“Quit your whining. I’m not going to harm anyone.”
A second later, I prove this as long-stemmed flowers pop up from between the cracks of the floor, unfolding into beautiful irises with bold blue and gold petals.
I pull my hand away and stare at the flowers. “Sorry, Isaac. They probably won’t last too long. Maybe a day.”
He scratches his head but doesn’t speak.
It’s okay. I wouldn’t know what to say, either.
But that doesn’t stop other people from figuring out what to do. They stare at the flowers in surprise, until a woman bends over and starts picking them.
“I’m gonna put these in a vase at home. You know how much irises cost at the store?”
Then more people pick the flowers, and more, until almost all of them have found homes, and I sit up, watching in awe.
No one condemns me. No one says I’m evil.
People simply pick flowers until they’re all gone.
“Y’all are sick!” Luke storms out of the bar, yelling about devil-worshipping.
It’s funny. He’s the only person who seems to think that.
This is proven when a petite redhead comes over and says, “Can you make some more?”
“Isaac?” I ask.
He nods. “Make as many flowers as you want.”
Chapter 48
Coco
The next morning, I feel a thousand times better than I have in days. Maybe what happened at the bar last night has gotten out, but if it hasn’t, that’s okay.
Eventually, it will.
There are bills to pay, and since the utility buildings are just down the street, I decide to take a walk. It’s cloudy outside, heavy with humidity. Rain is coming.
The streets are bustling with early-morning joggers and a few tourists looking for breakfast. I spot Mrs. Malfree walking her pug and expect the woman to turn up her nose like she did last time we crossed paths, but as she approaches, she reaches for me.
“Good morning, Coco.”
My brows lift in surprise. “Good morning.”
“I’m so glad I ran into you.”
Mrs. Malfree is the quintessential Southern woman, with big blond hair, large hoop earrings, and just about everything she wears is monogrammed. Right now, she’s sporting a light rain jacket with her initials emblazoned on the left breast.
“Oh?” I ask. “Did you need me to tell Mom something?”
“No. I found this in my cupboard today and thought you could use it.” She pulls out a small mason jar. “It’s the strawberry jam I made last year. I don’t think you got any. Is that right?”
“Um, yeah. That’s right.”
She pushes it into my open hand. “Take it, and let me know how it is. Tell your mama I said hey.”
“Will do,” I reply as she walks off.
