Chapter 22
Margot
"Oh my god! That fiddle-leaf fig is everything!
" I gasp, stopping in the center of the garden shop's conservatory.
The air is humid and thick with the scent of damp earth, a literal jungle where vibrant orchids and trailing vines compete for space alongside monsteras that have grown to the size of armchairs.
Dot appears at my elbow, her gaze tracking mine to the massive fig.
She’s an institution in Solstice Ridge, having run this botanical shop for decades.
Somewhere north of sixty, she sports an immaculate grey pixie cut, oversized shark-shaped earrings, and neon-green frames that magnify her eyes to an adorably owlish scale.
"Sweetie, you aren't ready for that plant yet," she says, delivering the final verdict.
"Oh, not even after the strawberries?" I cast a longing look at its six feet of glossy perfection. "Cause they’re thriving. I've even been leaving little bags of them on people's porches like some kind of berry evangelist."
She clicks her tongue, adjusting her neon frames. "Your gardening skills are improving, but your track record with high-maintenance indoor foliage is, and I say this with love, a history of hospice care."
I let out a soft laugh, because Dot is a local legend for a reason, and she never fails to speak her mind. She runs her shop less like a retail space and more like an adoption agency.
"How about this one?" She smiles brightly, gesturing toward a sturdy-looking snake plant. "You can definitely manage this variety. Plus, it would suit your aesthetic."
I give a reluctant nod. "Alright, I suppose I do like the look."
"Excellent. I'll keep the fiddle-leaf fig in reserve so I know it's on your wishlist, and I'm sure you'll be ready for it before you know it. But I can’t send the poor thing off to be murdered."
I snort. "You're absolutely drunk on power, Dot."
She cocks her head and winks at me. "Well, a woman has to have a hobby."
I laugh and start navigating toward the register with my consolation prize.
She studies me as she rings it up. "You know, I saw that handsome hockey fellow on social media, the one promoting your new label."
My pulse does a nervous little skip at the mere mention of Cillian. He's up in Seattle with the team, two back-to-back games in the next round of the playoffs, and there was no version of my work schedule that let me go with him.
So, now that I’m off work for the day, I’m plant shopping with Isabelle and Sabrina to distract myself. But he’s due back tomorrow, and we’re meeting in San Francisco once he lands.
"Oh?" I ask, trying for a neutral tone. "Did you enjoy the content?"
"I loved it, honey! I actually went out and bought a bottle."
"You did?" I smile. "I was under the impression you were strictly a cocktail woman. Banana daiquiris, wasn't it?"
“Sharp memory on you, sweetie.” She winks as she takes my credit card. "And yes, but goodness, he was so persuasive on that ad. I thought that sparkling one sounded summery and nice. So I told myself, why not give it a whirl? Celebrate every day, right?"
"Yes! That’s actually my favorite one in the line too," I say with a surge of excitement.
Cillian’s role as ambassador has been shockingly successful, with sales outpacing our wildest projections. Watching my passion project thrive is a dream, and since I have a small stake in this specific label, my income has seen a significant boost as well.
But mostly, it means people like Dot are connecting with the love of wine, and as someone who is passionate about the craft, it makes me so happy I could burst.
"Well, I can see why it's your favorite,” she says. “It was divine. The ladies even asked me to bring a few bottles to our next horror book club meeting!"
I smile. Fright Club is Solstice Ridge's horror book club, a dozen or so women strong, with Dot presiding, our winemaker Diane in the mix, and Miriam serving as its longest-standing member.
The name was Miriam's idea, and the first rule of Fright Club is that they talk about Fright Club to absolutely everyone.
The club gathers for lemon squares and coffee in Dot's back garden to dissect the latest horror while Diane's beagle, Alfie, works the circle for crumbs. I've attended a few, but as a dedicated scaredy-cat, I've sat out the last two books, which Dot cheerfully described as "deliciously gruesome."
“Well next time I stop by I’ll bring a few bottles for the club.” I give her a grateful look. "And Dot, you’ve made my day."
She smiles. "Even without the fiddle-leaf fig?"
"Even then," I say, and I practically skip out the door into the golden afternoon sunshine.
