Chapter 5
JOY
Iwoke to birdsong and the faint creak of the porch swing outside my window.
For a few seconds, I lay still in the narrow bed I’d slept in my whole life, listening to the familiar sounds of McKinley Family Farm coming to life—the low hum of the refrigerator downstairs, Sunny’s nails clicking across the kitchen floor, Daddy’s shoes thudding softly on the porch as he headed out early, the way he always did.
Morning on Wadmalaw Island had a gentleness to it. Even the light arrived slowly, filtering through thin curtains instead of bursting in all at once.
Then my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
And suddenly, I was wide awake.
Portia Dane: Good morning, Joy. I hope you slept well. Can you come by Dominion Hall today at 10:00? I’d like to talk details in person.
I stared at the screen, my heart doing a small, startled leap.
Today.
I’d assumed we’d email. Maybe talk logistics over the phone. I hadn’t expected … this. Not so soon. Not at Dominion Hall, like it was the most normal thing in the world to invite a florist out to one of Charleston’s most mythic addresses with less than a day’s notice.
But the truth was, I was ready.
I typed Of course. I’ll be there. before doubt could get its footing.
Downstairs, the house smelled like coffee and toast. Momma stood at the counter in her robe, hair still damp, flipping eggs in a pan like she’d done it every morning of her life—which she had.
“You look awake early,” she said, smiling at me over her shoulder.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I admitted, pouring myself coffee. “I’m going to Dominion Hall this morning.”
Her eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Well. That’s something.”
“I know.”
She watched me for a moment, then nodded once, decisive. “Eat something. Big houses have a way of draining you.”
I smiled and did as I was told.
By the time I pulled out of the drive, the sun was already warming the fields, light catching on rows of zinnias and lisianthus like they were waving me on. Sunny barked once from the porch as I passed, tail wagging like he knew this mattered.
The drive into Charleston felt different than usual. Less routine. More … charged.
I showered and dressed back at my condo—simple sundress, hair braided—then headed out again, palms steady on the steering wheel, the insulated box of flower samples riding shotgun like a promise I refused to set down.
When I turned onto the long, gated drive, my breath caught all the same.
Dominion Hall rose out of the trees like something that had always been there and always would be. Stone and glass and quiet authority. The kind of place that didn’t need to announce itself.
The gates opened without a word.
As I drove through, I reminded myself of why I was here.
Not for the rumors.
Not for the power.
Not for whatever happened behind these walls.
I was here for the flowers.
For Wadmalaw soil and Charleston sun and careful hands that knew when to cut and when to wait.
I parked, lifted the box from the passenger seat, and stepped out into the morning air.
Whatever Dominion Hall was, I had something worth bringing inside.
I walked up the broad steps, my sandals quiet against the stone, and before I could even lift my hand toward the door, it opened.
A man stood there in a crisp white shirt, sleeves cuffed neatly, expression calm in the way that made me think he’d seen everything.
“Ms. McKinley,” he said, as if he’d known me his whole life.
“Yes.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Hi.”
“Welcome to Dominion Hall.” He stepped aside. “Ms. Dane is expecting you.”
I crossed the threshold and immediately felt underdressed by the air.
The entryway was enormous—high ceilings, a staircase curving upward like something out of a movie. Everything was polished and perfect without being cold, as if the place could afford beauty without needing to prove it.
I kept my eyes forward and reminded myself to breathe.
“May I take that?” the man asked, nodding to the box.
“Oh—no.” I tightened my hold instinctively. Then softened, embarrassed. “I mean … it’s flowers. I’d rather—”
“Of course,” he said smoothly, like I’d said something perfectly reasonable and not slightly frantic. “This way.”
He led me through hallways that seemed to go on forever. There were rooms I caught glimpses of—soft furniture, art that looked expensive, windows that framed gardens like paintings. I didn’t see men, but I felt … presence. A subtle awareness. Like this house was paying attention.
We passed a set of double doors, and from somewhere deeper inside I heard laughter—women’s voices, warm and bright, with a bite of confidence under it.
My stomach tightened again.
The man paused beside another doorway and gestured me in. “Ms. Dane will be with you shortly.”
I stepped inside and stopped.
The room was beautiful in a way that made my throat go dry.
Sunlight poured in through tall windows. The space was arranged like a luxurious sitting room—plush sofas, low tables, a tray of drinks I couldn’t name. And sprawled across it all, like they belonged there the way flowers belonged in water, were women.
Not just one or two.
A whole room full.
They lounged like queens in a private court—legs crossed, bare shoulders, glossy hair, laughter that rose and fell like music.
One woman wore a silky robe that looked like it cost more than my monthly rent.
Another had on jeans and heels like she’d thrown them on without effort and still looked like a magazine ad.
Someone’s diamond caught the light when she lifted her glass.
I hovered in the doorway for half a second too long.
A brunette turned her head, eyes sharp and curious, and I snapped into motion.
Sorry. Excuse me. Wrong room.
But before I could retreat, a voice cut through the air—smooth, controlled, and unmistakably in charge.
“Joy.”
Portia stood near the far window, phone in hand, posture effortless.
She looked exactly the way she had yesterday—tall, elegant, composed—except today she wore a fitted cream blazer over a black top that made her look like she could plan a wedding and run a company and dismantle a man with one sentence.
Her eyes landed on me and softened, just slightly.
“Come in,” she said.
My feet moved before my brain could keep up. I stepped into the room, clutching the box, and the women’s attention shifted like a tide turning.
Heat rushed up my neck.
