“What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost two,” he says.
“I should probably get back to work before the town thinks I’m slacking,” I joke.
“Violet, I think everyone here knows you’d never slack on anything.”
I smirk as I tilt my head to the side. “Thank you, that means a lot,” I say.
Neither of us moves right away. And I have a feeling we are both thinking the same thing.
That working together might end up being the best part of this whole fundraiser.
12
Violet
“But first, coffee.”
The air smells like wet earth and sun-warmed petals as we pull up to Wildflower Grove. Even after all these years, the flower farm still has the same pull, the same quiet hum of life. The gravel crunches beneath the tires of my little car, and I can see the rows of tulips, daffodils, and wildflowers stretching across the gentle hills behind the old farmhouse. The light is perfect, just early enough for the sun to be soft on the blooms.
I step out of my car, breathing in deeply, letting the scent of soil and flowers fill my lungs.
“Gosh, I love this place,” I say, pulling my jacket tighter.
“Of course you do, who wouldn’t?” asks Lily, hopping out from the passenger side. Her hair is in a messy braid falling over her shoulder, and she has that kind of smile that makes you forget how early it is, her smile is soft but still beaming with joy. “I mean, look at it; you could write a whole romance novel just standing here.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Or design a whole café around it,” I say, looking around. The thought making me smile. The Flower Pot Café had been a dream, but moments like this remind me where it all started, here, among the hands covered in soil and endless rows of flowers.
Rose and Daphne were already deep into picking. Rose even had her little notebook open, looking at her notes of all the blooms she wanted for her home arrangements. Daphne, on the other hand, had already tied together a loose bundle of tulips and daffodils, twirling it like a wand and looking happy with her impromptu artistry.
“Some of us like things to look elegant and intentional. Not like a three-year-old has picked them from the patch,” Rose says, teasing Daphne.
Daphne smirks. “Yeah, well, some of us like flowers to look like they actually lived instead of posed for Instagram.”
I laugh, brushing soil off my hands as I bend down to pick a bunch of lavender. The stalks are still slightly damp from the morning dew, and the fragrance immediately fills my senses. Lavender has always been my favorite; its smell can calm anyone’s nerves, I’m convinced.
“Violet, you’re hogging all the good lavender,” Lily calls from across the row.
“I need the good lavender for the café,” I reply. “I need people to smell something heavenly when they walk in.”
“Your obsession with your café is like a religion,” Rose says as she’s selecting bright yellow tulips.
“It is a religion,” I say, laughing, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “You should see me on a Monday morning, pouring coffee, staring at the menu board.”
There’s a rhythm to these mornings that I love, the way we all work together, bickering just enough to keep things lively, teasing each other without ever crossing the line.
We move through the rows of flowers, floral shears snipping stalks and hands brushing petals. Each of us has a different approach: Rose with her precision, Lily with her calm, thoughtful selections, Daphne with her playful chaos, and me trying to balance everything for the café and my own home.
“So,” Lily says, breaking the comfortable silence as we walk to the next row of flowers, the peonies. “Any plans for the weekend?”
“Other than reorganizing the café’s storage area and doing some inventory?” I ask, smirking.
“Yeah, other than that,” she says, chuckling.
I giggle. “Not really. Honestly, I’m still figuring out café stuff. I might swing by Everett’s theater to go over some fundraiser plans.”
There, I said it. The name felt easy rolling off my tongue, like I’ve said it for years.
