Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Daisy
By Thursday morning, Boston has decided to become aggressively autumnal.
There are pumpkins in every storefront window, chrysanthemums outside every boutique, cinnamon-scented candles arranged in seductive little displays near cash registers, and a chalkboard outside the coffee place near the nonprofit that says, Pumpkin Spice Is Back, Baby!
in handwriting too cheerful to be trusted.
I love fall.
Let’s be clear about that.
I love pumpkins as décor. I love gourds with strange little necks that look like they have secrets. I love plaid scarves, apple cider, foggy mornings, and the annual return of sweaters that make women believe they have their lives together because their sleeves are oversized.
But pumpkin spice?
No.
Pumpkin spice is what happens when a candle and a muffin enter a business partnership without consulting the public. It’s too much. Too loud. Too committed to making every beverage taste like someone liquefied a craft store.
I respect the aesthetic.
I reject the beverage.
This is my official position, and I am prepared to defend it in court.
The office, unfortunately, has embraced fall with the enthusiasm of a kindergarten teacher during a theme week.
Someone has put tiny pumpkins on the reception desk.
Someone else has hung paper leaves from the doorway leading into the conference room.
The break room contains a bowl of individually wrapped caramel candies that keep sticking to everyone’s molars and slowing productivity by at least twelve percent.
I suspect Mira.
She denies involvement, which means she absolutely did it.
“You look suspicious,” she says, walking past my desk with a stack of folders and a travel mug that smells like cinnamon.
I narrow my eyes at the mug. “If that’s pumpkin spice, I’m filing a grievance.”
“It’s chai.”
“Acceptable.”
“Generous of you.”
“I’m known for my fairness.”
“You called a seasonal latte ‘publicly-sanctioned potpourri’ yesterday.”
“And I stand by my statement.”
Mira sets the folders on the corner of my desk, which is less of a desk and more of an archaeological record of a woman losing a fight against paper. “Did you finish the volunteer schedule?”
“Yes.”
“The donor packet?”
“Updated.”
“The board presentation?”
“Organized, alphabetized, and emotionally more stable than I am.”
“And the wedding?”
I look at her.
She looks at me.
I turn back to my monitor. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Daisy.”
“That tone violates workplace policy.”
“We don’t have a policy about tone.”
“Then add it to the handbook. Page one. Right after ‘please don’t microwave fish in a shared space unless you’re trying to destroy morale.’”
Mira folds her arms.
I hate when people fold their arms. It’s such a confident use of elbows.
“You promised me,” she says, “that you weren’t going to answer wedding emails before lunch.”
“I did not promise.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I will try very hard to respect the boundaries of the workday.’”
“Yes. And I did try. Emotionally.”
“Emotionally?”
“My spirit respected the boundary. My hands answered four emails.”
Her mouth twitches, which is deeply unfair. I am less persuasive when people find me amusing.
“Daisy.”
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet.”
“You’re about to say rest, boundaries, or lunch. Those are your three haunted words.”
“I was going to say your mother called.”
My stomach drops.
Calls are never good. Emails can be managed. Emails can be marked unread and left to sit in a folder like digital raccoons. Calls demand attention. Calls climb through the window and sit on your furniture.
“Once?” I ask.
“Three times.”
Worse.
My phone rings again.
Mom flashes across the screen.
Mira’s eyebrows lift.
“I could let it go to voicemail,” I say.
“You could.”
“It would be healthy.”
“It would.”
“I am a woman who makes healthy choices.”
Mira looks pointedly at the granola bar I’ve failed to open in the past few days.
“Emotionally healthy choices,” I amend.
The phone keeps ringing.
I answer because apparently I have no survival instinct when my mother is involved.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Darling.” Her voice is too calm.
Mom’s calm is worse than panic. Panic can be reasoned with. Calm means she has already decided the house is on fire and would like me to arrange the evacuation by centerpiece height.
“Before you react,” she says, “I need you to know everything is under control.”
I close my eyes briefly.
Mira mouths, Is it bad?
I cover the phone and mouth, Always.
“What happened?” I ask.
A pause.
I hate pauses. Pauses are where families store knives.
“Well, Gloria quit.”
“She what?”
“She resigned this morning.”
“Gloria doesn’t resign. Gloria makes other people resign. Gloria once bullied a florist into retirement with nothing, but a disappointed sigh and a pen from a luxury hotel.”
“Well, apparently Liam’s mother had concerns about the welcome dinner floor plan, Carla’s mother had concerns about Gloria’s tone, and Gloria had concerns about remaining legally responsible for what she called ‘a pageant of wealthy delusion wearing pearls.’”
