by Jo McNally
She heard Melissa leave, and Connie stormed into the workroom with a thunderstruck expression. “I don’t know who you are or what the hell you think you’re doing, but I want you out of this shop right now.” She pointed toward the front door.
Lucy had to talk fast. After all, she’d promised Piper she wasn’t a criminal, so she didn’t want to end up being arrested the same day. She kept cutting lengths of ribbon as she spoke.
“Look, you need these flowers done in a few hours, and I can make that happen for you. I know exactly what the bride was talking about and how to do it. We can just glue the beads onto the ribbon and it will have the same effect. Why don’t you put the bouquet in the cooler for now so it stays fresh. I’ll grab some of those roses from the window display. Or do you have buds...?” She looked at the more utilitarian refrigerated unit that took up one wall back here. “Oh, there they are. Is the owner of the shop going to have time to put the bridal party bouquets together? Are the boutonnieres done?”
“I am the owner, you lunatic. Now get out.”
Lucy tried to keep her expression neutral. She also tried not to look at Connie’s shaking hand. And failed. She knew it as soon as she saw a flash of embarrassment cloud Connie’s eyes.
“Oh...well...that’s great.” Lucy gave her an encouraging smile. “We can do this together, then.”
“Get. Out.” Connie reached for the cell phone sitting on the work counter along the wall by the door.
“No...wait...”
Then a new voice joined them. “What in the world is going on back here? Connie, are you...?” A woman walked in and came to an abrupt halt. She was Connie’s age—maybe a bit younger—but far more upbeat and...fluffy. Her hair was butter yellow, falling in tight, shining curls to her shoulders. She wore pink jeans and a slightly lighter pink pullover. She stared at Lucy with wide eyes, then smiled brightly at Connie. “Wait, did you hire an assistant while I was getting my hair done?”
Lucy and Connie answered in the same breath, but Connie said no while Lucy said maybe.
The woman’s brows lowered in confusion. “Let’s start at the beginning. I’m Connie’s friend, Cecile Manning. And you are?”
“I’m Lucy Higgins.” Lucy put on her most cheerful expression. Think positive. “I was here while Connie was dealing with a difficult bride-to-be, and I jumped in to help. I have experience with flowers and I could use a job, so...”
Cecile clapped her hands. “That’s perfect! Connie needs an assistant!”
“No, Connie does not need an assistant.” Connie put her hands on her hips. “Now if you two will both leave, I have a lot of work to do.”
“Connie,” Lucy said, trying not to look desperate, “I’m sorry for barging in the way I did. I can be...impulsive.” Especially lately. “But I really can help you give the bride what she wants. I don’t expect you to pay me for this, since I volunteered myself.” She took a steadying breath. “I am good with flowers, and...well, you’d be doing me a favor. And frankly...” She looked at the clock on the wall, then started gluing beads on the ribbons randomly. “Time is racing by and you have a bridal party expecting flowers with cascading beaded ribbons by five. You really want to fire me now?”
“How can I fire you? I didn’t even h—”
Cecile answered over her. “No, she does not want to fire you.” Connie started to object again, but Cecile raised her hand and continued, talking directly to Connie. “This girl is fate. You know damn well you need the help.”
Connie’s face was red. “I wouldn’t need her help if she hadn’t told my customer that we could do what the bride wanted!”
Cecile, who Lucy was liking more and more as the conversation went on, folded her arms and stared right back at Connie, unflinching.
“Excuse me if I’m wrong, but isn’t giving the customers what they want the whole point of your business?”
Connie stammered, but Cecile talked over her again. “And look at this cute young thing with her pink hair and all her sass. I think Lucy Higgins is exactly what you need, and she’s here exactly when you need her.”
“Were you in on this, Cecile?” Connie demanded. “Did you and those book club busybodies come up with this? Leave it to you to find someone with pink hair to do your dirty work.”
The atmosphere in the room took a turn toward testy, and Lucy put down the glue gun. She may have carried this ploy too far.
