Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“She’ll die.”
“I can add lush greenery to them, too, make each bouquet fit for a fairy princess. One special bouquet fit for a fairy queen,” I add with a wag of my finger, “because we want your niece to feel like the star. Does the party have a theme yet?”
“Should it?” he asks, sounding amused.
“Could it be fairies? Then I can make floral centerpieces for your snack tables with pretty woodland arrangements, waxflower winding through greenery, tasteful fairy décor tucked in them—not plastic junk everywhere, of course, but little wings, miniature doors, mushrooms, tiny lights … Oh, wow, can you just picture all of that? How it’ll make the whole table just … sparkle?” I ask, eyes lighting up.
I didn’t notice the huge grin that’s spread over his face. “I’m starting to.”
I smile back. “Great! ‘Cause these centerpieces—just spitballing here—can look like a lush, overgrown fairy garden. All the girls will crowd around it looking for the fairies. Making up stories. Eyes full of wonder. Wouldn’t that be so precious? And since they’ll all be sad when the party’s over, we could have individual ‘fairy flower’ posies for each little girl to take home. Who wouldn’t want to take a piece of the fairy world with them? Even their parents will be charmed. It’ll be a party to talk about at school the next day!”
“Do it.”
I come out of fairyland at once, eyes snapping to him, hearing his dropped tone of voice. “Do … what?”
“All of it. Everything you just said.”
“Oh.” I blink. “I … I just figured you might want to … pick and choose, or …” I let out a laugh of disbelief. “I didn’t mean to throw all of this on you. I was … I was just brainstorming.”
“Then I’m buying your brainstorm.”
I stare at him.
He reaches into the lapel of his jacket and pulls out a business card, then daintily hands it to me. “I think I’ll start employing you for other parties I may host. I like your imaginativeness. Comes in short supply out in Brookfield. You’d be surprised. If you know me at all, I do love a good party, and I host an abundance.”
I stare at his face on the business card.
His number and contact information.
“And I do expect you’ll charge me what a fairy party’s worth,” he adds. “No deals or friendly discounts. Believe it or not … some of us out in Brookfield don’t cheapskate our contractors.”
I meet his eyes.
Speechless.
Was that a jab at Mr. Bellamy?
“Perhaps all my friends might be interested to know there are better options out there for their floral needs. And oh … I have lots of friends. Too many, actually,” he mumbles. “Let’s keep in touch. Sort out the details in time. Party isn’t for a month or so.”
Suddenly I’m shaking his hand. “That sounds great, Mr. G—”
“Just Joseph.” He takes a step back, giving my store one more looking over. “It was a beautiful lesson you taught my niece, you know. To value things not for their outer beauty … or monetary worth, but for how enriching they are. To seek good qualities in everything. Even an inexpensive filler like waxflower can upstage the world.” He smiles. “Have a lovely day, Mr. Callahan.”
He leaves.
And I’m standing there holding his card, astonished.
Then smiling ear to ear.
“Big gun?” asks Cash between customers when I finally come behind the counter.
I glance down at the card again. “The whole arsenal,” I reply.
Cash pumps a fist in the air.
I take a moment after closing the store later, shut my eyes, let out a sigh of delight, and find myself thinking of my parents for some reason. Their happy faces the day they left on their eternal road trip. The distractedly happy way they sound whenever I can get ahold of them. What they must look like now, wherever they are, wherever they’ve found themselves.
And I recite my mom’s words to myself: “You are blooming.”
You are blooming.
I depart the shop with a light heart, hop in my car, make the short drive home, and pull into my driveway.
Upon getting out of the car, I freeze.
Staring ahead.
Not seeing what I’m seeing.
Him, sitting on my front porch.
Diego, on that top step, right on my porch, right there.
Staring right back at me.
Next to him, a backpack, and a weary-looking potted orchid.
—32—
Diego
I should’ve prepared myself better.
For how cute he’d look, rolling up onto his driveway, popping out of the car, and finding an unexpected delivery at his doorstep.
Me.
But the sight of Wyatt again after all these days apart, seeing him with his cute folded-up sleeves, his fitted work pants, his big, bright, stunned eyes, his parted lips.
“You came back,” he finally says.
“Yeah,” I say back.
Silence.
Birds in the trees.
Distant dog barking.
“You took the orchid,” he notices.
“It’s mine, isn’t it?”
He frowns. “Looks terrible.”
I frown right back. “It’s alive, isn’t it?”