9. Fran #2
I laugh, and it comes out watery and strange. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both.” She pulls back, smiling. “Welcome to Marigold, cousin. You’re going to fit right in.”
***
The next few days blur together.
But one moment stays sharp: the morning after I arrive, when I ask Bree to pick up a home pregnancy test. The hospital confirmed it with blood work and ultrasound, but I need to see it myself, need the physical proof, the ritual of it.
She doesn’t ask questions, just brings back the test and gives me space.
Alone in her bathroom, I watch two pink lines appear in the little window.
I already know what they mean. The doctors already told me.
But seeing it here, holding the evidence in my own hands.
It makes it real in a way the hospital couldn’t.
I’m going to be a mother. Whatever else happens, whatever I decide about Logan, that part is certain now.
I sleep a lot, more than I have in months, maybe years. The guest room bed is soft, the house is quiet, and for the first time since my wedding I don’t have to perform for anyone. I can just exist, healing and resting and trying to figure out what comes next.
Bree connects me with her contact, a Detective Reyes who’s been working the fire from the start. Torres, the fire investigator, flagged accelerant in the preliminary report and brought her in. She’s already requested the 911 recording and canvassed neighbors for footage.
“I have your cousin’s account, and I have the physical evidence,” Detective Reyes explains when we speak. “What I need is independent corroboration linking the fire to a specific person. Your statement helps build that picture.”
“What about Logan?” The question sticks in my throat. “Will he be informed?”
“Your contact information stays confidential, communication routes through your cousin.” She pauses. “Down the line, if this moves forward, I’ll need a formal recorded interview to supplement what you’re telling me now. But for today, just walk me through what happened.”
“I understand.”
“Good. Take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch when there’s news.”
I hang up and sit in the silence of Bree’s kitchen, thinking about evidence and investigations and all the things I might have to face eventually.
But not today. Today, I’m going to rest. I’m going to let my throat heal and my hands heal and my heart-
Well. That might take longer.
***
The next morning, I wake up early.
The house is quiet, Rosie still asleep, James making those soft baby sounds in his crib, Bree and Rafael moving quietly in the kitchen. I slip out of bed and pad down the hall, following the smell of tea.
“You’re up early.” Bree slides a mug toward me. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Slept too much.” I take the tea gratefully. “My body doesn’t know what to do with eight uninterrupted hours.”
“Give it time. You’re recovering from smoke inhalation and emotional trauma and-” She gestures vaguely at my stomach. “Incubating a human. Your body’s allowed to be confused.”
“Thanks for the medical assessment, Dr. Bree.”
“I’m also an expert in waffles.” She grins. “Want some?”
We eat breakfast together, just the two of us, while the sun rises over the garden and the house slowly wakes up around us. It’s peaceful. Simple. The kind of morning I forgot existed during nineteen months of performing my way through a marriage that never quite fit.
“I need to do something,” I say, setting down my fork. “I can’t just sit here and heal. I’ll go crazy.”
“Okay.” Bree looks at me thoughtfully. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.” I stare at my plate. “My whole life was the flower farm. Every plan I had, every dream - it all centered on that land. And now it’s gone. My father still owns it, and I’m-” I gesture at myself. “Here. Starting over. With nothing.”
“That’s not true.” Bree’s voice is gentle. “You have skills. You have knowledge. You have twenty-eight years of being a stubborn, brilliant pain in the ass who doesn’t let anything stop her.”
I snort. “Flattering.”
“It’s a compliment.” She leans forward. “Fran, you built that flower farm from nothing. You can build something else. Maybe not here and maybe not yet, but - you’re not starting with nothing. You’re starting with everything you already know.”
I think about that. About soil and seeds and the patient work of growing things. About the life I’m building inside me, tiny, fragile, completely dependent on me making good choices.
“There’s a community garden across from the craft shop,” I say slowly. “I saw it yesterday, when Rafael drove me through town. It looked like it could use some help.”
Bree’s smile is bright. “That’s Margaret’s territory. She’s been trying to recruit someone with actual gardening skills for months.” She pauses. “I should warn you, though. The grandmas are going to love you.”
“The grandmas?”
“The older women who basically run this town. Book clubs, knitting circles, aggressive hospitality.” Bree laughs at my expression. “Don’t look so scared. They’re harmless. Mostly.”
I’m not sure I believe her. But as I finish my tea and watch the morning light spread across the garden, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Hope. Small and fragile and easily crushed, but there.
It’s enough to start with.