She stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped. She looked up at the glass.
Sunshine and Stems.
Her own flower shop. Her window, full of dahlias arranged lightest to darkest, left to right, the way she had always done it, the way I had been watching her do it for years without telling her I noticed.
I watched her face.
She took it in slowly. Her eyes moved across the sign and down to the window display and back up again. Her chin lifted slightly the way it did when she was happy about something and trying not to make a big deal of it. Then her chin stopped lifting and her shoulders dropped and something settled into her face that I had never seen on it before.
Peace. Just that. Clean and complete.
She had done this herself. Every dollar, every Saturday, every no to my offer, every early morning and late night and slow market day and rainy Tuesday. She had built this from a folding tableand a color-coded spreadsheet and I had never, in my entire life, admired anything more than I admired her in this moment.
“She’s crying,” Poppy said, appearing at my elbow.
“She’s not crying,” I said.
“Her eyes are wet.”
“She’s happy.”
“That’s what crying is.” Poppy looked up at me. “You’re also doing the wet eyes thing.”
“I’m not.”
August came close to Poppy and hugged her. “Come on, let’s go in before all the good appetizers are gone.”
When we went in, Mom was looking for glasses for the champagne she had brought. Dad was standing in front of the dahlia window display with his hands in his pockets and his jaw slightly tight, looking at the arrangement the way he looked at things that moved him when he didn’t want to admit they moved him.
The party was loud and warm and completely out of control, which meant it was going well.
Callie was crying into her champagne. She had been crying since we arrived and showed no signs of stopping. Cliff was there with six bottles of honey. Mrs. Finch from the bookshop had brought a card. Two of August’s regular market customers were in the corner with champagne, looking delighted to have been included.
“Speech,” Poppy announced. “August should give a speech.”
“I’m not giving a speech,” August said.
“I’ll give one on her behalf,” Callie said, already stepping forward.
“Callie, absolutely not—”
“August Miller,” Callie began, loudly, to the room, “started with a van named Gerald and a dream. She said no to help many times, which was statistically inadvisable but emotionally admirable. She donated flowers to sick children every morning even when she couldn’t afford to. She is my best friend and the the best person I know. And I’m so glad that my stupid brother fell in love with her.” She paused.
She raised her glass. “To August. Who did this entirely herself and won’t let any of us forget it.”
“To August,” the room said.
August lowered her hands. Her eyes were bright and wet and she was doing the thing where she tried not to smile too wide and smiled too wide anyway.
She looked at me across the shop.
I crossed the room.
I took her face in both hands.
“You did this. I am so proud of you, and I love you.”
“I love you too.” She smiled. “Now stop or I’ll actually cry and I told myself I wasn’t going to cry today.”
