I thought of our fields on Wadmalaw. Rows of blooms bending toward the sun. Momma’s hands in the soil. Daddy fixing irrigation lines before dawn. Flowers that carried the island’s quiet in their stems.
“That’s a lovely idea,” I said honestly. “What did you have in mind?”
Her gaze sharpened—not unkindly, but with intent. “Is it possible to fly flowers out? To have them used in Montana?”
I blinked. Once. Twice.
“Fly them?” I echoed.
“Yes,” she said calmly. “If I provide the plane.”
The shop seemed to tilt, just a little. Not in a dizzy way—more like the world had quietly expanded while I wasn’t looking.
“I—” I paused, gathering my thoughts the way I always did when numbers gave way to logistics. “It depends on the varieties. Some flowers travel better than others. We’d need to time the harvest carefully. Temperature control is critical. Hydration, pressure changes, packaging?—”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Portia interrupted gently. “Not yes or no. Just … how.”
I felt my smile widen, genuine now. “Then yes,” I said. “It’s possible. With planning.”
Her eyes lit, just enough to tell me this mattered. “Good.”
She reached into her bag and set a sleek card on the counter. Dominion Hall was embossed at the top in understated lettering that somehow still managed to feel imposing.
“I’d like you to come by,” she said. “We can talk details. Timing. What you’d recommend.”
I picked up the card, my fingers brushing the edge like it might disappear if I didn’t hold it just right. “I’d be happy to.”
Portia studied me for a moment longer, her expression shifting into something softer. “You care about your work.”
I nodded. “Very much.”
“That shows,” she said. Then she straightened, the meeting clearly concluded in her mind. “I’ll be in touch.”
She turned toward the door, pausing only long enough to glance back. “And for what it’s worth—I think you’d be perfect for this.”
The bell chimed as she left, the sound lingering after her like a held breath.
I stood there for a moment, the card warm in my hand, my heart beating a little faster than it had all morning.
Montana.
A plane.
Flowers grown on Wadmalaw Island, carried across the country to stand witness to a promise.
I set the card carefully beside my laptop, right between the invoices and the ribbon samples, and smiled to myself.
Maybe love felt complicated. Maybe it felt like a language I didn’t quite speak.
But this—this I understood.
2
MICAH
The blade slid in clean.
I felt the resistance—skin, muscle, the brief catch against cartilage before steel found the softness between ribs and punched straight into Vince Draconi's heart.
