Blossoming Flower (Wildflowers Book 1)

by Vivian Winslow

  Blossoming Flower

  Wildflowers, Book 1

  The Gilded Flower Series

  Vivian Winslow

  Text copyright © 2015 Vivian Winslow

  Cover artwork ©Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  For R

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Excerpt from Forbidden Rose (Wildflowers, Book 2)

  About the Author

  The spirit of her invincible heart guided her through the shadows

  —Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

  Prologue

  “Negative billionaire.” Flor mumbles the words under her breath as she scrolls through the article. “Mega-yacht, Gulfstream G650, and Mercedes McLaren among assets seized,” she reads before tossing her phone onto her bed. She sits up and leans against the cold brick wall, resting her arms on her knees. The yacht her father named Angel was atrociously large and tacky—she won’t miss it. The McLaren didn’t even belong to him. It was hers. A gift for her eighteenth birthday, which she only drove a handful of times since she rarely visited her native Rio. But the jet. God how she’ll miss the jet. It isn’t the luxury of the jet as much as the convenience of being able to get away at a moment’s notice. In a matter of hours, you could be wherever you want, no lines, no waiting. Complete freedom.

  Flor glances over at the bus ticket resting atop a tattered copy of Daisy Miller on her now empty desk. New York. One-way. She nearly jumps out of her bed when her roommate, Isabella, enters the small 300 square foot college dorm room they’ve shared for the past three years. In all that time, Izzy, as she preferred to be called, never learned to knock, or at least come in quietly. The ten years Flor spent in a Swiss boarding school taught her to be more considerate of her roommates and respect boundaries within a shared space. While it drove Flor crazy, Izzy had one quality that made up for this flaw. She wasn’t nosey. Despite any rumors Izzy may have heard about Flor’s father and his legal troubles, Izzy never said a word, making this small dorm room on this tranquil campus in rural Virginia a haven for Flor. Until now.

  “I thought you’d already be finished packing,” Izzy says, almost out of breath. That’s the other thing about Flor’s roommate, she was always catching her breath either because she was rushing to and from a place or just out of sheer excitement. Flor found her roommate’s enthusiasm refreshing. At her former school, displaying too much emotion, whether positive or negative, wasn’t considered appropriate. It was all very Swiss and completely counter to the Brazilian approach to life of putting every emotion out there without regard for anyone who might be in your emotional wake. Flor’s mother was a constant embarrassment for this reason—always playing the victim and exposing her wounds for the world to see. During her parents’ very public and ugly divorce, her mother was the first to run to the press to lay every sordid secret out there for the public to consume with their morning coffee. The woman didn’t know the first thing about loyalty to her family. Flor should’ve known then . . . .

  “I am packed,” Flor says, nodding at the overstuffed Tortuga backpack by the door. Next to it is a worn brown leather messenger bag filled with her computer and other incidentals. What more does anyone need?

  “But you haven’t packed your printer, or your wireless speakers.” Izzy points to the shelf above Flor’s head.

  “Keep them. I can’t take them with me. Your parents are picking you up in a car. You can manage.” Flor won’t let herself be bitter about her own parents not being there. Her father’s lawyers have managed to keep him out of jail by having him placed under house arrest at their fazenda. Her mother . . . well, playing any real parental role wouldn’t fit with her mother’s current lifestyle, not that Flor cares. She’s angry with both of her parents and, despite her mother’s constant pleas to visit her in Miami or travel to the fazenda to see her father, Flor refuses. As far as Flor’s concerned, they’re both at fault for what happened. Her father’s poor judgment combined with her mother’s shameful spending habits landed them all in this precarious situation.

  “Are you sure?” Izzy asks, searching the room, her long blond ponytail swinging behind her. “But what about these dresses?”

  “A few minor alterations and they’ll fit you perfectly.” That’s a bit of an understatement. Flor stands about five inches taller than her roommate’s petite 5’ 6” frame, but again, she has no need for these clothes. Holding onto them means clinging to her old life, and she doesn’t have the energy to do it anymore. It’s not as if she’s had any use for them over the past few years. They’re just more things to unload from her past. Assets seized. Perhaps creditors don’t care about clothing.

  Izzy looks back at her. “These are couture, Flor.”

  “I don’t need them,” she says frankly. She had gotten rid of most of her designer wardrobe when she left Switzerland for the small women’s college in Virginia. Even though she had been accepted to Penn and Georgetown, Flor wanted to attend a school where she would be an unknown name and face. Her last year at Rosey had been the most difficult of her life. Her father, Gustavo de Lima, had gone from mega-billionaire to losing his entire fortune overnight. It wasn’t just the financial losses that made it difficult. It was the notoriety he acquired, his already public life becoming more public, with him being mocked endlessly for the gratuitous spending and lavish lifestyle. Not to mention the women. She had heard the rumors over the years, but it became more real through her parents’ contentious divorce.

