Page 16 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“Bo built this house and surprised me with this space—designed it all on his own so I’d have somewhere to work with lots of light.” She studies me as I look around.

“He’s talented,” I say flatly.

“You don’t like him,” she replies without heat.

“Something like that.”

She gives a small laugh. “His dad, my son, died in a car crash when Bo was six. His mom, too young and free to be a mother alone, left him on my doorstep. It’s been us ever since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I let my fingers gently trace circles on the metal top of the potter’s wheel.

She sighs. “Well, you know as well as we do about tragedy and how we manage after. Nobody knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

Her severefuckmakes me pause.

She laughs.

“Do you have a better way of saying it?” Her beaded earrings swing as she moves, and despite the sadness of what she’s just told me, she smiles.

Then we’re quiet as we stand in the middle of her studio sunroom and it’s as if silence is an important part of our conversation. Like when I’m with Huck, we talk even when we don’t.

“I met Bo before yesterday. I didn’t know he was married.” The confession tumbles out of my mouth, clunky and awkward. “Why did you tell me?”

“I’m not blind,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “I know my grandson is handsome, I just don’t know if his good looks are enough to make a woman go mute on my front porch.” She drops her chin until she’s looking at me from the top of her eyes.

I busy myself by studying a canister of glaze.

“I told you because I wanted to see how you’d react.” My eyes widen and meet hers. I don’t need to know her long to not be the least bit surprised at the slight smirk on her lips. If she wasn’t seventy-nine and a client, I might consider her a complete bitch. Might even say it. She stares at me, smug, like she knows what I’m thinking before she continues. “Either way, yes, he’s married. Mandy. She’s a lot like his mother was…” Her voice trails off, as if there’s more to the story. When she doesn’t go on, I don’t press her. Regardless of how many unanswered questions I have, it just doesn’t matter.

I am the same age as my mother was when she died and her mother before—my fate is sealed. Men, married or otherwise, have no place in my life.

I decided long ago I would never get married, never have kids, but now that I’m racing a clock, any sort of relationship, no matter how casual, is just as cruel for everyone involved.

I clear my throat, put the glaze back on the shelf, and look at her. “So what should we do today? We didn’t get very far on that yesterday.”

Her smile deepens the soft lines on her face as she stiffly wiggles her fingers and her blue eyes twinkle. “You have two good hands, Birdie,” she starts. “Today I’m going to teach you to use them.”

Five

There’s still clay undermy fingernails when I drive up my dad’s driveway with George Strait whining excitedly from the passenger seat. He knows a steak bone is in his near future the minute he sees the familiar face and overzealous wave with a glove-covered hand.

I barely have my door open when the dog bounces over my lap, sprints across the yard, and pounces on my dad with an obnoxious bark.

When I’m out of the van, walking across the yard, it’s the familiar scene of home: the house I grew up in, the shop I did homework in, the man who helped me do it all.

“Hey, Little Bird,” he says as I lean into his hug, inhaling his token scent of sawdust and soap. When I pull away, the smell of smoke from the preheating charcoal grill on the porch fills the air.

“Hi, Dad.”

He squeezes my shoulder when I look at him with a smile. At sixty-three, my dad’s a handsome man. Distinguished. A full head of hair in various shades of grey. Soft-spoken and laidback with a welcoming sort of presence. I remember as a kid most of my friends worried about the way their parents would react when they got in trouble, but I could never relate. My dad always just handled things in stride, his voice never elevating, even when he was furious.

“Come see what I’m working on,” he says, holding open his shop door for me, easy smile on his face.

My eyes immediately go to the familiar Little Bird Furniture sign that hangs on the wall. What started as a hobby when I was a kid morphed into a full-time profession after my mom died. Now, Greg Hawkins’s tables are some of the most sought after in the southeast.

In the middle of his worktable lays a large, asymmetrical cross-section slab of wood. The edges are rough with pieces of bark clinging to it, but the rings are clear and the coloring a deep shade of brown. There are holes and indentions along the surface, making it almost look like a huge puzzle piece made of wood. Then I notice cracks—big ones. The slab is broken.

My eyebrows lift. “A busted cookie slab, Dad? I’ve seen you make something more impressive than this,” I tease.

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