by Kasie West
To my beautiful bridal bouquet, which was thrown away by my husband. “The flowers were dead!”
R. I. P.
Title Page
Dedication
Valentine’s Day Retirement Home Dinner
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Mother’s Day City Park Brunch
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
The Eller-Johnson Wedding
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Fourth of July Town Barbecue
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
John Farnsworth Funeral
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Birmingham Children’s Hospital Benefit
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Fall Festival
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Thanksgiving Dinner at the Williamses’ House
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
New Year’s Eve Barn Dance
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Sneak Peek at P.S. I Like You
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kasie West
Copyright
TULIP
Grown from a bulb, tulips blossom in the spring, yet one day somebody thought, “Hey, let’s sell them on Valentine’s Day,” and everyone else apparently went along with it. Still not as popular as the rose, but cheaper. And therefore requested by the old folks’ home.
The cafeteria had been transformed into a red-and-pink extravaganza. Like Hello Kitty herself had decorated for the occasion. The flowers, my contribution to the party, sat in the center of each table.
I walked around one centerpiece, trying to pinpoint why it looked off—aside from the vase, which was wrapped in metallic cellophane and adorned with pink hearts that I wished would disappear. The thick stems of tulips were my favorite, and a bit more green would have been good for the aesthetic, but it wasn’t up to me. My boss had decided on the cellophane. As if the red confetti hearts sprinkled on the tablecloths or the pink and red balloon hearts tied to the chairs weren’t enough. But as Caroline always said when I tried to give suggestions: You’re preachin’ to the choir, honey. This is for the clients.
She was right; the clients would love this. And, honestly, I didn’t care enough to fight it. Working for the town florist was never my dream job. But money was money, and I needed it if I wanted to go to design school in New York. And I did. With all my soul.
“There.” I spotted a pink tulip that was throwing off the balance of the arrangement. I pulled it out and traded it with the red one next to it. “Much better.” Looking at the flowers, an image sprang to mind of girls in brightly colored sundresses marching through a field of tulips.
“Sophie,” Caroline said as she came into the cafeteria with another bundle of balloons. “The flowers look great.”
I blinked, and the girls in dresses disappeared. “Thanks.”
Every Occasion was mainly a flower shop. But in a town as small as ours, Caroline took on the role of party planner as well. People would come into the shop for centerpieces and walk out with a minute-by-minute itinerary for their event. She could sell honey to bees, Caroline always said.
“Were you just at the van?” Caroline asked me.
“No, I’ve been in here for a while.”
“Can you check and see if I left the gift bags in there? They’re in two cardboard boxes.”
“Sure.” I wiped my hands on my apron and gathered the buckets and supplies to put away.
Outside, I opened the back doors of the van and swung the buckets inside. I untied my apron and tucked it into a bin. I didn’t see the gift bags Caroline was talking about. What I did see was my backpack, with my design journal—its leather cords barely holding its bursting pages closed—sitting on top. I’d pulled the journal out earlier in a bout of inspiration but Caroline had called me away in the middle of a sketch.
I picked up the journal and untied the cords, flipping past drawings and material samples and pressed leaves to the sketch of a blouse I’d been working on. A scowl came over my face. Where had I been going with this? The lines were rushed and sloppy. As always, I wished I had more time to devote to this journal. I was hoping to use its contents to convince schools they wanted me. Especially since I had no design experience.
“Sophie!”
I turned to see Micah, my best friend, rushing out of the retirement home.
I smiled, then tucked my notebook back into my bag and faced her. “Hey! When did you get here?”
“Holy crap you cut your hair!”
I reached up and pulled on the ends. I’d cut my long dark hair to a choppy shoulder-length style the day before and was still getting used to it. “I told you I was going to.”
“I know, I just didn’t think you would.”
She didn’t think I would? “So you hate it?”
“What? No! It’s awesome. It makes your eyes look huge.”
“Thanks.”
Micah wore her cater waiter outfit—black pants and a white collared shirt. She tugged at the collar, which was obviously bothering her neck.
“You know, if you let me alter that shirt a little, it would feel a million times better.” I pinched a section near her waist. “And while I was fixing the neck, I could take it in here …”
“Yeah, yeah.” She pushed my hands away. “I’m sure my dad would love you messing with his uniforms.” Her dad was a caterer, the only one in this small town. Micah pointed at her tight black curls, which I could tell at one point had been gathered on top of her head but now spilled every which way. “Speaking of uniforms, my hair tie broke.”
“It looks cute. Leave it.”
“Because hair in food is so appetizing.”
“I’m sure you have another hair tie in your just-in-case.” That’s what I liked to call Micah’s plastic case of sectioned squares that she kept in the trunk of her car. Her just-in-case mainly covered hair, makeup, and clothing emergencies, because the bin wasn’t big enough to include things like road flares or neck braces.
