Alice
The limestone bricks of the Holly River National Bank are cool against my back, which is a mercy, because the rest of me is burning with humiliation. I’m leaning against the wall outside the entrance, trying to avoid looking like a woman whose lifelong dreams were politely shredded.
I take a shaky breath, the kind that threatens to turn into a sob if I’m not careful, and stare down at my feet.
I’m wearing a navy blazer, cream-colored slacks, and nude pumps I purchased on the way here.
This morning, looking in the mirror, I felt like someone about to shake up this town with seismic intensity.
I’m here now.
To be the girl I once was.
I push off the wall and walk toward Maggie’s shop, shoving the sketchbook and business plan into my tote. Mr. Grayson loved the sketches. Said the idea was precisely what Holly River needed.
The following But had been soul-crushing, consisting of credit scores and down payments that’d require selling three of my two kidneys.
The only thing worse was the unsubtle suggestion of my parents co-signing, which I’d swiftly sidestepped.
Because I wanted to build something on my own, just as they did.
I turn the corner and duck inside Pardon My Garden. The bell above the door jingles merrily, and the inviting smell hits me at once—crushed eucalyptus and the sweet, robust scent of lilies.
Maggie is in the center of her shop, knee-deep in a pile of grapevine and silk marigolds. With sleeves pushed to elbows, she wrestles a mammoth wooden archway, muttering curse words as she struggles.
“Hey!” I yell above the music.
Maggie’s head snaps up, her lopsided bun flopping to one side.
"Alice! Thank God. Tell me honestly—is this arch giving Photo Op or Children of the Corn?
" She gestures wildly at the structure. "Roxanne still hasn't given us a directional plan for the festival. Everyone is losing their minds, and rightfully so. That woman is coasting on her mother’s legacy, but legacy doesn't drive foot traffic, Alice.
Legacy doesn't buy artisanal soaps and hand-poured candles. "
Maggie clicks a remote, and the music softens.
I examine her work, forcing this morning’s failure out of mind. Colors explode along the wooden lattice, with unexpected pops of pink amongst the orange and red. The result is breathtaking, but of course it is.
"It’s perfect, and you’re a genius.” I sift through boxes, seeing what she has, and discover a pile of cords near the bottom. "Ooh! What if you add lights, then people can take pictures with it at night too?"
Maggie considers this, and then nods. “Hot damn, Sinclair. I think you’re onto something. I’ll do it after lunch though. I’m beat. And starving. You must imagine a goddess like me needs no sustenance to survive, but alas, I’m a mere mortal.”
I laugh, grateful for my friend who wields humor when I need it most. “Why don’t we knock it out now? I’ll help. Then I can run next door and grab you lunch. I’m off today, but Peter will slip me a burger if he knows it’s for you.”
Maggie shakes her head. “You’re a godsend, Alice. You have the biggest heart. Unlike me, who is a selfish troll-human.”
I grab the lights and start wrapping the arch. “If you’re a troll, Mags, then the rest of us are doomed.”
Maggie grimaces. “Speaking of behaving troll-like, I’m afraid I wasn’t very welcoming to Colt.”
I freeze. “Maggie. No.” She winces, and I groan. “Don’t tell me you brought up the letters. Because that would mean he knows I’ve been talking about him.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“Maggie!”
I start chasing her and she scream-laughs. “I was mad he didn’t answer you.”
“That wasn’t your business!” I grab a sunflower and hold it like a sword.
“Talk.” She shoots her arms into the air, shaking as if I really am about to cut her to pieces.
It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.
But right when she opens her mouth to defend herself, I lower my weapon.
“Actually, don’t tell me. I’d rather live in ignorance. ”
“Ignorance is best,” Maggie agrees.
She bends her knee in an exaggerated fashion, stretching the stringed lights toward me as if terrified of getting too close. I snatch the lights from her. “Get your be-hind back over there.” I nod toward the arch, and she scurries over, pumping her arms.