“Connie...” Lucy started. “Gosh, I don’t even know your last name. This isn’t a setup, I swear. I’m new in town and I need a job and my aunt taught me to do flower arrangements, so I really do know what I’m doing. Please give me a chance. Let me help you with this wedding order today, and then you can decide whether you want to hire me. Deal?”
Connie looked from Cecile’s broad smile back to Lucy.
“How new to town are you? Who do you know here?”
Lucy knew how small towns operated—who you knew could determine a lot of things.
“I’m staying at the Taggart Inn. The Taggarts are related to my best friend.”
“Who’s your best friend?” The question felt like an interrogation. Lucy crossed her fingers in hopes that people here remembered Nikki fondly.
“Nikki Taggart. Iris’s granddaughter.”
Cecile’s smile brightened even more. “Oh my gosh, I remember Nikki! She’s Logan’s sister. She was here for the wedding. Remember, Connie?”
Connie hadn’t moved, but there was something...softer...about her stance. But not to her voice.
“Of course I remember. I’m not daft. She’s a banker in Fresno, right?”
Lucy laughed at the attempt to trip her up. “She’s a chef in Raleigh, as I’m sure you know. You can check out my story with the Taggarts, but I’m telling the truth.” Cecile had said Lucy had sass as if that was a good thing, so she went with it. She looked up at the clock again, holding the glue gun in the air. It was heavy, and she wondered how Connie managed it with only one steady hand. “We should get busy on this order, don’t you think?”
Connie hesitated, then went to the cooler to pull out a bucket of tight pink rosebuds. She set it on the opposite end of the table, then reached for her shears.
“Phelps.”
Lucy looked up at her in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
Connie kept her eyes on the stems she was cutting. “My last name. It’s Phelps.”
Cecile turned to go, waving as she did.
“You two play nice and have fun, okay?”
CHAPTER FOUR
OWEN COOPER WAS DRUNK. That didn’t stop him from pouring himself another glass of whiskey. He was on the small balcony of the two-bedroom apartment that was intended to be where he and Lucy would start their new life together.
He’d spent a few nights out here on the balcony over the past week, listening to the music rising up from the bars in downtown Greensboro. It was the hip and happening area of the city, or so his cousin had said when she sent him the lease to sign. She’d done the looking while he was wrapping up his obligation to the Army.
His mother had had a fit when he enlisted after two years of college, but the Coopers had a long history of military service. Owen was proud to be able to do his part as well as pay off his own college loans without relying on his parents. It was a good plan.
He and Lucy had agreed to wait on marriage until he was out of the military. It was a practical plan. They’d both agreed. He figured he’d come home, marry his girl and start a life together. He’d take over his dad’s landscaping and nursery business. Lucy would go to work at the nursery. Hell, she’d already started working there after her grandmother passed away. He’d even promised her she could set up a flower arranging counter in the nursery because it was all she talked about. It was a good plan. Until it wasn’t.
He took another sip of whiskey. This line of thinking felt painfully familiar and exceedi
ngly pointless. He’d gone through it a hundred different times, in a hundred different ways. Putting himself through the drills, ignoring the pain, torturing himself because hey—no pain no gain, right? Just as he’d been trained.
His time in the military taught him to anticipate roadblocks, but he sure as hell never anticipated arriving at the church on his wedding day to discover his bride had fled. Not just changed her mind. She’d run away. From her entire life. From her family obligations. From her obligations to his family. From...him. He took another sip of his drink, relishing the sharp burn as it went down.
He couldn’t seem to stop hearing her voice in his head, repeating those questions before everything went toes up. She started after him as soon as he came home in April. Did something happen? Are you okay? What did “okay” even mean? He was more okay than the guys who came back in body bags. More okay than Katherine McCabe, sitting in a VA rehab center trying to adjust to life without her left leg. So...yeah, he was okay. Technically. But Lucy wasn’t happy with that answer. It was too late for better answers now. She was gone.