“You mock me, but that case has saved your butt on multiple occasions,” she said.
“So true.” I followed her to her car, where she removed the case from her trunk. “I wonder what the makers of your squares actually intended them for,” I mused. “Tools, maybe? Nuts and bolts?”
“This, Sophie. This.” She smiled, then pulled out a hair tie. “Do you need anything?”
I surveyed the selection—earrings, nail polish, Q-tips, Band-Aids, lip gloss—all in their own little spaces. It was the perfect representation of how Micah liked to live her life, everything in its proper place. “I’m good.” I nodded back toward the van. “I’m supposed to be getting gift bags.”
“Is that why you were sketching?”
“I was not sketching!” I cleared my throat. “I was looking at something I’d sketched earlier.”
“Uh-huh.” She shut her trunk and we walked back to the flower van together. “How did your date with Kyle go last night, by the way?”
My stoma
ch flipped at the mention of Kyle. “Not great,” I admitted. “Gunnar hid in the back seat of Kyle’s car as we were driving off to get dinner, and he jumped out after five minutes to scare us.” I frowned, remembering my little brother’s antics. “Kyle nearly wrecked his brand-new Mustang. And then he talked about nothing else the rest of the night.”
Micah cringed. “First dates are always weird. You need to give him a second chance.”
“I don’t know that he’ll give me a second chance.” I sighed. “My brother nearly ruined his baby. Or so I heard … all night.” I scanned the back of the van again and finally spotted a couple of cardboard boxes behind the passenger seat.
“I would give you another chance,” Micah said. “Besides, Gunnar is adorable.”
That reminded me. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent my brother a text: Is your homework done?
Yes. Wanna see a spider? I found a spider under the cupboard.
Yuck. No.
“So that’s it?” Micah asked.
“What?” I turned toward her. She was giving me her impatient eyes.
“You’re done with Kyle after one date? You can’t be done. I gave you a compatibility quiz. He was your match.” After Kyle had asked me out last week, Micah had made me take some online quiz she’d found and we’d laughed over every question.
I rolled my eyes. “Really? You’re going to claim that as gospel now?”
“Whatever it takes.” Micah thought I had a habit of not giving guys a chance. She wasn’t wrong. But Kyle was different. I’d been crushing on him for a couple of months now. So despite having to sit through his detailed descriptions of what a V8, 435-horsepower engine could do, I was willing to agree with her that first dates could be aberrations.
“Fine, one more date.”
She smiled. “Good. Will he be here tonight?”
“Could you see his band playing at this thing? The old people would riot.”
“I meant with his grandma. Doesn’t his grandma live here at Willow Falls now?”
“Does she? She wasn’t at last year’s event. But maybe. I can tell you who doesn’t live here: his car. I know everything about his car.”
“I got that.” Micah tugged on the hair tie to make sure the curly bun on top of her head was secure. “Okay. Better get back to work, love.”
She kissed the air by my cheek, then headed toward the building. I walked around to the side door of the van and slid it open.
“Oh!” Micah turned and walked backward for a few steps. “I have to tell you something later! Something really big!”
“What do you need to tell … ?” Before I finished my question, she was through the door and it swung shut behind her.
Something big? Good big or bad big? Why did she do that to me? She knew I couldn’t sit with information like that.
I slid Caroline’s boxes full of gift bags toward me. Unassembled gift bags. Great. I now knew what I’d be spending most of my night doing. I stacked one box on top of the other and carried them back inside.
I made it halfway down the hall when I heard a voice call out from behind me.
“Excuse me?”
I turned. A guy around my age, dressed in fitted jeans, a pastel collared shirt, and a tailored sport jacket stood there, a smile on his handsome face. He clearly wasn’t from around here. He was citified.
I offered him a polite smile, hoping this wouldn’t take long. “The event doesn’t start for fifteen minutes,” I said. “But you’re welcome to wait in the lobby. Families are already gathering there.”
I knew every school-aged kid in my town (and most of their living and dead relatives). So this guy had to be here visiting for the event. I tried to place him with a grandparent in my head—Betty or Carl or Leo or …
“You’re not from around here,” he said, as if voicing my thoughts.
I shifted the boxes in my arms. They weren’t heavy but they were bulky. “What?”
“You’re not from Rockside,” he said.
“I am, actually. Born and raised.”
“Ah. There it is. I didn’t hear your Southern accent at first.”
I straightened with a bit of pride. I worked very hard on making my accent as minimal as possible so that when I went away to college I wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
The guy took several steps forward and pulled his hand out from behind his back to reveal he’d been holding a pink tulip. “Something beautiful for someone beautiful.”
