“No! Of course not.”
“Then tell me about the boy!” she nearly wails.
My brows furrow as I turn to Margaret, who seems just as shocked by her reaction as I am. Something aboutthe boymakes it sound like she knows something that I don’t.
Thankfully, the opening of the backyard door ends our stare-off. We turn to find Phil—owner of Brews&Bookmark, Margaret’s husband, and the man I’ve come to think of as a grandfather—standing at the door in his usual gingham button-down and khaki shorts.
“Thoughts on this week’s bouquet?” He proudly holds up his wildflowers. Purples, pinks, and whites flare from the otherwise green stems, creating a sight I can only describe as summer. This is easily his best one yet.
“Beautiful as always,” Margaret gushes, placing a kiss on his cheek. She grabs the arrangement from his hand, replacing last week’s flowers with the new ones.
A sting pricks my eyes at the sight—as it does every time. This is a tradition of theirs. Every Sunday, during the spring and summer months, Phil heads to the backyard to harvest whatever flower is in season.
When I was first getting to know these two crazy seventy-year-olds, I didn’t think twice about the gesture. To me, they were just two people still crazy in love after fifty or so years together. Now that I understand its deeper meaning, it chips away at another piece of my heart.
“For every year I couldn’t get pregnant, Phil planted a different type of flower,” Margaret explained when I asked her how it all began. “Said that if we couldn’t create life, the least we could do is let it blossom in the yard.”
Moisture pools in my eyes, but I push the thoughts down. Life is unpredictable. The worst things happen to the best of people. Margaret and Phil. Leslie and Johnson. In the end, all we can do is look forward and hope time truly does heal all wounds.
“Now that I think about it, this is perfect timing.” Margaret points a finger in Phil’s direction. “Do you recall what you told me the other day?”
Phil’s shoulders shake with laughter. “I tell you a lot of things, Margaret. And when I don’t, you pry the information out of me and claim I told you willingly.”
Truer words have never been spoken.
“Think hard,” she encourages, but when Phil shrugs, she turns her attention back to me. “What about you, Vivienne? Any confessions you’d like to make?”
“I have nothing to say,” I assure.
Margaret quirks a brow. “I wouldn’t cross my heart on that one.”
“Uh-oh.” Phil’s eyes widen. They snap over to mine, instilling a similar fear within me. The older man grabs the rosary beside the fruit bowl and goes to leave the kitchen.
Chaos is about to ensue.
“Come back here,” I whisper-yell.
Phil stills in the middle of the archway, yet the second I’m hopeful he’s about to turn around and save me from the animal that is Margret, he saunters off without so much as a backward glance.
Coward.
The loud ringing of my phone interrupts our standoff. I turn it over, expecting to see Sutton’s or Evelyn’s name, only to be greeted with an unknown number.
Declined.
Pick another victim, scam caller—it ain’t going to be me.
“Who is it?” Margaret asks.
“No clue.”
“Stupid scam calls,” she grumbles.
“Tell me about it.”
The peace is disturbed once more when thesamenumber calls again. Margaret grumbles something along the lines of, “Let me give them a piece of my mind,”before grabbing the phone from my hand.
“Hello? How may I help you?” she asks, lips pursed and brows drawn together. Her standoffish demeanor shifts into a beaming smile as the voice on the other end of the line carries on.
