Page 75 of The Home Grown
She tilts her head towards me, leaving her eyes locked on the flowers right up until the last second. She stares at me. Blinks several times, then draws my attention to a small white envelope peeking out of the foliage.
“They—they’re for you,” she says, her voice frail.
“For me?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting upwards.
“For Ellie?” my client says, clasping her hands together. “Oh, how wonderful.”
Kathryn plucks the card from a small wire card holder.
I see it. My name, written in curly letters on the front of the envelope.
Kathryn is itching to peel back the flap; there’s a hungry look in her eyes. I stride forward and whip it from her fingers, faster than either of us was expecting.
“Who are they from?” she says. “Who sent them?”
But I’m edging away, trying to come up with an excuse to open the gift card in private because I have an idea I know exactly who these are from.
Kathryn sticks to my side and I know I’m out of luck. I’m going to have to open it right here. Right now.
I brace myself. Peeling back the flap of the envelope and tugging the card upwards. Waiting for Kathryn to say something.
Ellie,
I suck, and I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me. If I’ve not ruined things entirely, I’d love to start over and take you out for dinner.
M x
There’s no doubt in my mind who these are from and my heart flutters involuntarily as I fight back a smile.
I stare at the card, and Kathryn doesn’t hesitate. She pulls it from my hand and moves it closer to her face.
“Mark? Mark is apologising after all this time? Honestly. You should be grateful he didn’t text you when he said he would. The guy is an idiot.”
I pluck the card from her and slip it back into the envelope, thankful for the conclusion Kathryn arrived at.
I never did hear from Mark, nor have I thought about him since the stuff with Mike reared its head. But here I am, grateful that ‘M’ can stand for both Mike and Mark, and relieved I won’t have to explain the drama between me and Mike to Kathryn.
Not yet, anyway.
“I need to get on,” I say, stuffing the card into a pocket on my stylist belt. The tips of my fingers lingering on the paper for a second before I pull my hand away.
“You’re actually going to accept his apology?” she says.
“I’m with a client, Kathryn,” I whisper under my breath.
“Well, you can’t leavethosethere,” she says bitterly.
Funny, because I’m convinced they’d be in prime place if they wereherflowers.
I march over to the counter and lift the bouquet, getting a delicious waft of sweetness as I carry them over to the windowsill and set them down, allowing myself the smallest of giddy grins as I do.
“There. Out of the way,” I say sharply, resetting my expression before I face my sister.
“Well, tell him it’s not professional to send things like that to your place of work,” she says indignantly.
But I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Mike. And a smile pulls at my lips.
But then I remember his desperation. The bridal set … are these flowers his attempt to worm his way in and convince me to agree to his ridiculous scheme?
