Chapter Seven
C alla considered it a blessing when Thursday rolled around and Bailey called to invite her to a flower party at Field Goal Flowers.
She wasn’t exactly sure whether it was a floral-arranging class or a happy hour—possibly both—but her answer was an unequivocal yes.
The past few days she’d been so immersed in Bishop football that she would’ve eagerly accepted an invitation to a root canal, so long as it didn’t involve sports balls of any kind.
She hadn’t even let Bailey finish the question before she blurted that she’d love to come and she’d meet her at the flower shop at six o’clock on the dot.
The entire week had been a bit of a whirlwind.
If she wasn’t at her keyboard banging out article after article in anticipation of the big opening game, she’d been at practice, watching the team in action.
On the second day, she’d sat a bit closer to the field so she could get a better look at things and catch more of the conversation that took place between the coaches and the players.
By Thursday afternoon, she’d managed to park herself on the front row in the same spot where she always sat beside her dad on game nights.
Jackson had done a double-take when he’d first spotted her there, and she’d have been lying if she’d said a little tingle hadn’t coursed through her when his mouth hitched up in a grin.
But she’d tamped down that feeling as quickly as she could, refocusing on the laptop balanced on her knees as she reminded herself she didn’t care what he thought.
Why did that ever-important fact keep slipping her mind?
It doesn’t matter. You’re here now, and there isn’t a patch of Astroturf or a frustratingly handsome football star in sight.
She glanced at the striped awning above Field Goal Flowers and took a deep inhale.
Marigold Knox, the flower shop’s owner, always kept a stand of fresh-cut bouquets on the sidewalk out front.
Whenever she popped by, Calla liked to pause on the threshold and let the sweet scents of paper-wrapped peonies and velvety roses carry her off to an imaginary garden somewhere…
or a flower stall on a cobblestone walkway…
anywhere but here, in her football-obsessed hometown.
Tonight was girls’ night, though. Surely she’d get a reprieve.
She reached for the doorknob, noting the sign pinned to the front window that said Closed for a Private Event as she entered the shop. Then she stopped cold and looked around as she realized what Bailey had roped her into.
“Calla! Welcome!” Marigold waved at her from a table in the center of the room.
At least Calla thought it was her florist friend.
It was kind of hard to tell, given the profusion of green and white ribbons that littered every surface.
Spools of the stuff even hung from a clothes wire that someone—Marigold, probably—had strung overhead.
The urge to turn around and walk back out the door was overwhelming. Unfortunately, Bailey was at Calla’s side before she could move a muscle.
“Hey!” Bailey threw her arms around Calla and gave her a tight hug. “I’m so glad you agreed to come this year.”
Calla stiffened. Dang it. How had she let this happen? “Bailey, this isn’t Marigold’s annual homecoming mum party, is it?”
Nearby, a tiny cowbell tinkled, and Calla was transported straight back to high school, when you couldn’t walk the halls without hearing the swish of ribbons or the clang of minicowbells in the days leading up to the big homecoming game.
“Of course it is,” Bailey said, forehead crinkling. “What kind of party did you expect?”
Anything but this. Literally anything.
Calla sighed. “I need a girls’ night in the worst possible way. I guess I jumped the gun at your invite.”
“I’ll admit I was a little surprised you said yes.” Bailey plucked a glass from a nearby tray and handed it to her. At least there was wine. Thank heaven for small favors. “Did you really not know what was going down tonight?”
Calla shook her head and took a sip of her chardonnay, somehow managing not to pour the entire glass down her throat in a single swallow.
“Homecoming is a full month away,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “What are we doing here?”
Bailey slung an arm over her shoulder and steered her toward one of the work tables that had been set up in the center of the room.
It looked like a green glitter bomb had exploded all over its surface.
“Do you honestly not have any idea how many mums this place sells during homecoming week? Marigold needs all the help she can get. That’s why this party is an annual thing. ”
Calla gave a reluctant nod.
She should’ve seen this coming. If Jackson Knight hadn’t rolled into town and turned her professional life upside down, she would’ve. The blame for tonight rested squarely on his strapping shoulders.
Anyone who’d attended a single homecoming game anywhere in the great state of Texas was familiar with the tradition of homecoming mums. Short for chrysanthemum , a mum was basically a corsage on major steroids.
