already know what she’s looking at. It’s my handwriting.
She admired it when I was young, commenting about how unique and creative it looked.
My writing has always been a bit too loopy, a little too large for the space, as if it can’t help but spill over.
“It’s beautiful in here, sweetie,” she remarks, giving me her quiet, pleased smile that says she means it. “I’ve always been so proud of you, even though I probably didn’t say it enough.” Moms are wired to see the best in you. The hard part is letting myself believe I’m someone to be proud of.
Now comes my favorite part of times with my mom—her hugs.
She feels so comfortable and soft, and I feel her love pouring into me.
I try to send mine back for her to feel.
Our hugs are wonderfully long and cozy, always ending with a gentle sway as we rock each other from side to side then squeeze firmly one more time.
“I’d better let you get back to work. It’s so good to see you, every time.” She blows me a kiss as she heads out the door.
“Ok, Maisie, focus now. Lots to do before it’s back to the festival.” I say to motivate myself.
I love everything about floral arranging, but today the eucalyptus won’t stop clinging to my apron, and I swear these snapdragons are staging a revolt. I’m elbow-deep in stubborn stems when the centerpiece tips for the third time in ten minutes. It’s slightly frustrating.
“Stay,” I gripe at it. Not that it listens.
My curls are pinned up with two floral clips that have given up the will to live. One’s sagging near my ear, the other’s pointing straight toward the ceiling.
I prepare to add a couple of clusters of wild bergamot to each centerpiece when the scent unexpectedly whisks me back to when I was eleven years old.
My favorite relative, besides my parents, was Great-Aunt Camille.
She was so elegant and refined. I wanted to be her, or as close to the graceful lady that she was as I could possibly be.
I especially loved to burrow my face into her neck when she hugged me because she smelled so wonderfully of perfume made from bergamot.
Great-Aunt Camille convinced my parents to let her treat me to two weeks at the finishing school associated with the Etiquette Institute of Washington in D.C. It sounded better to me than five trips to Disneyland.
During orientation, Great-Aunt Camille was allowed to walk beside me as we toured the school and learned what would be taught and expected of me.
I was so excited that I couldn’t help exclaiming about everything I saw and heard.
I sensed Camille’s discomfort but disregarded it, thinking she was as awed as I was.
But my aunt’s embarrassment kept growing, and she finally separated me from the group.
“Maisie,” she began in a tone I’d never heard from her before.
She had transformed before my eyes into the matron of the worst boarding school I could ever imagine.
“Maisie, this is simply unacceptable behavior. You must not let your big emotions burst out of you so enthusiastically. Young ladies need to be seen more than heard, and they know that it is essential to use their inside voices.”
As she bent stiffly next to me, I could smell the now sickeningly sweet scent of her perfume, and it grew more intense and suffocating as she went on with her lecture. “A refined lady will make herself small, so as to let her charm and poise speak for her.”
I timidly raised my hand to ask my great-aunt a question, something I’d never done with her before, but suddenly felt that it was very important; however, she pressed my arm to my side, not giving me any leeway to speak.
“And one more thing, Maisie dear,” her eyes were cold as she looked sternly at me. “Polite young ladies use their eyes to gesture, not their hands.”
Then, to my horror, she squeezed my shoulder and led me out the door, explaining as we left, “I thought this would be a good experience for you, Maisie, but I can see now that I was mistaken. You have a lot to learn and many changes to make in your personality before you’ll be close to ready for a finishing school… if ever.”
I’d cried with my mother when we got back to Sweetpines. Mom had tried to comfort me, saying, “Don’t give your Aunt Camille another thought, Sweet Pea. Her opinion doesn’t matter. You know how much I love you. Exactly the way you are.”
My head heard her, but my heart figured she had to feel that way about me. She was my mom. I mean…moms are supposed to say those kinds of things to their daughters.
The shop door creaks open, the jingle of bells yanking me out of my flashback. I stare straight ahead and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, the bergamot smell souring in my stomach.
“Excuse me?”
I glance up slowly, my heart dropping from its frenzied sprint to a normal rhythm.
A woman stands just inside the threshold, clutching a reusable coffee cup and looking screenshotted out of a Pinterest board. “Is something going on in town? I almost got run over by a couple in matching outfits dragging a tandem bicycle and arguing about salad dressing.”
Without hesitation, I pluck a cluster of roses from the bucket and answer, “Yep. The Sweetpines Matchmaking Festival. Happens every year.”
I take a small step closer to the counter. “It’s what you get when a quilt club, small-town mischief, and way too much free time collide.”
Her laugh tinkles like fairy bells. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” I head to the wrapping station. “People fill out compatibility forms. Some of the questions are deep. Some are completely ridiculous.”
The woman takes a few curious steps further into the shop. “This sounds like it could be made into a Hallmark movie.”
I grin. “You’re not wrong. And honestly? The Stitch Sisters would demand script approval.”
She chuckles into her coffee. “So, do you get matched, too? Or just watch the spectacle?”
“Hmmm.” I debate how to reply. “This year it’s both, unfortunately. My best friends, Jenna and Tess, signed me up without asking. Classic BFF sabotage.”
The visitor sets her cup on the edge of the wrapping table like she’s settling in. “I’m Melanie. I have a podcast, and I’ve been considering a small-town feature. This is the kind of story people would eat up. Tell me more.”
“Well, if you want colorful characters and unsolicited love advice, you’ve come to the right town.”
“Okay.” Fairy bells again.
“Anyway, the quilt club members, who call themselves the Stitch Sisters.” I lift my fingers to make air quotes. “‘Analyze’ and pick the lucky couples for the week.”
I let the sweetness drip on thick. “Think tea, highlighters, and decades of meddling experience, all in the name of soulmates.”
She blinks, then grins. “So… strangers get matched?”
“You gotta see it to believe it. Though some of the couples aren’t strangers. Some rig the entries to get matched year after year.”
“That’s…” she trails off with a laugh. “An interesting way to find love.”
“There’s a quilt,” I continue as I put the finishing touches on another centerpiece. “A literal quilt. Names stitched into themed squares based on their answers: roses, pies, musical notes, gothic fashion. Then the couples compete in challenges.”
“Oh?” Melanie’s voice lilts upward.
“Yep. Most points by the end of the week wins a romantic weekend getaway, a spot on the town calendar, a cash prize, and bragging rights until the next festival.”
Melanie lets out a laugh, half incredulous, half charmed. “This is the most aggressively adorable display of small-town charm I’ve ever heard of.”
“Adorable?” I smirk. “Tell that to the couple who almost broke up during the trivia round. It’s more like a circus.”
The bell over the door jingles again.