by Finn, Emilia
Plus, lucky for me, Abby left Nadia’s CV sitting right on her kitchen table. Out for anyone to see. To study. To snap a picture of the front page, which just so happens to include her phone number, address, and previous employer’s details.
I wasn’t snooping or anything. I was merely enjoying a cup of coffee.
It was innocent.
If anything, Abby is the villain here, for leaving personal documents laying around like it doesn’t matter that anyone could see.
Taking another left, and then a right, I pull onto Nadia’s new street and drive slowly in search of the right house. I spend a minute studying numbers on curbs and front doors. But it quickly becomes clear that such close study is unnecessary.
I amble along the street, not too fast, not too slow, and approach a mountainous pile of trash that will be collected at some point over the next few days. An oven, old doors, paint cans, and bags of trash.
My sister’s new assistant has either been extremely busy all weekend, or she’s been robbed—and by robbed, I mean her thieves merely organized and relocated her stuff.
I slow a little too conspicuously to study the pile, but when I see a car in her driveway, I take a breath and shake off my curiosity before it gets me arrested. It’s none of my business, and me being here borders on stalker-level.
There’s a guy protecting his sister, and then there’s me violating a woman’s privacy and pretending my reasons are completely selfless and innocent.
Pulling away from the curb and picking up speed, I glance to my phone when it chirps with a reply text. I snag the device, ask my phone to read it aloud, and grin when my oldest brother’s name is the first I hear.
Bitchy Mitchy. Hold the fort for me, because I’m gonna be a little while longer yet. Fortunately, we’re talking weeks or months, not years. I got word that I’m flying back in a little bit. Not home, but at least I’ll be in the right country.
Mom and Dad are well; I checked in.
Beckett and Nix both texted me today too. Guess our Abby Cadabby moving into her own place has got you all shook up.
Try not to fret so much. You know she hates being babied.
As for your question on Nadia Reynolds. She’s twenty-six years old. No siblings, dead parents. She has a business degree, and absolutely no experience making pretty bouquets of flowers.
My contact says Nadia seems square. She’s got personal shit she’s taking care of, a rich, but recently dead, family member. She’s the new recipient of a hefty exchange of cash, and now controls a couple of trust accounts. But there’s no movement on those accounts, i.e. she’s not skimming from them.
The dead aunt was a respected woman in her field, smart as a whip, and uncompromising. Articles speak on how she especially liked going horn-to-horn against men, and winning. The aunt has two children, both living, neither in prison, and an ex-husband, also living, also a free citizen. The ex got a hefty payout in the divorce, so there’s nothing for him in the will or in trust—though he’s asking for it. Pussy is trying to score off his ex-wife’s hard work.
Despite there being two grown kids, Nadia controls the money. That means either she got lucky and has always been financially responsible, and thus, the aunt favored her, or she finagled it in such a way that she plans to steal from her cousins, and eventually keep the lot.
My contact says that Nadia is otherwise clean: no history, no nada. So it’s probably all innocent, and Abby has likely just gotten herself a good office manager. Let the woman do her job, stop kiddie-gloving Abby, and tell everyone I said I’ll be home soon.
Love you, Mitchy. See you on the other side.
Talk to you when I can.
Troy.
And that, I suppose, is that. Exhaling a deep breath, a breath I had no clue I was holding, I toss my phone down when relief teases my conscience and dares me to accept that Nadia is who she says she is.
It’s my job to protect my sister, my responsibility to make sure she doesn’t make mistakes so big that we can’t fix them. But if Troy says it’s all okay, then it likely is. He hasn’t been wrong yet.
Puttering along Nadia’s street and slowing at the intersection so I can cross over and head in the direction of my place, I glance across again when my phone chirps a second time. Not with a text, but a call.
Luc’s name flashes, demanding and persistent, and though my stomach drops for some unexplainable reason, I pick the device up and answer anyway. “Yeah?”
