Chapter 3
JOY
By the time I locked up at McKinley Flowers, the sky had softened into that late-evening blue Charleston does so well—like the day wasn’t ending, just loosening its grip.
I could have walked the two blocks to my condo. Usually did. It was small but sweet, above a bakery that smelled like sugar and butter in the mornings, close enough to work that I never worried about traffic or parking or being late. Practical. Easy.
But tonight, my hands were buzzing, my chest light with a feeling that refused to stay contained.
So, I pointed my car toward Wadmalaw Island instead.
The drive always worked something loose inside me. Downtown melted into marsh and quiet roads, the air shifting as soon as I rolled down the windows. Salt and grass and warm Earth replaced perfume and exhaust. Spanish moss draped low over live oaks like the land itself was exhaling.
I laughed out loud once, alone in the car, because I couldn’t help it.
Portia Dane wanted our flowers.
Not just any flowers—flowers grown in this soil, under this sun, cut by these hands. Flowers that would be flown across the country and arranged at a wedding that mattered to people who mattered.
It felt ridiculous to be this giddy about it, like I’d been asked to wave from a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade or march in the Rose Bowl with a sash across my chest that read Charleston. I wasn’t the kind of person who craved attention, but this wasn’t about that.
It was about doing it right.
About representing home.
About making sure that when someone walked into that Montana space—wherever it was—they felt a little of what it meant to grow things slowly and carefully in a place that loved beauty as much as it loved tradition.
I turned down the gravel drive just as the sun dipped lower, the McKinley Family Farm spreading out in front of me like a familiar embrace.
Rows of flowers caught the last of the light—zinnias in hot pinks and oranges, creamy lisianthus nodding gently, sunflowers already closing their faces for the night.
Dahlias stood tall and proud, dark leaves glossy, blooms dramatic without being fussy.
The house sat back from the fields, white and a little crooked, with a wide porch and rocking chairs that had seen better paint jobs. Light spilled from the kitchen windows, warm and golden.
Home.
Before I could even turn off the engine, Sunny came barreling toward me, barking like I’d been gone for months. He was part mutt, part something big and shaggy, all heart. His tail wagged so hard his whole body swayed.
“Hey, boy,” I said, laughing as I opened the door. He jumped up, paws muddy, nose cool against my hands. “I missed you, too.”
“Joy?” Momma’s voice floated out from the porch. “Is that you?”
“In the flesh,” I called back, shutting the car door as Mason and Bo burst out of the house like they’d been waiting for a starting gun.
“Joy’s home!” Bo yelled, skidding to a stop just short of colliding with Sunny.
Mason, taller now—when had that happened?—gave me a lopsided grin. “You eat yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I have news.”
That got their attention.
Inside, the house hummed with evening life. Momma stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled like tomatoes and basil, her hair pulled up. Daddy sat at the kitchen table with Lily perched sideways on his lap, her math homework spread out between them.
Cassie leaned against the counter, scrolling on her phone, pretending not to listen but absolutely listening—just like Mason and Bo, who hovered nearby with the restless energy of kids who still belonged to this house in a way I no longer did.
“You look like you’re about to burst,” Momma said, turning with a knowing smile. “Shoes off, honey.”
I kicked them off by the door automatically. “Okay, but I’m telling you now—I’m not waiting until dinner.”
Daddy looked up, eyebrows raised. “That serious?”
“Serious,” I said, bouncing just a little on the balls of my feet. “Okay. So. A wedding planner came into the shop today.”
Cassie snorted. “They all do.”
“Not like this one,” I said. “She’s … well, she’s very put-together. And she’s planning a wedding in Montana.”
“Montana?” Mason repeated. “Like … mountains?”
“Yes,” I said. “And she wants to fly flowers out. From here.”
The kitchen went quiet.
Momma set her spoon down slowly. “Fly them?”
“With a plane,” I said quickly. “She’s providing it. She wants to bring a piece of Charleston with her. Our flowers.”
Daddy leaned back in his chair, studying me. “That’s a big ask.”
“I know,” I said, nodding. “But it’s doable. With the right varieties. We’d have to plan harvest timing carefully, temperature control, hydration—”
Momma smiled then, soft and proud. “Listen to you.”
“It gets better,” I added. “She wants to meet at Dominion Hall.”
Cassie’s phone dropped to the counter. “The Dominion Hall?”
“That’s what the card said,” I said, pulling it from my bag like proof I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.
Dominion Hall wasn’t something you knew so much as something you’d absorbed by living here long enough.
Everyone in Charleston had heard of it—stories passed along in lowered voices, half-joking, half-serious.
A place tied to money and rumors. To power that didn’t advertise itself.
No one could tell you exactly who lived there or what went on behind its gates, but that almost made it bigger, like a myth that didn’t need details to feel real.
Bo’s eyes went wide. “Are there guards?”
“Probably,” I said, smiling. “That’s not the point.”
Lily looked up from her worksheet. “Does Montana have flowers?”
“Yes, they do,” I said. “Just different ones.”
Momma reached out and squeezed my arm. “You’re excited.”
“I am,” I admitted. “It feels like … I don’t know. Like we get to represent Charleston. Like our farm was picked for something special.”