  Many of the girls Flor had counted among her closest friends slowly distanced themselves from her. Even her boyfriend at the time, Enrico de Franceschi, who was no stranger to scandals since his own father had been embroiled in a few over the years, broke up with her, claiming he couldn’t be involved with someone who had so much baggage. For a guy, a scandal can be character building. For a girl, it’s just baggage.

  It led to Flor seeking refuge in America. As for many of the generations before her, America represented a new world to Flo
r, an opportunity to start over. And it was. She was one of only five hundred forty-two young women at Belle Grove College. But after what she had gone through her last year in high school, she should’ve guessed that life has a way of pulling the rug out from under you when you least expect it.

  One afternoon in late fall of her junior year, the students were summoned to the Great Hall in the main building. The campus was built on a former plantation, where the once vast main house is used as a dining hall and a gathering place for the student body. The size of the land was another part of the school’s appeal to Flor. They allowed people to board their horses, and if it was one thing that gave her pleasure and a hint of happiness, it was riding.

  Flor remembers the day vividly because she had just been out for a ride, the fall air crisp and clean from the early morning rain. She had had an inkling of peace, the briefest of moments when everything felt as if it was in its proper place—something she hadn’t felt in over three years. The weight of her problems were lifted as she rode her mare, Daisy, through an apple orchard on the west side of the campus, her fears giving way to hope as her post-college plans were beginning to take shape.

  Her problems quickly returned when Dean Wilkins informed them that the school was out of money and would close at the end of the academic year. It was a fate befalling many women’s colleges, he explained, and they would be the next casualty. The young women of Belle Grove would all need to find another school to attend if they wanted to finish their degrees. If? As if there was any other option.

  Being broke. Life changes. All concepts Flor had been schooled in long before she arrived at Belle Grove. Now, the one place where she had found peace in her life was going under. Once she recovered from her brief shock, Flor returned to her general state of disappointment, accepting that perhaps not everyone is destined for happiness. For some, it’s about survival. It then dawned on her, perhaps that’s the karma of the de Lima family.

  “You want us to drive you to the bus station?” Izzy offers. “My parents will be here soon.”

  Flor shakes her head and smiles. “No thanks, I’m good.” She stretches her long legs over the side of the bed and reaches out for a flannel to put on over her t-shirt.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Izzy says.

  “Me too,” Flor replies and stands. “I’ll be in touch. I promise.”

  In spite of her reserve, she pulls Izzy in for a hug, feeling momentarily sentimental over this good-bye. Flor doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s scared. Even though she has somewhere to be in September, she has nothing to anchor her right now, no real safety net to fall back on. Her life is hers to shape, and while the notion seems exciting at times, she can’t help but feel completely terrified.

  Chapter 1

  “Mrs. Baron expected you a few hours ago,” the assistant chides Flor as she leads her down the long marble corridor of the Barons’ Upper East Side apartment. “She rescheduled her evening plans to see you.”

  Flor bristles at the abrupt greeting and mutters something about an accident on the turnpike, but it’s lost on the young woman who can’t be much older than her.

  Flor follows her down another long hallway, this one lined with a series of paintings by a Colombian artist she had studied in her art history class. Her family owned a few pieces, although she can only assume they’ve also been seized by the Brazilian government by now.

  As far as she can tell, the apartment takes up the entire top two floors of the massive building on 75th and Park. The sheer size is impressive in comparison to other fashionable New York apartments she’s seen. It dwarfs the one her father had at 15 Central Park West, which she visited a few times before that was seized too.

  “She’ll be in momentarily,” the assistant says, holding the door open for Flor, who manages a smile, humility winning over pride.

  “Thanks.” She looks around the room, which is decorated in an understated monochromatic palate with built-in shelving and a hand-woven rug. A round Pollaro desk is positioned near a large window with a view that extends as far as midtown Manhattan.

  The assistant motions to a pair of white suede chairs in the middle of the softly illuminated office. “You can wait here. Do you need anything? Coffee, tea, water?”

  The sudden change in demeanor surprises Flor, who shakes her head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Chapter 2

  Flor is too nervous to sit, however. She can hardly remember why she came, although it’s probably fair to say she was feeling a bit desperate when she made the call. When she told her father that she planned to study in the States, his one piece of advice was to call Mrs. Baron if she ever needed something. He assured her that this woman, of whom she knew little except by way of name and reputation, would be there for her.

