Chapter 42
42
PENNY
“Will you please quit it?” Sandy said with a half-laugh, half-groan as she pushed herself up from the couch. Her face twisted into a grimace, betraying just how much pain she was still in.
“This is exactly why I’m here,” I said, rushing to her side before she could take another step on her own. “I’m here to help you. To make sure you get back on your feet safely. Do you not remember your fall literally two days ago?”
Typical Sandy. Always trying to tough it out, make it harder than it needed to be, just to prove she could. It had been forty-eight hours since she hit the floor of the flower shop, and here she was, limping around her house like it had never happened—or like she could will it out of existence. The stiffness in her steps and the small winces she tried to hide told a different story.
According to the doctors, she had a concussion and a badly bruised hip. Their best guess? She’d passed out from dehydration, collapsing hard and catching the edge of the prep table on her way down. No wonder her memory of it was a complete blank.
My mind kept spinning in circles, whispering what-ifs. What if she’d hit her head harder? What if no one had found her in time? What if I’d lost her?
The thoughts were sharp enough to draw tears. I sniffed, blinked them back, and kept moving—no use crumbling now.
I’d taken the last two days off from the library to be here. I couldn’t stomach the idea of her being alone, not after everything. So here I was, camping out in Sandy’s house, which was the picture-perfect image of southern grandma charm. Gingham patterns, antique wood furniture with its own stories, and a powdery floral perfume that clung to the wallpaper like a memory.
I slipped an arm under hers and guided her gently toward the dining table, our steps slow and measured. She let out a long sigh as she sank into the chair, leaning back like the weight of the past few days had finally settled in her bones.
“I remember perfectly fine, Penelope,” she said with a stubborn little huff. “You have work to do. A job that needs you. Old me can manage just fine.”
I rolled my eyes as I turned toward the kitchen. “Just bear with me, okay? You scared the crap out of me. And being here, taking care of you, is the only thing that’s helping my brain calm down. I need to see you safe, not in a hospital bed, or…” I swallowed hard. “Worse.”
I returned with her plate of breakfast and a mug of coffee, placing them gently in front of her before grabbing my own and sitting across the table. I gave her a soft, sad smile. She met it with a knowing smirk as she scooped up a forkful of eggs.
“Well,” she said, chewing, “I guess it is kind of nice to have someone catering to me for a change.”
“That’s the spirit.” I let out a small laugh and stared into my coffee, tracing the rim of the mug with my fingertip. The idea I’d been mulling over for the past twenty-four hours danced at the edge of my tongue.
“Sandy,” I began carefully, “I’ve been thinking a lot about Petal Pusher. About its future. I want to run something by you.”
She paused mid-bite, her fork lowering slowly to her plate. “Go on,” she said, her voice a touch more serious now. “It’s not like I can go anywhere.”
I took a deep breath. “I can’t imagine this town without that shop. And I know you’ve said it’s too much now, too hard to manage on your own. But I might have a solution.”
She tilted her head, interest flickering behind her tired eyes. “I’m listening.”
“Ellie Cassidy,” I said. “She loves flowers. She knows how to run a business. She’s the one who got the farm stand up and running out at the ranch. And I know she’s looking to move on, to start something new. What if that something… was Petal Pusher?”
Sandy paused for a long moment, her eyes distant as she considered my words. Finally, she nodded—slow and thoughtful, but certain.
“Have you spoken to her about it yet?”
I shook my head, fingers tightening around my coffee cup.
“Not yet. I didn’t know where your head was at, and I didn’t want to make offers I couldn’t follow through on.” I glanced up, searching her face. “I wanted to run it by you first.”
Sandy picked up her fork again and took a bite of her breakfast, chewing with care. “I think that sounds lovely,” she said finally. “If she’s interested, I’d be more than happy to talk to her, work out some kind of arrangement.”
Relief curled through my chest like warmth from a fire. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her to come see you.”
Sandy laughed softly, shaking her head. “Oh boy. I haven’t had anyone on payroll—well, ever. It was always just me and Hank.” Her voice softened as she said his name, a smile lifting her face, her eyes shimmering with memory. It was as if she were replaying a treasured home movie in her mind, golden and precious.
“What was he like?” I asked gently.
In all the time I’d known Sandy, she rarely talked about her husband. It never made me doubt how much she’d loved him—it just felt like maybe the loss was still too raw, the ache too deep to name aloud. I’d caught glimpses here and there—quick stories about the flower shop or their time in California, but never the full picture.
Maybe it was the rush of emotion from the last few days, or maybe something deeper, but I suddenly wanted to know more. I wanted a piece of her past to carry with me, something real and lasting.
She grew quiet, her gaze fixed on something far away, her expression soft with reflection.
“He was straight to the point,” she said at last. “That man didn’t sugarcoat a single thing.” She gave a dry laugh, then added, “But somehow, he was still the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. He knew how to be soft when it mattered. He was patient. Kind. Compassionate.”
A tender smile tugged at my lips as I listened—not just to her words, but to the way she said them, full of reverence and quiet love.
Without another word, Sandy stood. Instinctively, I moved to help her, but she waved me off with a look. Carefully, she walked to a wooden hutch in the corner of the room and returned with a photo frame in her hand.
Using the table for support, she extended the frame to me. I took it carefully.
Inside the glass was a portrait of a man—stocky, with a broad, easy smile that made him look instantly familiar. There was something teddy bear-like about him, a kind of gentle strength that radiated from his eyes. His hair was thick and dark, not a strand of gray in sight.
“He looks so cheerful,” I said, unable to hide the smile spreading across my face.
