But this was different.
These women didn’t need reassurance. They looked like they’d been born knowing they were wanted.
Portia crossed the room toward me, and the atmosphere changed around her, like she carried her own gravity.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said.
“Of course,” I managed. “I—I didn’t realize it would be … today, but I’m happy to be here.”
“You’re a professional,” Portia said, like that settled it. Then her gaze dropped to the box. “You brought samples.”
“Yes.” I nodded quickly, grateful for something concrete. “Just a few stems. Things that travel well. And a couple that … might not, but they’re Charleston.”
Portia’s mouth curved. “I like that you know the difference.”
Behind her, one of the women laughed softly. Not unkindly. Just amused.
I kept my smile polite and tried not to feel like a kid who’d wandered into the wrong party.
Portia turned slightly, her hand making a subtle motion. “Ladies, this is Joy McKinley. McKinley Flowers.”
A few of them nodded. One lifted her glass in a small salute.
Portia leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was giving me a gift. “Ignore them. They’re harmless. Mostly.”
That made me blink, and then—because I couldn’t help it—smile for real.
Portia guided me toward a smaller table near the windows, away from the center of the room. It wasn’t secluded exactly, but it felt less … on display.
“Set them here,” she said.
I placed the box carefully on the table and opened it like it contained something fragile—which, in a way, it did. Stems and petals and the work of my family’s hands. Home, boxed up.
The scent rose immediately—green and clean and floral, a soft bloom of Wadmalaw carried into this grand room.
Portia’s expression shifted as she looked down, and I saw something like genuine delight.
“These are beautiful,” she said.
Warmth spread through me, bright and steady. “Thank you.”
She picked up a lisianthus stem and turned it gently between her fingers, studying it like she knew what she was looking at. Then she reached for a dahlia, admiring the symmetry, the rich color.
“Tell me what you’d recommend,” she said, businesslike now. “We’re flying in, we’re working with a tight schedule, and I want the floral design to feel like Charleston—not like we shipped in a generic wedding package.”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Okay.”
I took a breath and let my brain do what it did best: organize.
“Lisianthus is excellent for travel,” I began, pointing. “It’s resilient, it holds up well with proper hydration. Zinnias are tougher than they look—they actually love heat and handle transport better than most people expect. Dahlias are gorgeous, but they need more care—packaging, cushioning, temperature stability. Still doable, just … more attention.”
Portia’s eyes stayed on my face, focused and intent.
“And greenery,” I continued, my hands moving as I spoke, my nerves settling into purpose. “Eucalyptus travels well and gives you that clean scent, but it can be sensitive to dehydration. Ruscus is sturdy. And rosemary—if you want something subtle that feels Southern without being cliché—rosemary can be gorgeous tucked into arrangements. It holds up and smells like home.”
Portia nodded slowly. “Good.”
One of the women behind us murmured, “She knows her stuff.”