  Flor scans the office, her eyes landing on a few photographs on the shelves. She reaches up and pulls a framed picture of twin teenage girls off the shelf. She returns the photo to its original place and studies another one, this one a more recent photo of one of the girls at her wedding. Flor focuses on the faces in the picture, the bride and two bridesmaids, one of them the twin, the other a beautiful woman with dark skin who looks like a model. Flor smiles when she sees the men in the picture, both incredibly handsome. Brothers, she assumes by their similar stance and features.

  Something about one of them reminds her of Enrico. The dark eyes probably. A sadness falls over Flor. At one point, she really did love him. He was intelligent, funny, and above all, gorgeous. She loved that he chose her among the other girls he could’ve had. She touches her fingers to her lips, remembering the feel of his kiss. It’s been so long since she’s allowed herself to be kissed by someone. She had hooked-up with a few local guys she came across in the town near Belle Grove, but it wasn’t the same.

  “Flor, how nice to see you.”

  The voice startles the young woman, who nearly drops the frame on the floor. She quickly recovers and places it back on the shelf.

  She spins around, feeling equally flustered and guilty for being caught. Best first impression ever.

  “Hello, Mrs. Baron,” Flor stammers. She crosses the room and holds out a hand.

  The matriarch, elegantly dressed in white trousers and a sleeveless, silk navy top, looks down at the hand disinterestedly. Flor recognizes the look as one her mother would often give to someone she was forced to interact with. After an awkward moment—probably only for the young woman—Mrs. Baron gives a modest smile and turns her face slightly to offer a two-kiss greeting. “Carioca style,” she says, referring to the traditional greeting kiss of Flor’s hometown of Rio.

  Flor returns the smile, trying to ignore the shift of energy in the room. Mrs. Baron isn’t quite the woman she imagined based on what her father had said. She expected someone more welcoming. But she shakes it off. It’s not as if I have anywhere else to be.

  “I see you were admiring that photo.” She points to the shelf where Flor had returned the frame, a bit askew.

  “Yes. Your daughters look a lot like you,” Flor offers, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  Mrs. Baron sighs. “At one point perhaps, but time has a way of marching on and over one’s face.” She lets out a low laugh. Flor can’t help but smile wider. The laugh was clearly genuine. Flor is partial to anyone who can laugh at herself—contrary to her mother, who doesn’t have a sense of humor about anything, especially aging.

  “It was taken four years ago at Lily’s wedding,” Mrs. Baron continues. “Four years.” She pauses, then heads over to her desk and plucks another frame. “This is my grandson Àlex. Isn’t he absolutely adorable? Blue eyes and dark hair. The girls will be all over this one.”

  Flor looks down and notices the strong resemblance to one of the men in the wedding photo. Before she can reply, Mrs. Baron says, “My daughter Lily is expecting another boy in a few months, around my birthday if you can believe it. Wouldn’t it just be funny if . . . .” She stops, allowing the words to fall, as if realizin
g she was about to say something she shouldn’t.

  Uncertain of whether she’s supposed to continue this thread in the conversation, Flor asks, “Do you get to see him much?”

  The woman runs her hand through her blond hair and says, “As much as I can. Boys are such interesting creatures. So simple and straightforward. I never raised one, but I’m sure it would’ve been easier than twin girls.”

  Flor doesn’t respond, although she’s certain her mother would agree with this woman. Her younger brother, Felipe, was definitely the favored child. “Mrs. Baron,” she says, realizing that the polite introductions were now over.

  “Please, dear, call me Poppy.” She gestures toward the white suede chairs where the assistant had told her to sit earlier.

  Flor takes a seat and clasps her hands on her lap. “I’m sorry for taking up your evening.”

  Poppy waves a hand. “Oh, it’s quite alright. You spared me from a boring dinner at Le Bibloquet with some old friends who want me to invest in their son’s start-up. They won’t do it, but they’re not above asking others for a favor.” She shakes her head, then touches Flor’s knee. “What can I do for you?”

  The young woman gulps, losing her nerve. That last statement put a stop to what she came to discuss. Well, almost.

  Chapter 3

  Flor looks down at her hands and rubs her palms together. “My father mentioned that you would be a good person to see about a few matters,” she begins.

  “Oh? How is he doing?” Poppy asks. The concern in her voice surprises Flor. She never asked her father how he came to know the Barons. He merely described Mrs. Baron as a trustworthy friend of the family.

  “He’s good, I guess.” Flor says, momentarily ashamed that she hasn’t checked in or spoken with him in a couple of months. He’s always the one to call and make the effort, but she’s still too upset and angry to speak with him for more than five minutes. It hurts her deeply because she once adored her father beyond measure. While her mother obviously favored her brother, Flor was clearly treasured by her father, and he was always quick to show it. His gifts, impromptu visits whenever he was in Europe and frequent phone calls made her feel both cherished and loved. No matter what was going on, she made time for him, until he let her down in the worst way.