Sandy let out a short laugh as she sank back into her chair. “Cheerful? Oh, not a chance. But kind? Always.”
She let that hang in the air for a moment before speaking again. “Remember that story I told you the other day?” she asked.
Still holding the photo, I looked up and nodded.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. And then this whole fall…” Her voice drifted off, but her gaze didn’t. She locked eyes with me, steady and clear, and reached out, placing her hand gently over mine.
“Don’t take life for granted, Penelope. Not a single day. No matter how young or how old you are. Live with grace and with gratitude. For everything. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”
Her words landed in my chest like a promise—one I wasn’t sure I knew I needed until now.
There was a knock at the door, followed by the soft scrape of it dragging against the hardwood floors. My head snapped over my shoulder just in time to see Mac peek around the corner, his familiar frame filling the doorway to the kitchen.
“Mac?” I asked, confused. “What are you doing here?”
There was no reason for him to be at Sandy’s this early. At least, not one I knew of.
He glanced at Sandy, then back at me, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to find the right words. Before he could sputter out an excuse, Sandy gave him some kind of look—one I couldn’t interpret, but he could because he cleared his throat and stepped into the kitchen like he belonged there.
“I got a bat signal that someone needed rescuing,” he said, flashing me a grin.
I turned sharply toward Sandy, my jaw dropping. “You did not,” I gasped. “You called Mac to save you? From me?”
Sandy gave me a look so smug I could have screamed. “Penelope, sweetie, it’s time for you to go home and take a shower.” She pinched her nose dramatically and waved her hand in front of her face like I was some unwashed barn animal.
My eyes widened in mock horror. “I do not stink!” I pointed at her accusingly.
Laughter erupted from her and then from Mac, his deep, warm chuckle rolling in behind me as he stepped closer and gently grabbed my shoulders.
“Let’s go, Pen. The truck’s still running,” he said, leaning in. He sniffed the air with exaggerated flair, then winced. “Oof. Okay, she’s not wrong.”
I gasped and smacked his chest with the back of my hand, earning another laugh from him. “You’re both impossible,” I muttered, spinning on my heel and stomping off toward the guest room with as much dignity as I could manage.
Behind me, their laughter echoed down the hall, bright and full of mischief. And just before I reached the door, I swear I heard it—smack—a perfectly crisp, unmistakable high five.
Sandy’s house wasn’t far from Petal Pusher, just on the outskirts of town, but the drive back to my apartment still took close to ten minutes, winding through quiet back roads as Mac’s beat-up truck rumbled beneath us.
I sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed loosely, eyes flicking between the passing scenery and the man beside me. The silence was soft, companionable until I broke it.
“Do I really stink?” I asked, suddenly very self-conscious.
I’d always prided myself on smelling good. Perfume, lotions, hair products—it was one of my little passions, a personal ritual that made me feel put together.
Mac let out a low chuckle, cutting his eyes toward me for a beat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the center console. “No,” he said. “You don’t stink. But we had to come up with something to get you to leave.”
I huffed, turning to look out the window with a pout. “That’s just mean.”
He grinned. “You’ve been there two nights, Pen. It was time to get you home, rest, and shower. Maybe sleep in a real bed for once.”
I wanted to argue, but the truth was, he wasn’t wrong. Still, being near Sandy made the anxiety quiet, if only for a while. Watching her breathe, hearing her voice reminded me she was okay.
“I know you were scared,” Mac said gently when I didn’t respond right away. “But she’s okay.”
Something about hearing it from him—his steady, gravel-edged voice full of quiet reassurance—hit me harder than I expected. My throat tightened.
“I just… I can’t lose her.” I stared at the dashboard, eyes blurring. “It felt like a slap in the face. A reminder that it can all be gone in a blink. Anyone I love, just… gone.”
The words came out raw, stripped down to their marrow.
I’d spent so much of my life not knowing what love and real affection looked like. And once I found it, once I let myself feel it, suddenly the idea of losing it felt like a kind of death. Like being abandoned all over again.
“She means a lot to you,” Mac said, his voice low and understanding. He didn’t try to fix it. Just sat with me in the grief of the moment, which somehow meant everything.
“She took a chance on me,” I said. “Gave me a start when I had nothing and nowhere to go. When my mom packed up and left the day I turned eighteen, I had no idea what the hell to do. I saw the apartment above the flower shop was for rent, walked in, and offered Sandy every last dollar in my bank account from working at the library.”
Mac reached for the radio, turning the volume down until it was just a whisper, giving me space to keep talking.
“She let me move in. Charged me almost nothing for rent in exchange for helping her on weekends. She supported me while I went to school online, while I worked at the library. She was the first person who really believed in me. Really saw me.”
I paused, emotion rising fast. My voice cracked. “Without her… I don’t know where I’d be. She’s my family. This whole thing just reminded me how fragile life is. How stupid it is to waste time on grudges and bitterness.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mac’s jaw tighten, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his features. He nodded slowly, swallowing hard.
Even with my mom, I didn’t carry hate anymore. But that didn’t mean I had to let her stay in my life. Letting go didn’t make me cruel—it made me free. I chose peace over resentment. I chose my own happiness.
She doesn’t get to have that power over me anymore, and I’m better for it.
Mac’s hand left the center console and searched for mine, his grip was commanding and consuming as he brought my hand to rest with his. Silence filled the rest of the drive until we pulled up to the store.
The broken door had been repaired, the lights inside Petal Pusher were off and a sign was hanging on the glass. Be back soon. Written in Mac’s scratchy handwriting.