I make my way down the main street, the heart of downtown Solstice Ridge where the river winds through town, and the boutiques all look like something out of a postcard. The air is a touch cooler here than the oppressive heat currently baking the rest of the valley, which is a mercy.
Sabrina and Isabelle are just coming out of the vintage shop as I walk up. After a full round of browsing and deciding on absolutely nothing, I'd popped over to the plant shop while they wrapped up.
"Oohh, that looks great." Isabelle nods at the snake plant tucked in the crook of my arm, and Sabrina reaches over to stroke one of the spikey leaves like it's a pet.
I smile down at it, already proud. "Thanks, we're very happy together. And what's your haul?"
Isabelle raises up a delicate vintage cake stand, milk glass with a scalloped edge. "For the wedding. Won't it be cute on the dessert table?"
"It's perfect!" I say as we fall into step along the sidewalk. "No concrete date yet, then?"
She shakes her head with a sigh. "It's so hard when it's our first year running the restaurant ourselves. We're still just slowly piecing the details together. At this rate, you might actually get married before us."
She nudges my shoulder, her eyes dancing with mischief, and I let out a soft laugh while Sabrina giggles beside us.
"We haven't even told each other we love each other yet, so I think that might be a bit of a stretch," I say.
Sabrina looks over, her expression going bright with excitement. "Wait, does that mean you are feeling in love with him?"
"What? No, of course not," I flush instantly, the heat radiating down my neck. "That would be insane to feel that so quickly. Wouldn't it?"
Isabelle shrugs, watching me. "I mean you guys have known each other for a few months now, even if you haven't been dating that long. It's not that crazy. Especially with the chemistry you guys have."
"When did you know, with Alex?" I ask, mostly to get the spotlight off me.
"Well, I was convinced I hated him at first, but I think I was into him well before I admitted it. And the love came pretty damn fast. When you know, you know."
Sabrina taps her chin. "Hated him first, fell fast. Hmmm, sounds like someone else I know. What was the wise voice, aka me, you had in your ear saying the lady doth protest too much to his—ow!"
I pinch her side, and she yelps.
"Hey," Sabrina says, laughing and squirming out of reach. "I'm just thrilled you and Cillian finally worked it out, and I've earned the right to gloat just a little."
I roll my eyes, though I can't quite suppress a smile. "Fine, gloat away. You were right, as usual."
She laughs. "Oh, also just a heads-up: Aunt Mary decided she's joining us for Dad's retirement dinner tonight.”
I blink, the peaceful mood evaporating instantly. "No she isn't."
"Um," she says, checking her screen. "Yes, she is. She messaged me a few minutes ago asking about the dress code and the timing."
"So typical," I say, the frustration bubbling up unbidden. "She completely ignored the invitations I sent a month ago, and the follow-up text asking for RSVPs so I could coordinate the seating chart, and the automated reminder after that. And now she goes and bypasses me entirely to text you!"
Sabrina winces at my tone, and Isabelle gives a sympathetic little grimace. But how hard is it to stick to a plan? To answer one text out of three? To not spring things at the last minute on the person actually holding the entire evening together?
"I'm sure it wasn't malicious," Sabrina says in a soothing tone. "It's annoying, I know. Tell you what, I'll call the restaurant and see if they can squeeze in one more chair at the end, that way you don't have to deal with it."
"No, I can do it. I've already got everything arranged with the manager there." I wave her off. "And no offense, but the last time you handled party logistics, the caterer delivered forty tacos to the wrong address instead of Mom's."
"Hey, that was one time, and the app defaulted to my address," she protests. "Also we ate them, so nothing was technically wasted."
I laugh despite myself. "No, it's fine, really. I can do it. It's a two-minute call."
"Are you sure?" Sabrina asks, watching me closely.
"It's alright, really. Sorry I snapped. It just gets under my skin.” I take a deep breath. “Okay, rant officially over. Let's get back to our nice day."
Sabrina nudges my shoulder with hers, Isabelle links her arm through my free one, and we walk on while I quietly slide call the restaurant onto the top of my mental to-do list, where there is always, always room for one more.