We work in silence for a few moments before Maggie says, “You know, Colt did win some brownie points when he rescued you from Travis. Now that guy is a forever-douche. He’s been buying every available retail space and renting them back out for way more than they’re worth.
And now he’s after your parents’ place. And your panties.
He’s like that guy from It’s a Wonderful Life. ”
“Mr. Potter?” My shoulders tighten at the mention of Travis.
“That’s it. Man, I’m on fire with the movie references today.
But yeah, Travis is going to turn Holly River into Pottersville, and Roxanne is gonna step aside and just let it happen.
It really should be you directing the events in this town.
Roxanne only does it because her mom handed her the reins.
” Maggie rolls her eyes. “That’s some nepotism right there. ”
I bark a laugh. “That’s a sad use of nepotism. I don’t think anyone wants that role, Maggie. Event directing in Holly River is practically a full-time job. Besides, Roxanne is great at it. You’re too hard on her.”
“I can think of someone who’d want the role,” Maggie chances.
I busy myself with manipulating the foliage, my cheeks warming.
Maggie drops her arms to her sides, her face softening. “Alice, if you believed in yourself half as much as you believe in everyone else in Holly River, you’d be mayor.”
I continue rearranging the silk flowers, doubting her assessment of my potential, the memory of Mr. Grayson’s rejection fresh in my mind.
“And then you could grant me dubious favors,” Maggie exclaims, “like circumventing city taxes. Or granting me special permits to install two male models at my entrance.”
“Would one need special permits for that?”
“For the pornographic things that’d happen inside my shop? Most certainly.”
“Is that what this tripod is for?” I nod toward the filming equipment.
"No, that’s for the 'Gram, Alice. And the TikTok. I’ve been posting for years, and I’m finally getting some traction. Apparently, people find the sight of me swearing at a rosebush relatable." Maggie grabs her phone, holds it high, and drags me into the frame. "Smile!"
The shutter clicks, capturing my blazer and forced smile.
As Maggie examines the photo, I think about the festival plans hidden in my closet. Yet another elaborate plan that’s half-finished and unexecutable because I got carried away with the vision and neglected things like budgets. And physics.
We finish Maggie’s arch well enough for her to photograph it, and then I collect my things to leave. But first—
"Can I buy some flowers before I go?”
Maggie’s eyebrows shoot up, her romantic-comedy-obsessed brain firing on all cylinders. "A bouquet? For what purpose? Is there a date?”
"No.” A flush creeps up my neck, the thought of Colt rushing back to me.
Him in his dark jeans and long-sleeve black Henley.
My god, the cowboy hat. I’ve replayed the image of him standing on my front porch, and the warmth of his hands as we danced, a mortifying number of times.
"I thought I’d go out to the cemetery. Visit Colt’s mom’s grave. "
The teasing light in Maggie’s eyes vanishes, replaced by the bleeding heart she tries so hard to hide.
"You’re too good for this world," she says, already moving toward the back cooler with a sense of purpose.
"I’m not charging you for these. Consider it my contribution to the Saint Alice Foundation. "
She starts pulling stems with practiced ease. "We’ll do bronze chrysanthemums. Some of these burgundy dahlias. They’re called Arabian Night. Total drama queens. And…” She considers the rest of her stock. “Orange ranunculus for a pop. Oh, and let’s add dried wheat to give it a harvest feel."
As she works, I hook the leather tote over my shoulder, my proposal suddenly feeling like a child’s frivolous dream.
If I can't get a loan, and I won't ask my parents for help, then they’re just pieces of paper. I can’t believe I thought the cash I hoarded in college and a few hundred dollars earned at The Buttermilk Cafe would be enough to convince a banker.
"Here.” Maggie turns around with a sensational arrangement wrapped in brown butcher paper, tied off with twine. "Tell her... tell her I said hi. And that she owes me thirty dollars for the flowers."
I take the bundle, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. “Are you sure I can’t pay you?”
Maggie nods toward the arch. “You already did.”