My brows dipped down. Seriously? I wasn’t sure what to make of such a brazen romantic gesture. If that’s what he was going for. Was it?
I looked at the boxes in my arms, transferred them awkwardly to one hip, and reached out for the flower. With my hand halfway to its destination, I noticed a small green wire wrapped up the stem and supported the bulb.
I paused. “Where did you get that?”
The question seemed to surprise him, his smile faltered a bit, but he recovered with, “It doesn’t matter where it came from, only where it’s going.” He extended his arm farther.
I set the boxes down on the floor and took the flower to inspect it. Sure enough, the wire was wrapped exactly the way I’d done it on over a hundred tulips that very morning. Hours and hours of my life were spent with that wire, in fact.
“You took this from one of the vases in the cafeteria?” I asked, incredulous.
He nodded. “Yes, I rescued it from its tacky prison. It looks happier already.”
My mouth dropped open.
“No worries. There were hundreds of them. Nobody will be able to tell.”
“No worries?” I turned and marched back to the cafeteria.
“I sense I’ve offended you,” Mr. Obvious said, following me. Or Mr. Entitled? Maybe I’d go for a hyphenated last name since both applied.
I stood in the doorway and scanned the centerpieces.
“You’re telling me that you’re going to know which one of these flower arrangements I found this flower in,” he said.
“Found? Yes, I’m going to tell you exactly which flower arrangement you stole this flower from, considering I’ve spent the last eight hours putting them together.”
He coughed. “Oh. Did I say tacky? I meant … uh … festive.”
I rolled my eyes.
I saw him glance my way, as if sizing me up. I was wearing a silky green blouse with a floral knee-length skirt. My party attire. But even outside of work events, I liked fun colors and classic styles.
“These centerpieces aren’t your design anyway,” he pronounced, “so I don’t know why you’re upset.”
I scowled. “There is no way you could possibly know that.”
He shrugged like he disagreed, then said, “I still don’t think you’ll be able to tell which one I took it from.”
“I will.”
“Without counting the flowers?”
“You’re adding rules to this made-up game?”
“Yes!” he said proudly. “If you can’t tell which arrangement is missing a flower just by looking, then nobody else will be able to tell either and you must accept my gift.”
“Can something that was stolen really be called a gift?” I asked, and began weaving in and out of tables.
“Deal?”
Leo’s grandson sure was annoying. Maybe he was John’s grandson. John was known for being demanding. But I could’ve sworn I’d met all John’s grandkids at the town’s Fourth of July barbecue the previous year. “And if I win?” I asked.
One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “If you win, I owe you a dozen flowers that I must pay for.”
“A dozen flowers arranged by me.”
“Only if they don’t involve foil.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s called cellophane. And they won’t.”
“I sense this is going to be expensive.”
Based on his appearance, I was more than sure he could afford it. “I sense that you need to make restitution for dozens and dozens of past st
olen flowers.”
When he didn’t argue, I knew I’d guessed right. I wasn’t the first girl he’d tried to impress with a flower, acquired without any forethought. My eyes moved from studying him standing there in his arrogance to studying the flowers again. It didn’t take me long to see the lopsided arrangement. He’d taken the flower from the right side, throwing off the entire shape. I sighed, made my way over to the table, and tucked the tulip I was holding into its rightful place.
“Orange calla lilies are my favorite,” I said, walking back toward the hallway.
“Did you see me take it?” he asked as I passed him. “Is that how you knew?”
“No, I told you. I arranged all of these. It was obvious.”
“Well, I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. And seriously, don’t steal my flowers again.” I left him standing there in the cafeteria, staring after me.
In the hallway, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Micah: PSA, there’s an entitled guest roaming the halls. Engage at your own risk!
A train of wheelchairs rounded the corner and blocked my way for a moment as several nurses escorted their patients toward the lobby.
“Sophie,” Mr. Washington said as he was being wheeled by. His nurse, Kayla, stopped. “I think my wife once owned a skirt like that.”
“Is that a compliment or a statement, Mr. W?” I asked.
“Always a compliment, Miss Sophie. You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you know how to tie a bow tie?” He held up the bright red material.
“I do.”
“Could you help out an old man with arthritis?”
“Of course.” I stepped forward and draped the tie around his collar.
“My nurse doesn’t know how to tie this,” he said, as if everyone in the world should have this skill.
“Guilty,” Kayla agreed. “How do you know, Sophie? This town doesn’t really have any black-tie affairs.”
“I watched some YouTube videos when I was like ten and practiced on one of my dolls,” I said, looping the tie. “My mom wasn’t exactly thrilled with my new skill because I’d cut up one of my skirts to make the bow tie.”
“That’s funny. I forgot you were into fashion,” Kayla said. “You want to go to design school or something, right?”