It was a token of affection, usually given to a girl by her homecoming date.
In recent years, parents and best friends had gotten in on the action, and now it wasn’t unusual to see girls at homecoming games with multiple mums pinned to their chests.
Decades ago, a homecoming mum probably consisted of a single, real chrysanthemum head, surrounded by a bow done up in school colors, with a few trailing ribbons hanging down.
It might’ve had a little plastic football helmet tied to one of the ribbons or the recipient’s name spelled out in glitter letters along one of the smooth silk strands.
But since everything was bigger in Texas, they’d grown larger and more elaborate over the years.
Now the flowers themselves were silk and the embellishments attached to the ribbons could be anything from the traditional plastic footballs and bells to small teddy bears, other plushies or miniature goal posts.
The sky was truly the limit. Sometimes the corsage was so large that it required a ribbon around the wearer’s neck to hold it in place rather than a humble safety pin.
Mums on the more elaborate end of the spectrum contained multiple silk flowers, sometimes arranged in the shape of the state of Texas or, to Calla’s ultimate disgust, a giant bulldog paw—a big flower in the center, surrounded by four smaller flowers as the “toes.”
The possibilities were truly endless.
“Here you go.” Bailey handed her a silk chrysanthemum flower head mounted into what looked like a cardboard paper plate.
“Go crazy. There are no rules. You know how nuts these mums get. Each work station is equipped with ribbons and trinkets, but they vary from table to table, so you might want to take a look around.”
Calla plucked a little plush bulldog stuffed animal from the pile of green-and-white paraphernalia on the table and used a hot glue gun to stick it in the center of the flower head. Then she tied a little green bow tie around the bulldog’s neck.
She regarded her work and took another sip of wine. Cute. This wasn’t too bad. Maybe after another glass or two of chardonnay, it might even be fun.
“Remember the mum Ethan gave me senior year?” Bailey asked with a laugh.
Calla searched her expression for any signs of heartache, but only found affection shining back at her from her friend’s soft brown eyes.
“I sure do. It had a football in the center of the flower with his name and number on it in silver glitter.” she said.
“And when you pressed the football, it said, ‘Go bulldogs.’” Bailey waggled her eyebrows. “Not to brag, but I’m pretty sure it was the first talking mum in Bishop Falls history.”
“It was also the gaudiest thing I ever set eyes on,” Calla deadpanned.
Bailey tossed a white bow at her and it hit Calla in the forehead. “Stop. You were known to wear a mum or two back in the day. I’m sure I have photographic proof somewhere.”
“You might want to frame it, then, because never again, sis,” Calla said with a laugh.
“Don’t tempt me. I might just do it and hang it on the wall at Huddle Up.”
Calla aimed the glue gun at her. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
“How’s everyone doing over here?” Marigold stopped by their table, smile brightening as she met Calla’s gaze. “Calla, we’re so glad you could join us tonight. Are you having fun?”
No, she wanted to say. This is a uniquely ostentatious form of torture.
But she couldn’t, because that would’ve been rude. And strangely enough, it would’ve also been a lie.
Her gaze flitted to Bailey and they shared a secret smile.
They’d done it…they’d shared a memory involving Ethan as casually as if it happened all the time.
Jackson had said his name out loud at that press conference, and then they’d had an entire conversation about him at the coffee shop the other day.
Her brother’s name was beginning to feel natural on her tongue again, as if good memories could exist alongside the bad ones.
Like nostalgia might not always feel like a knife to the heart.
“I am,” Calla said, aiming a warm smile at Marigold. “This is…nice.”
“Music to my ears! Honestly, there’s no way I could handle homecoming without a little help from the community.
I owe you one.” Marigold grinned and adjusted one of the floral barrettes that held back her strawberry blonde hair.
Then she grabbed a spool of white-and-green-striped ribbon, eyes dancing like she’d just had the greatest idea since sliced bread.
“Do you want me to show you how to do the special diamondback braided ribbons that everyone loves so much?”
Beneath the table, Calla felt a subtle pressure on the tip of her toe. Bailey, no doubt. She’d just given her a warning to not say something snarky.
Am I really that bad?