“Mitch.” Luc’s voice is quiet, hushed and sneaking. “Shit’s hitting the fan. That fire we attended last month, with the, uh…” He swallows so loud that I hear it. “Ya know, the little girl that didn’t make it?”
“Cady.” I say her name. I remember her name, long after they laid her tiny, broken body to rest. “What’s happening?”
“Her father is here,” he hisses. “And he wants your head on a platter. He’s talking to Best now.”
“Shit.”
5
Nadia
First Day on the Job
“This jar under the desk,” Abigail reaches down to the small shelf beneath the cash register, pulls out a glass jar filled with coins and dollar bills, then plops it on the desk for a moment and grins the way the Cheshire Cat does. “This is our spite jar.”
I lift a single, quizzical brow. “Spite jar?”
Laughing, she sets the heavy thing back in its place. “I’m in the business of selling love and happiness, Nadia. I love love! Which means I love my job very much, especially when people—men—come in here with a smug grin and ask for help selecting something beautiful for their wife or girlfriend. I even have customers who come in regularly to buy for their mothers and daughters. Those men are the men who restore my faith in goodness.”
I set my notepad on the desk, place my pen on top, and study Abby’s eyes. They’re unique and beautiful… one green, one blue, and both so wide and innocent, I’m almost a hundred percent certain that my boss doesn’t have experience with creatures of the opposite sex. She’s a romantic, helplessly and shamelessly, which means I don’t think she’s ever dared debase herself and go searching for a one-night stand. And seeing as she isn’t married or in a committed relationship—I know, because I asked—well, that leads me to believe she’s as pure as a just-hatched chick.
And yet…
“I don’t understand the correlation between the spite jar and men who buy pretty flowers.”
Abby grins and snatches a single daisy from a filled vase on the corner of the desk. “The spite jar is for when men come in here looking for nasty flowers. The guys who buy for their wives after getting caught cheating. The men who did something wrong—forgotten birthday or anniversary, unkind during an argument, didn’t come home from a night out with the guys. That sort of stuff. We can always tell who those men are, because they always give us the story, like they think we’ll help them select the perfect arrangement to win her back.”
“We don’t help?” I question.
“Oh, sure we do. But we charge six times the ticket price, up-sell to make him buy ridiculous, unnecessary things, and then we put all but the original ticket price in this jar. This jar,” she shakes it once more, “buys us coffee, or buys a little boy with no money and a big heart a nice bouquet to surprise his mother with. If a woman is walking by, and she looks like she’s had a terribly wearing day, we treat her to something pretty and light, and we take the cost of that out of this jar.”
“Girl power,” I murmur with a creeping smile. “I love it.”
“Right! And those men we dislike; they pay for it. It’s the perfect solution.”
“It’s hilariously evil, and pure genius. I bet it feels good when handing that nice bouquet over to the little boy, or the sad lady.”
“It feels like heaven,” Abby sighs. “And when I slap a bunch of money in there after a rude man leaves, it feels like sweet revenge. Honestly, I surprise myself with how purely genius it is.”
I scoff, loud and obnoxious. “And
to think, you look so sweet under those freckles and red hair, Abigail. But you have a slice of your soul set aside purely to fuck with men. And I– I–” I stammer when Abby’s face pales. “Um, I mean screw with men?”
When she still doesn’t relax, I try again. “Mess with men?”
Finally, she smiles and lets her defensive shoulders relax.
“Really?” I ask. “You have a problem with the swears?”
“I just think they’re unnecessary and crass.” Despite wrinkling her nose, Abby doesn’t speak with derision or judgment. Mostly, she’s simply answering my question. “I’ve gone so long fighting against their existence that now I can barely tolerate them. I know it makes me seem silly and petty—”
“No, I mean…” I pick up my notepad and follow her out from behind the counter. “Not silly or petty. It’s a little jarring,” I admit, “especially for someone like me.”
“Someone like you?” Abby walks the row of flowers she’s already prepared for sale. “And who are you?”
“A girl who sprinkles cuss words around like she sprinkles sugar on cereal.”
