Page 22 of The Inheritance At Bourton

But then they ate the flowers, and she decided that was a bad idea.

The daffodils had been blooming for three weeks. Rows and rows of yellow and white were there where the old vegetable beds used to be. The tulips were just coming on, fat buds in rows she'd planted on her knees in November with frozen fingers while Rowan helped. She couldn’t wait to see them bloom.

She worked down the bed with the scissors, cutting stems long and laying them in the basket in bunches. The hyacinths were nearly done. The forget-me-nots had colonized every corner. They were leftovers from her father’s garden. It felt very appropriate. They weren’t high on the list for bouquets, but she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of them.

The garden had been loved before. She wasn't building something out of nothing. She was bringing something back, including the forget-me-nots.

The greenhouse door was propped open behind her. Rowan had replaced all the glass in February. Inside, the benches were crowded with seed trays. Sweet peas. Cosmos. Zinnias. By July, if everything went the way it was supposed to, she'd have actual summer flowers. Rows of them. Armfuls.

Assuming she didn't kill everything first. There was still plenty of time for that. She loved arranging flowers but was still getting the hang of the growing side of things. Fortunately, Rowan had a green thumb.

She carried the basket into the utility room. She filled one of the buckets with water and placed the cut flower stems down. Bunches that Meg had ordered. A bucket of mixed daffodils and hyacinths for the pub. Six posies in jam jars for the tearoom tables.

The stand had been Rowan's January project. It was possibly her favorite thing anyone had ever made for her. A little wooden stall on wheels, painted cream, with a sloped shelf and a chalkboard. He’d added a roof so she wouldn’t have to worry about her precious flowers being beaten up by the rain. He'd bolted a small lockbox to the side for the honesty payments.

She wheeled it down to the end of the lane every morning except Sundays, stocked with whatever was blooming, and had a sign she'd painted herself in wobbly green letters.

FRESH FLOWERS. GROWN HERE.

It wasn't a fortune. She was not going to lie to herself about that. Some days she came out at four in the afternoon, and the lockbox held eight pounds. But that wasn’t where the money was going to come from. She’d built a website and was planning to start an actual business.

A girl from the village was getting married in June. She asked Leah to do the flowers. It was a huge job, and it absolutely terrified her, but it was the first step to make real money. She gave the young woman a break because it was her first wedding, and she saw it as free advertising.

Forty guests. Bouquets, table arrangements, something for the church.

It was a start. That's what she kept telling people. It might never be a fortune. But it was hers, and it was growing, and every single flower in every single bucket had come out of the ground she owned, free and clear, with nobody's name on the deed but her own.

She loaded the deliveries into the old wagon she used for now, until she could afford a real vehicle. She walked it down the lane into the village, waving at Dorothy, who was sweeping her front step. She shouted something about the weather finally turning.

At the tearoom, Meg came around the counter and inspected the flowers.

"Pat wants a bunch for her sister's birthday. And Dorothy's asking if you'll have anything blue in May, for her anniversary." Leah was already writing it down.

“I can do that,” Leah said.

She handed Leah a paper bag that smelled divine. “Thank you,” Leah said. “See you tomorrow.”

Leah walked back up the lane eating a teacake, the wagon rattling along behind her. She had a delivery route. A routine. People who expected her. People who noticed when she was late and put the kettle on when she arrived.

She belonged somewhere. Sometimes, that feeling would catch her off guard in the middle of an ordinary day.

She took the long way home through the churchyard.

Her father's grave was on the south side, in the newer section, next to her grandmother Evelyn. The headstone was simple: just his name and dates, nothing more. That was exactly what he had wanted.

It wasn’t until after things were settled with Madeline that she finally visited the grave. Some days she was still angry with him. She’d go to the cemetery and air her grievances. The next day she’d bring flowers and apologize.

Today, she knelt in the grass and plucked at some of the weeds. She told him about the greenhouse and the wedding booking. She told him she'd opened six more of the birthday cards.

The cards were short. They all said roughly the same thing. Happy Birthday, Leah. I hope this year is kind to you. I think of you every day. Every year, the same quiet words. She'd been furious about them for a while. She still wasn’t sure how she felt—she was figuring it out, like everything else.

She walked home, the whole valley glowing. Rowan was in the kitchen with coffee already made, his boots by the back door where they always were now. His mug sat on the shelf next to hers. His things had migrated in slowly all winter, one object at a time, neither of them ever formally discussing it. A toothbrush. A razor. Three shirts in the wardrobe.

Everyone knew about them. No one ever said it outright, but invitations were always meant for both. It didn’t have to be said; it was understood.

"How were sales?" Rowan asked, handing her a mug.

"Meg took everything.”