The door creaks open.
I turn and exhale when I see who it is.
“Morning, Norah,” calls Caleb, the delivery driver from Rosewood Gardens down in Ash Creek. He’s bundled in a puffer vest, cheeks pink from the cold, arms full of long cardboard boxes stamped withFragile – Live Plants.
“Hey, Caleb. You made it through the snow.”
“Barely.” He stomps his boots on the mat, scattering a trail of slush. “Highway’s slick. Took me twice as long as usual. You’d think the county would’ve learned how to plow by now.”
“Welcome to Fox Hollow.” I grin and hold the door wider so he can bring the boxes inside. “Same complaint every winter.”
He laughs, setting the shipment on the prep table near the sink. “Got your standing order—two cases of tulips, one of ranunculus, plus the greenery. Oh, and the special box from Florida.” He lowers his voice. “The one with the imported orchids.”
My mood lifts instantly. “Those are finally in?”
“Fresh from the growers.” He opens the smaller box with a practiced flick of his knife, revealing a bed of tissue paper and pale lilac orchids glistening with dew. “They’re stunners.”
“They’re perfect,” I breathe, reaching out to touch one of the blossoms. Their petals are smooth as silk, their scent light but intoxicating.
Caleb pulls out his clipboard and hands me the invoice. “Sign at the bottom for delivery.”
I scrawl my name, then tuck the carbon copy into my ledger binder. “Do you want something warm before you head back?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Appreciate it, but I’ve got three more stops before noon. If I sit down now, I might not get up again. See you next week, Norah.”
“Drive safe,” I tell him, holding the door open as he disappears into the swirl of snow.
When he’s gone, I carry the boxes to the workbench and start unpacking the blooms. The shop fills with the fresh scent.
I trim each stem, snip the leaves that will sit below the waterline, and set them in buckets to breathe. Tulips in ivory and coral, ranunculus in soft blush, eucalyptus leaves silver-green under the overhead lights.
It’s tedious, meditative work. Numbers get checked off on the inventory sheet, invoices filed in their binder, receipts slipped into envelopes marked for the month. Every small motion reminds me why I love this job.
Here, everything has order. Everything has beauty.
By mid-morning, a few regulars drift in.
Hank Mills, the butcher’s son, stops by to pick up a bouquet for his girlfriend. He’s red-cheeked from the cold and smells faintly of smoke.
“Need something simple,” he says, shuffling awkwardly. “She’s mad I forgot our anniversary.”
I hand him a bundle of pink carnations and eucalyptus. “Apologize with these and maybe a pie from Lorelai’s to smooth things over.”
He grins. “You’re a lifesaver, Norah.”
Later, Ruth Evans comes in, her silver hair pinned into a bun. She’s one of the town’s oldest Omegas, still spry and always dressed in wool and pearls.
“I’ll take a few lilies,” she says, “for my mate’s resting place. He loved them.”
I wrap the stems carefully, adding a sprig of baby’s breath. She touches my hand before leaving, eyes soft. “You keep this place alive, dear. Your aunt would be proud.”
Her words linger long after she’s gone.
At around eleven, my phone buzzes with a text from Wren.Finally woke up. Rough night.
I call her immediately.
“Hey,” she answers, voice warm but tired.
