Chapter 4
Harmony
Morning slipped in quiet, the kind that made Main Street look a shade softer than it was.
I unlocked Petals and Pines, flipped the sign, and let the flower cooler breathe on me sharp, clean, and forgiving.
Buckets. Fresh water. Eucalyptus first. If my hands were moving, my head didn’t have to.
Sandy came in with a paper bag and her clipboard.
“Breakfast and a list,” she said, setting both down.
“Two birthdays, one apology, and a congrats that needs to feel big without being expensive.”
“Parade on a budget,” I said, breaking the croissant and handing her half.
“Exactly,” she said, smiling. She checked her phone. “Community Trust sent a quick note, camera check sometime this week. During hours,” she added. “And they copied Pierre.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I guess they need to do what they need to do.”
Across the street, Thorne’s Bakehouse was already in motion.
Through the glass I could see Eric’s backward cap and the lines of his shoulders as he pulled a tray from the oven.
He didn’t look our way. I kept my eyes on stems and ribbon and the work I knew how to do.
The bell chimed. A student wanted a bouquet for the teacher who was organizing a play.
A guy in work boots needed an apology bouquet that would put a smile on a woman’s face.
Sandy handled him with warmth and a real understanding of what he needed.
By nine thirty, the street had woken up.
I checked our back latch because old habits make my brain quiet.
It clicked smooth. Good enough. My phone lit with a message from my brother that had been already previewed—Old Mill Road.
Ten. The anger came first, the ache second.
I ignored it. He tried again from a new number; I blocked it and slid my phone under the counter face down.
Give up, Olivier. Nothing you can say will make me want to join the family business.
“Something we need to fix?” Sandy asked, eyes on a ribbon, voice casual in that kind way of hers.
“Not a problem for today,” I replied, which was true.
“Okay.” She nudged my elbow with hers. “You want the ‘no pink’ boyfriend or the graduation aunt with opinions?”
“I’ll take ‘no pink’.”
We made it through an hour like that with small asks and steady answers.
The kind of morning that stitched you back together a little at a time.
A courier dropped a slim envelope with FESTIVAL MAPS typed on the front.
Inside was the public route PDF I’d already seen, plus a hand-marked copy with our block circled and a star by our door. My stomach pinched. Sandy studied it.
“Same map,” she said. “Somebody doodles with a pencil and calls it work.” She laughed.
“Then it can live in the vendor folder,” I said. “If anyone wants it back, they can ask by email.”
“Done.” She slid it into a file and wrote the date on the tab.
No drama. Just paper in a place paper goes.
Across the street, the bakery bell rang.
Maya moved like water around the counter.
Eric laughed at something a kid said. Watching the way his lips tipped up and the light touched his eyes caused an ache in my chest, as I noted he didn’t laugh much these days. He used to. He used to laugh with me.
“Hey,” Sandy said softly. “You’re crushing that ribbon.”
I loosened my grip. “Oops, sorry.”
A young guy with a camera strap paused in our doorway. “Hi, Noah’s team with the Laurentian Community Trust. We’re building the storefront map. Okay to get your window from the curb? Faces blurred.”
“Sidewalk’s public,” I said. “You’re fine out there.”
“Thanks.” He stepped back outside, framed the glass, took two quick shots, and moved on.
It shouldn’t have made the back of my neck tight.
It did anyway, maybe because I knew my dad had eyes everywhere, or at least that’s what he taught me to believe.
However, I remembered how seriously this town took the fall festival and I tried to take an easy breath. Key word tried.
Becket came by midmorning in uniform, hat under his arm, eyes doing that quiet sweep of corners. “Saw the packet,” he said, tapping the folder. “Map matches. If anyone tries to ‘collect’ it, send them to the city email.”
“Will do,” I said.
“Text if anything feels off. Or if you want a walk to nowhere in particular,” he offered with a crooked smirk.
“Deal.” I appreciated everything the Thorne family was doing for me.
The last time I came running home because of a threat, I had a deep talk with Pierre.
I guess I became tired of running and confided in him about how hard it was to be the daughter of a criminal ring leader, who wants nothing to do with that world.