He was worried sick about her. Was she safe? Was she living out of her car? Or more correctly, Nikki Taggart’s car? Was this an I-have-to-find-myself road trip that she’d return from in a few days? Or was she gone for good? She’d texted him on what should have been their wedding night. She told him she was sorry. She told him she was safe. Insinuated that he’d be fine without her. All in a string of texts, like that was all the effort he was worth.
Lucy threw a grenade right into his life, then acted like it was no big deal. Sure, she’d apologized, but for what exactly? Oh, sorry I just cost your parents seventy grand. Sorry you signed that lease for an apartment. Sorry about humiliating you in front of your pals. Sorry about breaking your heart...
Owen drained the glass, refilling it and scowling when the bottle went dry in the process. Good thing he’d restocked that afternoon. He’d been living on takeout food and booze since she left. There was a sharp rap on the apartment door, sending him stumbling to his feet. Some dim part of his brain grasped at the possibility it was Lucy. That she’d come back. But no, that was male laughter in the hall. He opened the door and nearly got stampeded by his buddies from Fort Bragg. He’d forgotten they were coming. What day was it, anyway?
Pete Lamphear was first, carrying a case of beer. Joe Callaway followed with shopping bags full of chips and junk food. Marcus Jones brought up the rear, carrying a brown paper bag from the nearest liquor store. Owen wanted to tell them to get lost, but what the hell. He didn’t exactly have anything better to do.
Before long, Owen was even more drunk. So were his pals. He’d already told them they were spending the night, because nobody was in any condition to drive. Wasn’t like he had to check with a wife for permission. He didn’t have a wife.
“Fu-u-u-ck.” He groaned, wincing at the wound he’d just picked open. Again.
“And there it is!” Pete raised his beer as if in victory, then twisted his arm to squint at his watch. “Who had an hour and a half in the ‘Coop Finally Loses It’ Pool?”
Marcus crunched a mouthful of corn chips, sputtering crumbs everywhere as he pumped his fist. “I had eighty minutes! I knew my man wouldn’t crack that easy.”
“What?” Owen was having a hard time following the conversation, and wasn’t sure if it was the booze or his so-called friends.
The guys ignored him. Joe pointed at Pete. “You only gave him thirty, you low-faith bastard. At least I gave him an hour.”
Owen slammed the whiskey bottle down on the table, making glasses rattle. “What in the ever-loving hell are you idiots talking about?”
Pete was sprawled on the floor, his head propped against a chair, chip crumbs scattered on his shirt like snow. “We took bets on how long it would take for you to crack and tell us what’s goin’ on. That delayed-detonation f-bomb sure sounded like a crack to me.”
“Agreed.” Marcus nodded. “‘Cause this?” He held up Owen’s empty whiskey bottle. “This ain’t gonna do it, man. So enjoy tonight, because it’s time for you to dry out.”
He stared at his friends. His comrades in arms. They’d shared a lot of laughs. And they’d seen some shit in the mountains outside of Kabul. Pete and Joe were career Army, in it until retirement. Marcus had two years left, then he was headed home to Alabama.
Owen shook his head, trying to clear the whiskey fog.
“I’m not cracking. I’m fine.” The three men stared, wordless. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, I’m not saying it was fun to get stood up at my own damn wedding. But it’s better than getting dumped after the wedding, right?”
“You ready to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
Joe’s head tipped to the side. “Ready to hit the bars and find someone new?”
“What? No!” Owen shook his head emphatically. His filter failed him. “I still love Lucy.”
Marcus started to chuckle, his voice deep. “And there you have it. I told you he wasn’t over her.” He gave Owen a hard look. “You want her back, after all this?”
No sense denying what he’d already blurted out.