Daddy nodded slowly. “You’d be good at that.”
The warmth in my chest spread, steady and grounding.
After dinner—after plates were cleared and homework finished and Sunny finally collapsed by the back door—we walked out to the fields together. The air had cooled, crickets starting their nightly chorus, the sky streaked pink and lavender.
I moved between rows, touching leaves, checking buds out of habit. Momma walked beside me, pointing out which lisianthus would be ready in a few days, which zinnias needed deadheading. Daddy talked about irrigation schedules and weather forecasts, already thinking ahead.
“This is big,” Cassie said quietly, standing near the dahlias. “For you.”
“For us,” I corrected.
She smiled, just a little. “Yeah. For us.”
I looked out over the farm—the flowers closing up for the night, the house glowing behind us, my family scattered across the land like they belonged exactly where they were.
I felt it then, clear and calm.
This was my world.
And for the first time, it felt like it was opening outward instead of holding me in.
I rubbed Sunny’s head as he pressed against my leg and breathed in the scent of earth and blooms and home.
I stayed out there longer than everyone else.
Momma eventually went back inside to pack lunches for tomorrow.
Daddy followed, calling over his shoulder that he’d check the irrigation lines in the morning.
Cassie disappeared to FaceTime a friend, Mason and Bo started tossing a baseball back and forth near the shed, and Lily curled up on the porch swing with a book far too old for her.
I wandered between the rows alone, the sky deepening overhead, the first stars timid but determined.
There was something about twilight on the farm that always made me reflective. Not sad—never sad—but thoughtful in the way that came from having room to breathe. The kind of thinking you couldn’t do downtown, where everything buzzed and demanded and rushed you along.
I crouched beside a row of zinnias, brushing my fingers over their petals. They were sturdy things. Not delicate at all, even though people always assumed they were. They thrived in heat, held their color, lasted longer than anyone expected once cut.
I smiled to myself.
Montana.
The word still felt unreal. Wide skies. Cooler air.
Mountains instead of marsh. I tried to imagine unloading crates of flowers onto a small plane, each stem tucked into hydration tubes, wrapped just right so nothing bruised or bent.
Tried to imagine arranging them in a place where Spanish moss didn’t exist and no one had ever heard cicadas scream themselves hoarse at dusk.
I pictured a wedding set against something vast and open—wood and stone and sky. Maybe a long table under string lights. Maybe vows said with the wind brushing past instead of humid stillness. And there, in the middle of it all, flowers from Wadmalaw Island. From us.
It felt … important.
Not in a grand, world-changing way. Just in the quiet way that mattered to me. Like proof that what we did here—what we built with our hands and patience and care—could travel. Could belong somewhere else without losing itself.
I wondered what kind of bride would walk down that aisle.
I wondered, too, what it would feel like to be one.
The thought crept in softly, the way it always did. Not sharp or painful. Just curious.
I tried to imagine myself in a dress like the ones that came through the shop in inspiration photos.
Lace sleeves. Clean lines. Something simple and beautiful.
I tried to imagine walking toward someone who looked at me like I wasn’t an afterthought or a convenience, but a decision he’d made with certainty.
The image was hazy. Not because I didn’t want it—but because I’d never been able to picture who stood on the other end.
I loved my life. Truly. I loved my family, the farm, the rhythm of the shop. I loved knowing where I belonged and what was expected of me. There was comfort in that. Joy, even.
But sometimes—like now—I felt the edges of something else. Not dissatisfaction. Just … possibility. Like a door I hadn’t opened yet.
I stood, brushing dirt from my hands, and looked back toward the house. Light spilled from the windows, warm and steady. Sunny trotted over and sat at my feet, leaning into my leg with a contented sigh.
“You think so, too, don’t you?” I murmured, scratching behind his ears. “That it’s kind of a big deal.”
He thumped his tail, clearly in agreement.
I laughed quietly.
I thought about the shop downtown, about how tomorrow I’d open the doors again and greet strangers and regulars and brides with binders full of dreams. I’d answer questions, make suggestions, reassure people that yes, it would be beautiful. Yes, it would be okay.
And somewhere between invoices and ribbon choices, I’d start planning something bigger than anything we’d done before.
I wasn’t scared.
That surprised me, a little.
Maybe it was because I knew this world so well—flowers, seasons, logistics, numbers, care. Maybe it was because my family stood behind me, steady as the land itself. Or maybe it was because, for once, something had come along that felt like an invitation instead of a demand.
I headed back toward the house as the night settled fully around us. The porch light flicked on automatically, bathing the steps in soft yellow. Lily waved at me from the swing, her feet dragging the floor.
“Are you staying over?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
“Good,” she said, like she’d already known.
Inside, Momma had left a mug on the counter for me, steam curling up into the air. I wrapped my hands around it, warmth seeping into my palms.
As I stood there, listening to the familiar sounds of home—the hum of the refrigerator, the murmur of voices, the distant bark of a neighbor’s dog—I felt something settle into place.
I didn’t know exactly where this new path led.
But I knew one thing for sure.
Whatever was coming, I wanted to meet it with both hands open.