Across the street, closing time moved like a tide. Chairs scraped. Laughter carried. For a breath, Eric stood in the front window with a tray balanced on one hand, his head tipped like he was listening to the street. I told myself not to build a story out of the shape his shoulders made. I’ve built the wrong story before.
My phone buzzed.
Sandy:Text when you’re locked in. Proud of you.
I sent a picture of the key in the door, ribbon trailing.
Me:Locked. Thank you for today.
Sandy:Tomorrow at nine. We’ll ease you in.
I put the thistle in a jar by the sink and cracked the window a finger’s width so the fall air could cool the room. I’d eventually have to face my brother’s wrath because, even though I was promised the information I provided the police about my father would be confidential, I knew he had eyes everywhere. Olivier would be angry, although, on some level I think he was also waiting to take over the whole organization and Nico, his right hand, didn’t matter. He did whatever Olivier and my father commanded him to do. But I wasn’t going to dwell on those things tonight.
Tonight, I would let the small things be big: like having hot water, clean sheets, and the steady hush of Main Street after-dinner rush. A black cat knew where to put her feet and which windowsills held the sun. I could take care of myself. I was allowed to want softness too. I made tea, watched my breath fog the glass, and let hope take up more space than it had in a long time. Tomorrow, I’d help a stranger tell the truth with flowers. Tomorrow, I’d cross the street for coffee and pretend I’d never forgotten how to say hello. Tomorrow, I’d start again. For the first time in months, it felt less like running and more like coming home.
CHAPTER 2
Harmony
Val-du-Lys woke slowly. The sky was gray at first and then turned pale gold as the day settled over Main Street. I unlockedPetals & Pines, flipped on the lights, and opened the cooler. The air inside was cold and clean. I set fresh buckets, filled them at the sink, and began hydrating eucalyptus and ranunculus.
Sandycame in behind me with a to-go cup balanced on a stack of order slips. “Eucalyptus first,” she said. “Then ranunculus. And try not to glare at them. They bruise when they feel judged.”
“I’ll be nice,” I assured, even though the stems had a way of tangling just to test me.
AcrossMain Street,Thorne’s Bakehousewas already moving. The delivery van idled at the curb. An employee flipped the OPEN sign. Through the front window,Ericmoved between the ovens and the prep table. He wore his cap backward like he had in high school, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He set a tray, checked a timer, and corrected a teen’s grip on a sheet pan with a brief two-finger tap. The kitchen adjusted around him like he was timing the whole room.
“Careful,” Sandy said with a smile as she wrote notes on her clipboard. “If you stare harder, you’ll steam our window.”
“I’m just looking.”
“Of course you are.” She flipped a page. “Heads up—Noah Tremblaytexted. He’s with theLaurentian Community Trust, the group coordinating festival security and those ‘complimentary’ cameras for Main Street. He wants to stop by later to go over the map.”
“Oh, I remember him from high school.”
“Apparently, he left town for a while like you. He came back last year. He was hired by the Trust. Nice guy, helpful,” she said matter-of-factly.
I nodded.
We opened on time. A teacher came in with tired eyes and asked for three small jars that saidI’m proud of youwithout making anyone cry. A man in work boots wanted something simple for an apology. A grandmother asked for “one of those airy bouquets, but not expensive.” I trimmed stems, tied ribbons, and kept the counter clear. The rhythm of it helped.
At nine thirty, the bakery called. A woman namedMayasaid, “Hi, florist across the street, theMonroesare celebrating forty-six years. I’ve got their pastry box ready. Do you have the flowers?”
“On my way,” I said, sliding their arrangement into a carry box.
Sandypressed a small plant into my hand. “ForEric,” she said.
“Okay,” I said with confusion.
“It’s nice for him to add some flowers to his shop,” she explained.
I crossed the street. InsideThorne’s, the air smelled like yeast and coffee. A mother argued with her toddler about thehealth benefits of having blueberries in a muffin.Mayawaved me over.
“Set the flowers here by the register,” she directed.
Ericcame out with a tray ofcinnamon knots. He set them in the case and wiped his hands on a towel. I handed him the plant.
“It’s for you,” I said. “Sandy said it was for your shop.”