“Yes. Damn it. YES. We had a life planned. We have a home.” Well, okay, it was a rental. “I’m gonna take over the business. She’s going to work there. We’ll get a nice, new house someday.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. He was reciting a plan that no longer existed. “She panicked. It happens. But once I get her back here, then we’ll be good to go. Reschedule the wedding...” His mother would not be pleased, but that was her problem. He suspected Mom’s overbearing ways were a big reason why Lucy seemed so detached from the wedding plans to start with. “After we’re married, we’ll start the life we had planned.” He felt another pinch of guilt. Lucy hadn’t given much input on those plans. He’d assumed her silence meant agreement. Another mistake.
“So how are you going to convince her to come back? Do you know where she is?”
“I’ve got a hunch. I think she’s in New York. Upstate, not the city. Lucy’s sister said Nikki handed Lucy the keys to her Mustang. Nikki Taggart went to her brother’s wedding up there a while ago.” He’d called Nikki a few times, but she’d been uncooperative. “I’ll plead my case in person with Nikki if I have to, which will be good practice for groveling to Lucy.”
Joe snorted out a laugh. “Sounds like good practice for your whole married life, my friend. Apologizing is Job Number One for husbands...trust me, I know.” His laughter faded. “But if you don’t know why she left, how will you know what to apologize for? What if she’s still pissed off at you? What if she tells you to go to hell?”
Owen stared at the coffee table, unable to answer. This was a mission he hadn’t trained for.
“Here you go!” Pete crowed, holding up his phone. “Ten Guaranteed Ways to Get a Lady’s Attention. It’s from an app my brother tipped me off to–Dr. Find-Love. The guy has a podcast on how to pick up ladies at bars, how to woo a woman you’re serious about, how to dump a woman you’re not serious about, and shit like that. And there’s even a phone app.”
“Yeah, right.” Owen grimaced. “Just what I need—cyberdating advice from some sleazeball named Dr. Find-Love. You know what we called blowhards like that in Kabul—oxygen thieves. Sounds like a con.”
“No, man,” Pete answered, handing Owen the phone. “The guy’s got a PhD or something.”
“Emphasis on the or something,” Joe muttered.
Pete didn’t break his stride. “He’s legit! He writes books and stuff. I’m telling you, his ideas work. How do you think I got Holly to fall for me?”
Owen glanced at the app, then dismissed it, asking which professional basketball team had the best odds to win the upcoming championship game. The guys went along with the change of subject, and they talked and laughed for another hour or so before everyone claimed a bed or a sofa for the night. But
Owen couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about that stupid app Pete showed him.
He quietly grabbed his tablet from the kitchen and went back to his room. Dr. Find-Love—clearly not his real name—smiled back at him from the screen with gleaming blond hair and a toothy smile. Owen scrolled through a long list of testimonials. The guy did seem legit. And for just $1.99 per month, Owen could subscribe to Dr. Find-Love’s newsletter and app. He scrolled through the sample tabs, and one caught his eye.
Screwed Up and Lost Her? How to Grovel Successfully.
He knew there was still too much whiskey in his system to be shopping online, but damn. If he could pull up a blueprint for what to do to get Lucy to come back home, it could save him from wasting time, or from making things even worse. He didn’t give himself time to rethink it. One click on the app store and he became an official member of the “Lucky Guy Club.” He ignored the quiet voice of reason in his head, telling him the whole thing felt sleazy. As he opened the app, he felt more hopeful than he had since the morning his mother started screaming about the abruptly canceled wedding.
He had a plan now. He was going to find Lucy. He was going to follow this groveling checklist and win her back. Then they’d come home to Greensboro and start their life together. He looked at the top of the screen.
Guaranteed Results!
It was a done deal.
* * *
LUCY SLAPPED AT her phone, swearing at the alarm she couldn’t turn off. She was still disoriented most mornings when she woke to find herself in room 12 at the Taggart Inn in Rendezvous Falls. She blinked a few times after silencing the phone, then stretched and sat up. It was a pretty room, with soft yellow walls and cornflower blue curtains at the long windows. The queen-size bed was tucked into the corner at an angle, covered with a pastel quilt. There was an antique writing table in front of one window, and a large mahogany dresser on another wall, opposite the small private bath and equally small walk-in closet.