Pierre had been a listening ear. He had been kind to me in a world that had only been cruel.
I’m pretty sure he put Becket up to watching over me, and I appreciated it so much.
At the end of the day, Sandy put a printed note on the door: No pickups or visits after close. Thanks for understanding. She taped it up and adjusted it until it sat straight.
Outside, I swept leaves. Across the street, I watched Maya place a tiny vase of green by their register, the one we’d sent yesterday, and liked how right it looked there. At six on the dot, Sandy locked our door; I slid the bolt on the back door.
Upstairs, the loft held the day’s heat. I opened the balcony door a few inches and leaned on the rail. Across the street, Eric wiped down the front counter, radio on his hip. Maya flipped their sign. He didn’t look up. I didn’t wave. Neighbors was its own kind of truce.
I set water to boil, reached behind the flour for my mother’s card: Candied peel. Torch until it singes. My finger traced her looping hand and the past knocked like it had a key.
Thursday night. I came to watch Eric play hockey. The game had been tight until the end and Eric’s team won. The rink had emptied; condensation ghosted the glass. He caught me at the door, helmet under his arm, hair damp.
“You okay?” he asked, like he already knew.
“Define okay,” I said, and he smiled because he couldn’t help it.
We drove to the overlook above the river. The town looked like a model; mill, steeple, the long dark ribbon of water. In the truck, our shoulders touched lightly, like we could trick our bodies into thinking we meant to.
“My dad’s on a rant about ‘duty,’” he said. “Like it’s a uniform you can’t take off.”
“My dad keeps saying ‘legacy,’” I answered. “Like it’s a chain and we’re supposed to call it jewelry.”
“We sound like terrible poetry.”
“Worse,” I said, and leaned across the bench seat.
The first kiss was quick and sure; the second wasn’t.
Sweatshirt gone. Hands under his tee. My name rough in his mouth.
He touched my face like he needed proof I wasn’t going to break.
I let him. I was tired of grief telling me how to move.
How to live. Yet it beat inside me since I lost Mom.
But now, with his lips on mine, it all faded to background noise.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice almost steady.
“I will.” I meant it. We learned each other fast and careful as windows fogged, a laugh caught in my throat when my knee knocked the gearshift.
We didn’t jump a line we weren’t ready to cross.
We went exactly to the place that belonged to us and stayed there until the clock on the dash said it was time for me to go home or face my brother’s wrath, since Olivier thought he was my father and not my brother.
After, we watched the town lights and he traced my freckles with a knuckle. “I like these.”
“They make me look twelve.”
“They make you look like you,” he said, and kissed each one like a signature.
We didn’t plan the next time. We didn’t need to. We kept finding the gaps where our fathers couldn’t see.
The kettle switch clicked down; steam fogged the window for a second. I wrapped the tea string around my finger and let the heat sting. Good memories shouldn’t ache. They did anyway.
My phone buzzed. For a breath I hoped it was Eric telling me he was off shift from the fire department. A girl could dream. Instead, it was a new number.
We should talk. Your dad doesn’t like being embarrassed. —Nico.
I archived it without replying. I had nothing to say to Nico.
Another text moments later lit my screen.
Blocked number: Ten. Old Mill Road.
I exhaled.
Nico and Olivier sure knew how to sync their messages. I forwarded both to Becket. He should know what those two were up to.
Becket: Got it. Call if anything feels off.
I finished my tea by the balcony door. The bakery’s front lights dimmed in sequence. Eric crossed the window carrying a tray; for a second, he looked toward the street. We didn’t wave. But I saw him. And I think he saw me.
I began my nighttime routine: dishes, brushing teeth, bathroom light left on.
Small rituals that made sleep show up. I checked the balcony latch, the front lock, not because locks fix the world but because choosing what I could control was a way to breathe.
In bed, I stared at the ceiling until I stopped counting the ceiling tiles.
Tomorrow would be stems and ribbon and quiet decisions and minding our own business.
Eric could keep watch from his side of the street; I didn’t need saving.
I needed space to be the right kind of stubborn.
Outside, Main settled. The alley light held. Somewhere far off, a siren faded. I turned on my side, let the day unhook, and chose morning.