Chapter 9 #2
Mrs. Carver leaned closer as I handed her the slip. “I hear that someone bought Castleton.”
I stilled for a fraction of a second and pasted a smile on my face. “So I’ve heard.”
“Seems a waste,” she said, pursing her lips. “That house should belong to someone who appreciates it.”
I swallowed my pride and chose diplomacy. “Perhaps he does. It isn’t our business. We’re going to welcome him and his daughter to Wildwood Meadows, because that’s what we do here. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Thanks for the information on my hydrangeas.” She hitched her purse a little higher on her shoulder, patting the strap and ignoring my subtle dig at reminding her to mind her manners.
“Of course, Mrs. Carver. Have a great day,” I sighed as I straightened my apron.
Phiny waited until the door shut before she whirled on me. “You’re being weird.”
“I don’t care who bought what house,” I said, heading to the back of the shop where I had orders to fill. There were still hours to go before my afternoon helper would arrive, and I wanted to finish them.
She opened her mouth to respond, but another knock sounded against the glass door, making us both turn our heads. A man stood outside the glass with a bouquet cradled in his arms. I frowned and crossed to the door, pushing it open so the bell sang again. “We’re open,” I said automatically.
“Delivery for Wild Bloom,” he replied, shifting the arrangement slightly so I could see it better. My brows drew together. “Sage Holt?”
The bouquet was wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, not cellophane or ribbon. The flowers inside were arranged in a loose, gorgeous spill that took my breath away. Someone had spent a fortune on them.
“What are these?” I asked. The guy gave me a flat look like I was being slow. “They’re … for me?” I asked. “From who?”
“If you’re Sage Holt, then they’re for you,” he checked the clipboard and cleared his throat. “No sender listed.”
Just like the first arrangement left on the counter, everything was eerily similar to what I used here in the shop.
This arrangement was stunning, with jasmine vines woven through the center and a few sprigs of lemon balm softening the edges.
There were beautiful blush-pink peonies with strawflowers nestled against them, and even garden roses.
Phiny appeared at my shoulder, and I felt her intake of breath. “Oh,” she murmured. “That’s very you.”
I signed for it with a distracted scrawl and took the bouquet into my hands, surprised by its weight. Carrying it to the counter and untying the twine so I could peel back the paper without tearing it, I pulled out the small card that had been tucked inside.
The card said: You notice everything. I notice you.
Phiny leaned in, looking at the sprawl of flowers. “That’s interesting.”
“It’s something,” I countered, though my pulse had ticked up in a way I didn’t appreciate. It was weird.
“Maybe it’s a thank-you from a client,” she suggested.
“Clients sign their names, and they don’t send flowers to a … flower shop. I have flowers.”
“Maybe they’re shy.”
Turning back to the bouquet, I studied it more closely.
The garden roses were a variety I had ordered once from a specialty grower, a soft ivory that faded to the faintest green at the outer petals.
The peonies were all expertly arranged, so they didn’t crowd one another.
I traced a fingertip along a sprig of lemon balm and raised it to my nose, inhaling the sharp, citrus scent.
“It could be from one of your regulars.”
Snorting a little as I settled all the blooms back together, I scoffed, “I doubt it. These aren’t from around here, and they’re expensive. Very expensive. If someone ordered something like this from me, it’d be well over a hundred bucks.”
Phiny nudged my shoulder. “Maybe it’s from Rhodes.”
Feeling unsettled, I barked out a laugh that sounded more brittle than amused. “He does not seem like the type to send anonymous bouquets. If he did send flowers, he wouldn’t send a weird card like that.”
“You don’t know that,” she countered. “Maybe he has a secret cottage-core side.”
I lifted the bouquet and carried it toward the big farmhouse table in the back of the shop, where I usually assembled custom orders. The morning light streaming through the front windows caught the glass jars, refracting and sparkling over the wood floors.
I reached for one of my favorite old vases, a tall green glass one with a chipped lip that I had found at a yard sale last spring. I trimmed the stems slightly and slid the bouquet into the vase, adjusting the angle as I went.
She studied it for a long moment. “You love peonies.”
She was right about me liking them. They were one of my all-time favorites, although I typically didn’t use them in everyday bouquets since they were heavy and tended to droop. Brides loved them, though, so it was a popular ask.
“Could they be from a supplier? Like a promotion or something?” she bit her lip.
I fiddled with one of the flowers, moving it so the peony was propped just so. “Maybe.” It seemed very unlikely. The wording on the card would fit that, but it felt all wrong. Maybe when I saw Wade next, I’d ask him to check into it.
The shop door opened again, bringing in a gust of cooler air and Mrs. Dennison’s loud voice. I forced a smile and stepped away from the arrangement, trying to pretend like it meant nothing that someone had sent me flowers.
“I have one more batch of dough to make over at Chapter & Crumb, and then I’m going to take some sandwiches up to the Annex property for the crew.” Phiny kissed my cheek.
East hired her to deliver lunches to his crews last year, and she took it to the next level.
We were all a little jealous of the meals she prepared.
Right now, East was putting the finishing touches on Hattie and Kipp’s new house, right next to the cabins he and Hattie rented out.
Business was booming, and all the cabins were booked for the next six months.
It was fortunate they had started building a separate house out there, because Kipp would have gone crazy living so close to all those people.
“Text me if your secret admirer sends you something else,” she teased on her way out the door. “Maybe truffles or something.”
“I will not dignify that with a response,” I grumbled back, giving her a wave. “But if that happens, you can totally have them.”
“You’re keeping the bouquet,” she observed, catching the lie.
“I’m not throwing out perfectly good flowers,” I declared testily. “There’s no reason to. That’d be totally dumb. They’re just flowers. It isn’t like it’s their fault.”
I turned to Mrs. Dennison, letting my sister go and trying to ease my worries. There’d be time for that later. Right now, I had rent to pay, and my business wasn’t going to run itself.
“Morning, Mrs. Dennison,” I called, smoothing my expression into something easy. “What can I do for you?”
As I helped her pick out a new Syngonium and listened to her complain about her son’s new girlfriend, my eyes kept drifting back to the bouquet. It sat there innocently enough, but an unsettled feeling was sitting in my stomach like a stone.
I had a social media account for the shop where I posted pictures of arrangements and captioned them with cheesy lines about growth and seasons of change.
Anyone with internet access could have copied it.
I would never claim I was the most original person in the world.
Weren’t we all just big sponges soaking up what we took in daily anyway?
When I did flowers for Chapter & Crumb, I’d even pair plants and flowers for Lila in her windows and post them to my socials. It helped me and my bestie. So, my passion for peonies wasn’t a secret.
Still, as the morning wore on and customers trickled in and out, I felt the faintest itch between my shoulder blades, as if unseen eyes were cataloging my movements the way I cataloged petals in my journals.
I moved through the shop on autopilot, straightening displays and misting leaves, but my attention kept snagging on the green bottle at the center table. My throat tightened unexpectedly, and I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat.
It was just flowers.