She glances over her shoulder and studies me with judgmental eyes. “You sprinkle sugar on your cereal?”
I bark out a loud laugh and press my notepad to my chest. “I really do. And I put sugar in my hot chocolate too. Got a problem with that?”
“I mean,” mocking my words with a snicker, Abby reaches up to pluck a wilting flower. “I have somewhat of a problem with that. Cereal is already all sugar, then you’re adding more. And I bet you smother your waffles with syrup, too, huh?”
“Well of course. Why on earth would I choke down dry waffles?”
Shaking her head, Abby only turns and continues on. “I won’t get super mad or write you up for cussing in front of me. But don’t do it in front of customers, and maybe try to limit yourself to the less offensive swears while on the clock. I can’t and won’t censor you on your own time, but if we become friends, which I hope we do,” she grins, “then one of us will have to change. It’s inevitable.”
“Not change,” I counter. “Adapt. You’ll get used to the way I speak, and I’ll forgo the really harsh words and switch them out for something that will get me into Heaven when I kick the bucket. Deal?”
“Deal.” Taking the wilted flower with her, Abby moves into the next row and inspects her wares. “It’s not like I don’t already deal with my brothers and their cussing. In the end, we all live in harmony and get along for the most part.”
“Speaking of…” I fold my arms over my chest and continue to follow in her wake. “They’re kind of protective of you, huh? Can you breathe down there, on the bottom of the Rosa man pile?”
Abby chuckles and stops to inspect a tray of rosemary. “It can get a little squishy down here,” she admits. “But they mean well, all of them. My brothers aren’t like regular brothers,” she explains. “They’ve had to hold my hand during some really tough times. They’ve sacrificed their own health, they’ve endured pain for me, they’ve forgone a lot of the things that would have made them happy, all to better my life. At this point, beyond the typical love one has for their siblings, you could also say they’re invested in my health.” Her bi-colored eyes come to me. “They don’t want it to be for nothing.”
I want to ask for more details. I want to demand everything she just omitted. But the bell above the shop door jingles, and beneath it enters a haggard-looking woman with bone-deep exhaustion carved into her every pore, and a tattered bunny clutched tightly in her hands.
If anyone was screaming, ‘I desperately need help from the spite jar’, it’s this woman.
“I want to be friends too,” I murmur for Abby. “You know I’m new to town, which means I could really do with a friend outside of work.”
Her concerned eyes come away from the woman, and stop on me until they transform from worry to glee. “I would love that.”
“Dinner sometime. Wine. And then you can tell me everything you just kept to yourself about your health and the investment your brothers made.”
Before she can object, I turn on my heels, plaster on the biggest smile I can, and approach the woman who needs a pretty flower more than anyone else I know in this moment. “Hello. Can I help you?”
She’s not old. Not even forty, I don’t think. But the fatigue in her eyes and the firm line of her lips makes her appear ancient. She wears jeans and a loose-fitting top; an outfit that, on any other, I think, would look fine. Casual, but fine. But on this woman, it only lends to her gaunt appearance. Her hair is brushed neatly, but is lifeless. Her nails are clean and trimmed, but one—her pinkie—is mutilated from stress and teeth.
Walking closer, but stopping back far enough that she doesn’t startle, I lower my head and try to catch her eyes. “Ma’am? I would love to help you today.”
“I want flowers.” Her voice is scratchy, as though from disuse. Crackling, as though on the edge of an emotional breakdown. “Something pretty for my child.” Her eyes come up to mine, a lifeless brown hidden under a million sparkling tears. “Something for my baby.”
My stomach drops from what my heart insists I already know. It doesn’t take a genius to follow clues, nor an empath to feel the grief in this woman’s words.
“Of course.” Slowly, and so very gently, I place a hand on her shoulder and lead her toward a display Abby and I passed only minutes ago.
Perhaps I’m supposed to take her toward something a little more traditional: peace lilies, azaleas, or orchids, maybe. But on a hunch, I lead her toward a bunch of brightly colored daisies, and pray to the entire universe that I don’t make this woman cry.
