Page 22 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

"No?"

"He was . . . good with Marigold."

"My cat?"

I nod.

"She didn't hiss."

Clover gasps dramatically.

"Well."

"Exactly."

"That's practically supernatural."

We both bite into what claims to be an apple pastry before simultaneously making identical faces.

"This tastes . . ." Clover begins.

". . . like stale cinnamon and regret."

She points at me.

"Exactly."

We laugh until tears gather in our eyes.

When the laughter finally fades, Clover studies me over the edge of her coffee.

"So . . ."

I already know that tone.

"What?"

"What are you doing tonight?"

I don't answer, not because I have plans, but because Grim said he'd return the vase, and I haven't quite decided how I feel about that.

It's a vase.

People return vases every day.

Normal women do not spend the better part of an afternoon wondering whether a man will keep his word about borrowed glassware.

Unfortunately, I appear to have misplaced "normal" somewhere around yesterday's funeral.

By three, the rain starts again, as though the sky can't quite commit to a proper storm. Traffic on Main Street dwindles to almost nothing, leaving the town wrapped in that sleepy gray hush that only arrives on rainy afternoons. Lamplight glows behind windows hours before sunset, the grocery store parking lot sits mostly empty, and wisps of fog curl through the vacant lots where wild apple trees are still trying to remember what it feels like to be useful.

I'm adjusting the Grandparents' Day display—muted bluebells, creamy stock, and the earliest chrysanthemums—when the bell above the door rings.

I know it's him before I look up.

The door is still swinging shut behind him, yet he remains just inside the entrance as though uncertain whether he belongs in a flower shop during daylight.

Today he's traded the raincoat for a simple black shirt beneath his coat, dark trousers, and shoes so impeccably polished I'm half tempted to check whether they're still under warranty. He cradles the vase carefully in both hands. It's spotless now, save for a single white petal clinging stubbornly to the inside of the glass.