Chapter 7
Rumors and Roses
Maisie
As I prepare for work in the morning, the memory of Beau’s humming two nights ago is triggered the second I unlock the shop. The tune still clings to me like the last hint of a daydream, sweet and elusive. I don’t want to let go of it yet.
And then I see it.
Balanced carefully on the broad windowsill, nearly flush with the sidewalk and catching the first slant of morning light, lies a single rose.
No note. No wrapper. Just one perfect coral bloom, its stem tucked into a damp paper towel and plastic wrap, held on by the twist of floral wire, as if whoever left it wanted to keep it fresh long enough for me to find it.
My breath catches. My pulse skips. I stand frozen for a split second, feeling the air shift—cool brushing against my cheeks, the breeze prickling my arms with curiosity. The hushed morning is waiting for me to understand what this means.
I bend to scoop it off the low windowsill, skimming my fingertips over the velvety-soft petals. I’m afraid to admit, but someone left this for me. The rose is chilled from the night air. Its bloom full and unmarred, and my hands tremble.
It’s the kind of gesture that stops time, simple, yes, but so deliberate. Propped carefully on the sill, not tossed or forgotten, but placed with care.
A thank you, maybe. Or a beginning. Or both.
I press the stem to my chest for a second. My heartbeat knocks against it, bold and a little off-kilter, as though it already knows what my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
Did he…?
I bring the rose inside, set it gently in a mason jar vase on the counter, and convince myself to get to work. But I move through the morning on instinct alone—cutting stems, arranging blossoms, trying not to analyze the warmth still growing in my chest.
Peaches, once again sprawled on the welcome mat, startles awake, and her head jerks up as the bell above the door jingles, announcing Pen’s arrival.
She slides a stack of cinnamon rolls across the flower shop counter and whispers, “Word around the diner this morning is the Over-actors tried to stage a spat at the post-potluck wrap-up. There were tears, a shoe toss, and someone quoted from Shakespeare.”
It’s the kind of news that would usually make me laugh, but this morning, it stings. Because while the other couples are putting on a grand show, I can’t help but wonder if Beau and I are still faking our budding relationship. It was our agreement, after all.
We’re somewhere in the middle of the rankings, according to the latest chalkboard tallies at Town Hall. Not quite golden couple status, but not last place either. We’re memorable. Talked about. Speculated over.
And somehow, that’s worse. Because the more people assume this thing between us is real, the more I wish I knew if it actually is.
I focus back on Pen. “Which play?”
Pen shrugs. “Does it matter?”
Honestly, it doesn’t. This year’s matchmaking festival has officially tipped from quirky to full-blown melodramatic pageantry.
The Newly-Deads arrived last night in matching black outfits and sat solemnly beside the potluck buffet table, gothic clan leaders at a romance tribunal.
They critiqued the lantern lighting. “Romance should be dimly lit,” Grant murmured, sipping from a black thermos.
Peaches settled at their feet, gnawing contentedly on someone’s abandoned oven mitt.
Pen shoots me a knowing glance and a wink as she exits Botaniq?e.
Right before the door swings closed behind her, she stops as though she forgot to say one of her lines.
“You know, you two are being watched just as closely as any of the over-the-top theatrical couples. And let me tell you, sweetheart, people are liking what they see.”
Outside my shop, I spot Reenie and Dot peeking through the window with the subtlety of squirrels casing a picnic.
Stitch Sisters, subtle? Not a chance. Each holds one end of a heart-shaped paper garland, clearly preparing to sneak it above my shop’s front door.
The scalloped edges flutter faintly in the morning breeze like a pink paper heartbeat.
Their faces beam, as proud as stage moms. I duck my head, pretending not to see them, and instead try to rearrange a vase of hydrangeas that doesn’t need it.
The customers are just as unsubtle. I hear the same thing at least seven times this morning:
“So…you and Beau, huh?”
“You two looked real cozy at the potluck.”
“I knew you were a good match the second I saw your risotto teamwork.”
Each comment lands like a pebble in a too-still pond. Glowing ripples of hope, confusion, and that old, unwanted twist of self-doubt spread through my chest. Part of me enjoys the way it sounds: Maisie and Beau. There’s something harmonious about it, maybe even a line from a love song.
But another part tenses, the part that reels my heart back with a fly-fishing rod. Back inside the hidey-hole where I keep the properly shaped me, the one everyone can approve of.