Against my will, I respect Gloria more than I ever have.
“She said that?”
“Not in writing, thankfully.”
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“Mom.”
“Daisy.”
“No.”
“I haven’t asked yet.”
“You’re about to.”
The office seems to hold its breath around me. The printer stops mid-grumble. The air vent kicks on above my desk and sends the paper leaves near the conference room trembling against the glass.
“I need you to come home,” she says.
And . . . there it is.
The sentence I have spent months pretending wouldn’t find me if I kept my rent paid and my Boston address current.
“I can handle things remotely,” I say.
“You’ve done more than enough remotely, and we’re grateful.”
Grateful.
What a suspicious word.
“We need someone on-site,” she continues. “Someone who knows the full plan. Someone who understands the vineyard. Someone who can keep the families from turning the rehearsal dinner into an international incident.”
“I have a job.”
“I know.”
“Two jobs.”
A pause.
Damn it.
“Two?” she asks.
I close my eyes again because apparently vision is optional today.
“The café,” I say, trying for casual and ending up somewhere near caught. “It’s not a big thing. It’s part-time.”
“Daisy.”
“No, don’t Daisy me. I like it. Bea pays me. I get to be around books. Sometimes poets cry near the register, and I feel spiritually superior. It’s good for me.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Because I didn’t want you to look at me like Boston was a failed experiment.
Because I didn’t want Soren to send money before I could pretend I didn’t need it.
Because I didn’t want my mother to hear “second job” and translate it into “my daughter isn’t okay.”
“I just did,” I say.
Mom goes quiet.
Mira has stopped pretending not to listen.
On my monitor, an email notification appears from Carla Alden with the subject line: Quick Thought About Vow Placement!
Quick thought.
Carla Alden has never had a quick thought in her life. She has curated thoughts. Linen thoughts. Thoughts that arrive with reference images and a clean font.
“Daisy,” Mom says, gentler now, and I immediately hate it. “We can pay you more if you come in person.”
The back of my eyes burns.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not crying beside a bowl of caramel candies because my mother has finally discovered I am financially one charge away from becoming a cautionary tale.
“How much more?” I ask, which feels like swallowing a nail and asking if it comes in a gift box.
Mom names a number.
I sit down because my knees have formed a union.
That number is not life-changing. This is not a movie where someone offers me a check and suddenly my problems arrive at a boutique hotel with luggage and a redemption arc.
It is, however, rent-changing.
Bill-changing.
New-boots-changing.
Buy-winter-gloves-changing.
Maybe even dentist-appointment-without-calculating-ramen-changing.
“That’s too much,” I say automatically.
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Daisy.”
“I don’t want charity.”
“It isn’t charity. It’s work.” Her voice lifts, and there she is again.
My mother with the vineyard in her bones and the Thorn pride sitting right behind her teeth.
“Work you’d have permanently if you hadn’t packed and left for Boston.
This vineyard is your legacy. The Thorn business is something you and I built, and leaving because—”
“Mom, I needed a reset.”
The words come out too fast.
Mira’s gaze drops to her folders, giving me privacy in the very public way women offer each other mercy at work.
“You might be okay with Carla and Liam’s wedding,” I continue, quieter but not calmer, “but the entire town decided to treat me as if I was lacking after he cheated. As if it had been my fault.”
“You are not lacking.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to them.”
I hate the way my voice breaks around the edge of it. Not crying. Worse. The almost-before. The humiliating little warning bell.
“You never defended me when it happened,” I say before I can stop myself. “You went with ‘boys will be boys’ and ‘there’s nothing to do but move on.’”
Silence.
My pulse bangs once, hard.
Okay. So maybe I am upset with my mother. Maybe a reasonable amount. Maybe the amount one might be when her mother takes the wedding booking of the man who cheated on her with a woman who has the emotional depth of a scented drawer liner.
Sure, money matters.
The vineyard matters.
Pride matters.
But I am her daughter, and it might have been nice to hear her say, Liam, you and your slutty-cheating-ass can go marry Carla somewhere else.
Just once.
As a treat.
Mom breathes in.
When she speaks again, her voice has lost the business edge. “Would you come to help me?”
That’s worse.
Not the question.
The fact that I can hear what it costs her to ask.
Thorns do not beg. We invoice. We host. We press napkins into perfect folds and pretend dignity is genetic.
My mother asking for help is practically a medical event.
I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “It’s for work.”
Work.
I understand work.