Page 66 of His Brown-Eyed Girl

Remember your rational voice, Addy. You can’t change all of who you are because you have the hots for Lucas Finlay.It was enough she took this slice of a chance, going out with him, kissing him, pretending she was a regular girl and not one haunted by a mad man.

Better to cling to her black pullovers and plain jeans.

Addy glanced around the workroom. “So what’s on our schedule today? I think we have some deliveries to a couple of funerals, right? Better check the gladiolas and lilies. I don’t know why everyone wants those waxy flowers.”

“People like what they know. Traditional flowers and such. And that’s not just with flowers if you know what I mean.”

Addy rolled her eyes, ignoring the pointed comment, and instead focused on the reason she hated the ho-hum in her work. In her designs, Addy saturated herself in wild color. She hated traditional, unimaginative bouquets taking up shelves in supermarkets. She preferred mixing flowers, grasses, mosses and unusual reeds to create emotion. And her visionary approach to creating floral designs had paid off—creativity rewarded by lucrative business. Sometimes she was too busy, which was a blessing.

The front doorbell jingled, and Addy glanced up to find her parents pushing into the shop, arguing about her mother’s parallel parking skills.

Addy glanced at Shelia who grinned. Shelia loved Don and Phylis Toussant because when they appeared, the shop became a stage for a Vaudeville act. Like the classic showThe Honeymooners,Addy’s parents’ bickering was grounded in sincere affection, but their interactions were amusing… to everyone but their children. The constant sniping annoyed Addy, especially when it was over her mother’s driving skills.

Phylis thought everyone was an idiot who was out to rear end or side swipe her. The strange irony was the woman had never been in an accident, much less received a traffic ticket.

“She’s crazy,” her father said, jabbing a finger toward his wife.

“Pfft!” Phylis huffed, crossing her arms. “This from a man who ran over the curb at the church last week and nearly hit poor Mr. Martin. The man nearly had a heart attack, and he’s got a bad heart to begin with.”

“He should look where he’s going. Blind as a damn bat, and he was halfway in the road.”

“It’s a parking lot, Don.”

Her father rolled his eyes, and Addy waited for the canned laughter. All she got was Shelia’s titter so she turned away from her parents, stalking to the back of the store.

“Hey, where you going?” her dad called.

“I’m too busy today to play referee.”

Addy swept the stems Shelia had cut that morning into the compost bin and sprayed a vinegar mix on the counter, rubbing out the residue and the irritation she felt over her parents constant sparring.

“Hey, sweetie,” her mom said, rubbing her shoulders lightly before sinking onto a stool.

“What are y’all doing here, Mom?” Addy finally glanced at her mother.

Her mother had grown up in Gentilly, raised by a traditional Italian mother and an Irish father who drank too much. Passionate, stubborn with a cute, curvy figure and shoulder-length dark hair she tinted the same color of brown as Addy’s, she looked pretty much how Addy expected to look at age sixty-six, sans the childbearing hips. “Your father has an appointment with the urologist, and then he’s dead-set on talking to Lt. Andre Greer.”

“Andre can’t do anything about the hearing.”

Phylis sighed. “How do you feel about the possibility Robbie gets out? Have you talked to your group?”

“I didn’t go last night.”

Her mother frowned. Addy had a lot of trouble before she found Survivors of Violence. Once she’d spent several months with women like her, she’d begun to trust herself, to actually heal from the attack and learn how to control her fear. She rarely missed a meeting because it was through SOV she remained grounded.

“You rarely miss anything at SOV.”

“Lucas needed me to help him with his niece and nephews. I had to go to the store.”

“And that was more important than preparing for the potential problem you’ll face when Robbie is out?” Her mother ran a hand down her back and Addy moved away. She didn’t need her mother applying her pseudopsychology on her. The fact she watched Dr. Phil every afternoon did not make her qualified to cross examine Addy’s motives behind not attending the meeting. She’d gone Tuesday night, hadn’t she?

“Maybe it’s time I stop carrying Robbie around with me. I’m tired of him, tired of worry. I love my friends in SOV but steeping myself in memories of being a victim holds me back. I’m no longer wounded. Cautious? Yes. Crippled? No.”

“So you feel worse when you’re with your group now?”

“No, but I don’t feel like I have to be there twice a week. Maybe not even once a week.”

“Since when?”

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