Sandra returns from the front of the shop. "Mrs. Delaney wants another arrangement for her dinner party tomorrow night. I told her we could do something with the leftover hydrangeas and those new hellebores."
"Good call," I say, already envisioning the design. "Put it on the schedule for early morning. I'll handle it myself."
The envelope lies on my desk when I return from helping with a walk-in customer. Cream-colored, heavy paper, with the Everett family crest embossed in gold. Familiar and unwelcome.
"This came by courier," Sandra explains. "Special delivery."
I stare at the envelope, keeping my expression neutral. "Thanks."
I wait until I'm alone to open it. Inside, a formal invitation on thick card stock:
The Everett Family cordially invites you to celebrate the engagement ofViolet Elizabeth EveretttoCharles William Montgomery III
I set it down, a hollow feeling expanding in my chest. Violet, my younger sister by two years, engaged to the heir of Montgomery Industries. My father must be ecstatic about the merger possibilities. Because that's what marriages are in our world—corporate mergers with flesh and blood collateral.
That's what my own engagement would have been, if I hadn't left.
My phone rings again. This time, it's my mother's number. I silence it, sliding the phone under a stack of order forms.
My sixteenth birthday party was an elaborate and impersonal affair. I remember my father introducing me to business associates, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "My eldest daughter, Penelope Arabella Everett." The way his fingers pressed harder when I tried to excuse myself. The way he laughed when introducing me to the son of a business partner. "These two have a lot in common," he'd said, with a meaning I hadn't understood then.
The memory brings with it a tightening in my chest and the slight acceleration of my heart rate. Even now, years later, thoughts of my father can trigger a fight-or-flight response that I've learned to manage but never fully suppress.
I pick up the invitation again, tracing the embossed crest with my fingertip. Poor Violet. Always the dutiful daughter, the perfect princess, raised to believe that her greatest achievement would be a strategic marriage. I tried to maintain a relationship with my sister after leaving, but Violet's loyalty to ourparents made it impossible. Our occasional text exchanges are superficial, laden with unspoken resentments on both sides.
I check the date—two weeks from Saturday. The fact that I've been invited at all is something of a surprise. Probably my mother's doing, a gesture toward family unity that my father would tolerate for appearance's sake. The Everetts never air our dirty laundry publicly; my departure had been explained away as "our eldest pursuing her passion for botany and design."
I place the invitation in my desk drawer, unwilling to make a decision about attending yet. The thought of returning to that house, of facing my father across a room filled with society's elite, makes my stomach clench. But Violet... despite everything, she's still my sister.
The shop phone rings, pulling me back to the present. Sandra answers it, then covers the receiver with her hand. "It's the Morgan account. They want to increase their weekly delivery by another arrangement."
"Tell them that's fine," I say, trying to place the name. Morgan. A newer client, someone who orders fresh arrangements for their office weekly, always paying promptly and generously. "Ask if they have any preferences for the additional arrangement."
Sandra nods, returning to the call. "Yes, Mr. Victor... Of course... The usual address... Certainly."
She hangs up, making a note in our order system. "He said designer's choice for the new arrangement, but they'd like something with darker elements. Burgundies and deep purples."
"Interesting," I muse. Most corporate clients prefer neutral, inoffensive arrangements—whites, greens, maybe a touch of blue. "What's the delivery address again?"
Sandra checks her screen. "Morgan Enterprises, 1200 Harbor Tower, attention: Executive Floor."
I nod, filing the information away. Harbor Tower houses some of the city's most prestigious firms—old money, serious power. The kind of businesses my father has always aspired to do business with.
"I'll take care of it personally," I decide. "I've been wanting to experiment with those black calla lilies anyway."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a flurry of activity. A mother and daughter come in to discuss flowers for a sweet sixteen party. A local restaurant owner stops by to adjust his standing order. I finish the Harrington centerpieces and supervise their loading for delivery, while Sandra processes new inventory and updates our social media accounts.
At five-thirty, with the day's deliveries completed and the prep work set for tomorrow, I begin closing the store. The routine is second nature now—tallying the register, updating the order book, setting aside spent flowers for the compost bin that a local urban farm collects weekly.
"You still meeting your friends tonight?" Sandra asks, shrugging into her jacket.
"Yeah, eight o'clock at The Hollow." I smile. "Five years of Wildflower deserves at least one celebratory cocktail."
"More than one, I'd say." Sandra pauses at the door. "Hey, I meant to ask—did you order new business cards? I found a box on my desk this morning."
I frown. "No, we still have plenty from the last order."
"That's what I thought. These are different though—new design, heavier paper." She pulls a card from her bag. "Really nice, actually."