Because I’ve heard this before. I’ve felt it before. And it didn’t end in a love song. It ended in a luxurious, silk charmeuse wedding dress, which looked more like a bridal slip to me than the wedding gown I would have chosen.
At my last gown fitting before our wedding, I was standing in front of a mirror while Grayson’s sister tilted her head, circling me, looking me up and down critically from all angles.
“I guess this will have to work since it’s already been altered,” Allegra had finally surmised. “There’s something about the empire waist that says ‘vintage,’ though, so I hope people don’t get the wrong impression at the ceremony.”
The empire waist was the only thing I had any say in. Everything else was carefully chosen by Gray’s mother to give off the right impression and definitely advertise “expensive.”
Allegra had then brightened and moved on saying, “You know…the blazers I helped pick out that Grayson recommended you wear to work…they certainly do make you look more professional. Less…out-there.”
I’d laughed. Pretended it didn’t sting. Pretended I wasn’t disappointed to not be wearing my mother’s veil like I’d always dreamed because someone else was directing my wedding.
In the early stages of wedding gown shopping, my mom had brought along her veil to try on with the dresses. But Gray’s mother, Béatrice Brigitte, had vetoed it immediately with a thin smile and a condescending, final tone, “Veils are a bit old-fashioned for the look I’m creating.”
My mom’s normally perfect posture had given way as her spine curled in defeat, and she had stared at Béatrice with widened eyes.
“I’m highly considering the Cecilia Cape by Jenny Yoo.
Much more modern, and of course it will be monogrammed.
More toned down than a long lacy veil,” my future mother-in-law explained.
She’d gone on to suggest that if my mother wanted to contribute to my wedding ensemble, she might consider a genuine pearl hair pin for my up-do.
My mom never brought up the veil again.
The truth is, in that moment with Allegra—standing under the boutique lights, in the wedding dress I’d compromised on ten months ago—I felt like a paper doll propped up and arrayed for someone else’s story they’d written for me.
That wedding dress never made it past the garment bag.
I never made it to the aisle.
The bell over the door jingles, and I’m glad I don’t have to look up. I know that unhurried footfall, the scuff of boots that pause on the welcome mat as though he’s taking the temperature of the room.
Dr. Brooks.
“Back for more flower-based remedies?” I ask, reaching for some delicate baby’s breath. He’s the only person in town who buys roses by the dozen and calls them medicinal.
Dr. Brooks wanders over to the cooler, opens the glass door with practiced ease, and selects two bunches of long-stemmed roses. Then he chooses two glass vases. He brings them to the counter, setting the vases down with a precise thunk.
He says, “Prescription roses for Mabel Jensen. Her arthritis flared up again. And one bouquet of apology flowers for Mitzy Carlton. I may have implied she was being obstinate during her blood pressure check.”
His apology bouquets keep me in business.
I snort. “I’ll whip up something that says ‘forgive me’ without also saying ‘you were wrong.’”
As I wrap the bouquet, Jenna slips in through the side door, quiet as a diamond thief avoiding trip lasers. She leans over the counter with a grin. “So…what’s the story with this mystery rose?”
I glance at her, feigning confusion. “What rose?”
“Maisie….” she draws the syllables of my name out like she’s pulling taffy. “Don’t play dumb. I heard it from Essie, who heard it from Nora, who saw it on her morning walk and called me before I’d even finished brushing my hair.”
“Oh. That rose,” I murmur.
Her smile grows. “The one Beau definitely didn’t leave outside your shop last night?”
“I already asked him about it.”
Jenna squeals. “When? Where? How? I need details, Maze.”
“I saw him on the sidewalk outside not too long ago. He didn’t come in. But I needed to return his jacket he left here the other night, so I ran out to catch him.”
Jenna lights up with smug satisfaction.
I ignore her, trying to sound breezy. “It wasn’t a full conversation. Just, ‘Hey, did you leave a rose?’” as if I didn’t care.”
“And?”
“He denied it.”
Jenna tilts her head, eyes widening with curiosity. “Was it a furtive denial, a guilty denial or…”
I interrupt. “More of a neutral denial. Calm. Almost too calm.”
She croons. “Interesting. And how did you feel about that?”
My stomach does a little flip flop. “Relieved?” I offer. “Maybe? I don’t know. Disappointed?”
“Both,” Jenna declares in an I-solved-the-riddle tone of voice. “You wanted it to be him.”
“Maybe,” I mumble.
Behind me, there’s a soft, deliberate rustle and a small cough. Dr. Brooks. I’d forgotten he was still standing there.