There’s not a melody yet. Just sound and breath andwhatever’s been trying to claw free since I caught Maisie. Touched her.
A breeze sneaks through the cracked window and I look up. There’s nothing. No shadow. No movement.
But I sense her presence.
I don’t stop playing.
Somewhere beyond the window, I feel her. Maybe she’s there. Maybe she’s gone.
But for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone when I play.
And that scares me more than I want to admit.
Chapter 4
Matchmaking History: Day 3 of Festival
Maisie
I’m in my shop early today to complete floral orders, when my mom slips in for a quick visit. We try to chat several times a week to maintain our close relationship.
I watch as her gaze drifts from the hanging eucalyptus bundles near the back to the vintage step-ladders I use to display garden roses. Each rung holds a row of wide-mouthed jars, sorted by color: blush to coral to the dazzling Mr. Lincoln red. The blooms spill forward as if they’re reaching for something soft. I know it’s not how normal florists do it. But I’ve never cared to be like everyone else.
Mom’s eyes sweep over the chalkboard signs next, some clipped to baskets, others slotted into carved wooden bases that look like place card holders for a fancy dinner. I found them at a flea market, but I never got around to staining them.
I change what’s on the chalkboards every week: names of flowers, prices, pairing suggestions, and unadvertisedsales. Sometimes a quote, if the flowers seem to need one. Today the sign by the tulips reads: “Every storm runs out of rain.”
Then her eyes lift to the back wall, where I’ve hung bundles of dried flowers above the antique dresser I turned into a display shelf—baby’s breath; purple and blue statice; yellow, pink and orange strawflowers; even a few Douglas asters from mom’s own flower garden last summer.
They’re not necessarily for sale. Drying flowers has been a life-long hobby and seeing them inspires me, knowing they live on, even after the freshness has gone from them. I’ve dangled twinkle lights around the bundles, not strung straight—that’s boring. I draped them how it felt right, and how they seemed to want to swoop.
Finally, Mom steps further in and pauses by the counter where a half-written card lies beside a wrapped anniversary bouquet I created for a phoned-in order. I already know what she’s looking at. It’s my handwriting. She admired it when I was young, commenting about how unique and creative it looked. My writing has always been a bit too loopy, a little too large for the space, as if it can’t help but spill over.
“It’s beautiful in here, sweetie,” she remarks, giving me her quiet, pleased smile that says she means it. “I’ve always been so proud of you, even though I probably didn’t say it enough.” Moms are wired to see the best in you. The hard part is letting myself believe I’m someone to be proud of.
Now comes my favorite part of times with my mom—her hugs. She feels so comfortable and soft, and I feel her love pouring into me. I try to send mine back for her to feel. Our hugs are wonderfully long and cozy, always ending with a gentle sway as we rock each other from side to side then squeezefirmly one more time.
“I’d better let you get back to work. It’s so good to see you, every time.” She blows me a kiss as she heads out the door.
“Ok, Maisie, focus now. Lots to do before it’s back to the festival.” I say to motivate myself.
I love everything about floral arranging, but today the eucalyptus won’t stop clinging to my apron, and I swear these snapdragons are staging a revolt. I’m elbow-deep in stubborn stems when the centerpiece tips for the third time in ten minutes. It’s slightly frustrating.
“Stay,” I gripe at it. Not that it listens.
My curls are pinned up with two floral clips that have given up the will to live. One’s sagging near my ear, the other’s pointing straight toward the ceiling.
I prepare to add a couple of clusters of wild bergamot to each centerpiece when the scent unexpectedly whisks me back to when I was eleven years old.
My favorite relative, besides my parents, was Great-Aunt Camille. She was so elegant and refined. I wanted to be her, or as close to the graceful lady that she was as I could possibly be. I especially loved to burrow my face into her neck when she hugged me because she smelled so wonderfully of perfume made from bergamot.
Great-Aunt Camille convinced my parents to let her treat me to two weeks at the finishing school associated with the Etiquette Institute of Washington in D.C. It sounded better to me than five trips to Disneyland.
During orientation, Great-Aunt Camille was allowed to walk beside me as we toured the school and learned what would be taught and expected of me. I was so excited that I couldn’t help exclaiming about everything I saw and heard. I sensed Camille’s discomfort but disregarded it, thinking she was as awed as I was. But my aunt’sembarrassment kept growing, and she finally separated me from the group.
“Maisie,” she began in a tone I’d never heard from her before. She had transformed before my eyes into the matron of the worst boarding school I could ever imagine. “Maisie, this is simply unacceptable behavior. You must not let your big emotions burst out of you so enthusiastically. Young ladies need to be seen more than heard, and they know that it is essential to use their inside voices.”
As she bent stiffly next to me, I could smell the now sickeningly sweet scent of her perfume, and it grew more intense and suffocating as she went on with her lecture. “A refined lady will make herself small, so as to let her charm and poise speak for her.”