I wasn’t shy in the way people assumed shy meant weak. I could talk to customers all day. I could negotiate prices and correct invoices and make brides feel like their vision mattered.
But this was different.
These women didn’t need reassurance. They looked like they’d been born knowing they were wanted.
Portia crossed the room toward me, and the atmosphere changed around her, like she carried her own gravity.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said.
“Of course,” I managed. “I—I didn’t realize it would be … today, but I’m happy to be here.”
“You’re a professional,” Portia said, like that settled it. Then her gaze dropped to the box. “You brought samples.”
“Yes.” I nodded quickly, grateful for something concrete. “Just a few stems. Things that travel well. And a couple that … might not, but they’re Charleston.”
Portia’s mouth curved. “I like that you know the difference.”
Behind her, one of the women laughed softly. Not unkindly. Just amused.
I kept my smile polite and tried not to feel like a kid who’d wandered into the wrong party.
Portia turned slightly, her hand making a subtle motion. “Ladies, this is Joy McKinley. McKinley Flowers.”
A few of them nodded. One lifted her glass in a small salute.
Portia leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was giving me a gift. “Ignore them. They’re harmless. Mostly.”
That made me blink, and then—because I couldn’t help it—smile for real.
Portia guided me toward a smaller table near the windows, away from the center of the room. It wasn’t secluded exactly, but it felt less … on display.
“Set them here,” she said.
I placed the box carefully on the table and opened it like it contained something fragile—which, in a way, it did. Stems and petals and the work of my family’s hands. Home, boxed up.
The scent rose immediately—green and clean and floral, a soft bloom of Wadmalaw carried into this grand room.
Portia’s expression shifted as she looked down, and I saw something like genuine delight.
“These are beautiful,” she said.
Warmth spread through me, bright and steady. “Thank you.”
She picked up a lisianthus stem and turned it gently between her fingers, studying it like she knew what she was looking at. Then she reached for a dahlia, admiring the symmetry, the rich color.
“Tell me what you’d recommend,” she said, businesslike now. “We’re flying in, we’re working with a tight schedule, and I want the floral design to feel like Charleston—not like we shipped in a generic wedding package.”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Okay.”
I took a breath and let my brain do what it did best: organize.
“Lisianthus is excellent for travel,” I began, pointing.
“It’s resilient, it holds up well with proper hydration.
Zinnias are tougher than they look—they actually love heat and handle transport better than most people expect.
Dahlias are gorgeous, but they need more care—packaging, cushioning, temperature stability. Still doable, just … more attention.”
Portia’s eyes stayed on my face, focused and intent.
“And greenery,” I continued, my hands moving as I spoke, my nerves settling into purpose.
“Eucalyptus travels well and gives you that clean scent, but it can be sensitive to dehydration. Ruscus is sturdy. And rosemary—if you want something subtle that feels Southern without being cliché—rosemary can be gorgeous tucked into arrangements. It holds up and smells like home.”
Portia nodded slowly. “Good.”
One of the women behind us murmured, “She knows her stuff.”
Portia didn’t turn. “Of course, she does.”
The way she said it—simple, certain—did something strange to my chest. Like being believed in without having to prove it twice.
Portia set the stems down carefully and folded her arms. “Now,” she said, “timing. How quickly can you harvest and prep for flight?”
I answered without hesitation, because I’d already been running numbers in my head.
“We’ll need a schedule based on the wedding day and the flight time,” I said. “Ideally we cut within twenty-four hours of the event, but we can cut a little earlier depending on the varieties and keep them in controlled cold storage. If your plane can be temperature controlled, even better.”
“It can,” Portia said.
“Then we can do this beautifully,” I said, and felt my smile widen.
“We’ll pack everything in insulated boxes, hydration tubes for stems, cushioning for delicate blooms. We can also build some pieces here that travel assembled—like smaller bud vases—but larger installations would be better constructed on site. ”
Portia’s eyes gleamed with approval. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I swallowed. “Do you … have a florist in Montana?”
“I have hands,” Portia said, and one corner of her mouth lifted. “And I have you.”
My pulse skipped.
I glanced around the room again, at the women watching from their sofas, the confidence draped over them like silk. I wondered, suddenly and sharply, what it meant to be part of this world.
To be a Dane wife. A Dane woman. Someone who belonged here.
It felt … far away. Like looking through glass.
Portia tapped the table lightly, pulling me back. “You’re nervous,” she observed.
I laughed softly, because there was no point pretending. “A little.”
“Good,” Portia said, entirely serious. “Nervous means you care. That’s why I came to you.”
I looked down at the flowers again—my flowers, my family’s work—and the pride rose up, steadying me.
“I do care,” I said quietly. “A lot.”
Portia’s gaze held mine, and for a moment the room seemed to fade around her.
“Then you’ll do well here,” she said.
Here.
The word settled into me, heavy and strange.
Before I could respond, laughter flared from the sofas again—something teasing, something intimate. A woman called Portia’s name like she wanted her attention.
Portia didn’t look back, but her shoulders shifted like she was aware of every person in the room at all times.
She leaned in one last time, her voice low.
“And Joy?” she said. “Don’t let this place intimidate you.”
My throat tightened. “I’m not—”
Portia’s eyes narrowed slightly, amused. “You are. It’s fine. Everyone does their first time.”
Heat climbed my face again.
Portia’s mouth curved, softer now. “Just remember why you’re here.”
I nodded, clutching that like a lifeline. “The flowers.”
Portia smiled. “Exactly.”