“I was thinking maybe something bright,” I try. “Would I be correct in thinking that your, um, baby…” I choke on the word, on the grief I feel for someone I never knew. “Uh, would they—”
“She was four.” The woman weeps silent but powerful tears. “Cady is… she’s four.”
My gaze crosses the shop, over the top of the woman’s head, over a display of flowers, and stops on Abby’s tear-filled eyes as she helplessly watches on.
We spoke of the sweet husbands and cheating assholes, but she was yet to prepare me for those who grieve, and lucky me, I get this one straight out of the gate.
When my customer’s shoulders bounce with silent sobs, I pull her in closer, give her a side hug, and work on creating a bright masterpiece with only one hand.
I grab the brightest flowers I see, the longest, the tallest and proudest. I pile them on the shelf beside the vase, hurriedly arrange them laying down, and when I have what I need, I release the woman’s shoulders and grab my bundle with quick movements.
I don’t want to hurry, but I also don’t want to drag this out and torture myself or the grieving mother.
“Can you tell me about her? About…” I search my mind for the name I’m certain she said. “Cady.”
“She loves bunnies.” The woman clutches to the stuffed bunny in her hand. “And she always smells of flowers. We didn’t even have a garden.” Her voice hitches. “We lived in an apartment, so no garden, but she was my favorite smell.”
“Children have that way about them, don’t they?” I work on my bundle of flowers, arrange them, plump them, wrap them. “They have this sweet smell that, even beneath the sweat and craziness, shines through at the exact right time.”
“Right.” The woman’s voice catches so that she’s forced to swallow, or choke on the ball of emotion sitting in her throat. “Cady smelled of candy sometimes, and of dog, though we didn’t have one of those either. She must’ve had a friend with a dog and snuck hugs sometimes when I wasn’t watching, because sometimes, she’d go to bed smelling of wet dog.”
“But beneath that,” I prompt and quickly work with a bright yellow ribbon. “She smelled of flowers?”
Cady’s mom chews on her bottom lip with such vigor that mine feels swollen out of sympathy. “Right,” she finally chokes out. “Always flowers.”
“An
d now you can take these to her.” With one fast sweep of my arm, I knock all of my off-cuts, tape, and unused ribbon off the desk and into the trash can that sits at the side, then gently laying the bouquet on the cleared surface, I meet the woman’s gaze and hold back my own tears. “I hope they bring you both comfort.”
“Th-thank you.” She doesn’t touch the bouquet, but instead reaches back to her pocket. “I’ll just– How much?”
I stretch across the desk and place a hand on her forearm. “My treat.”
“Your—” Her eyes widen. “No, I couldn’t.”
“I insist.”
I pick up the bouquet once more, the first bouquet I’ve ever made, thrust it forward, and force the woman to take them, which makes her hands too busy to reach for cash.
“Please, let me do this. If you, uh…” I swallow and try not to make a bad situation worse. “If you believe in this sort of stuff, if you wanted to… maybe you could tell Cady that my name is Nadia, and tell her I said hello.”
The woman’s eyes spill over. Heavy, fat tears dribble over her cheeks and onto her abused bottom lip.
“I recently had a death in the family too. Maybe you could tell Cady to ask for Tracey. They can take care of each other.”
“Oh god.” Breaking down, the woman buries her face in her flowers and sets my heart to a skittering pace. I made it worse. I overstepped. “It was an accident,” she cries. “Cady should still be—”
“I’m so so—”
“Come now.” Abigail, stronger and faster than she appears, races around rows of flowers and comes up behind the grieving mother.
Sliding an arm around her hips, since Abby isn’t tall enough to get it over the woman’s shoulder, she gently coaxes her away from the front desk and around a display of tulips. She murmurs as she leads, pats and soothes as they walk.
Abby leads the woman to the front door and out, then as she finally turns and walks away, Abby’s grieving eyes cross the shop and come to mine. “Geez.”