Page 22 of Grim Tidings

She’s a bottom-feeder. The worst of the worst.

“You seemed interested yesterday,” Frank chirps from his table full of flowers. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you were looking at her.”

I drag my hand down my face. “Frank.”

“What?”

“Enough.”

“There’s plenty left to explore in this conversation. If you feel the need to assert your presence in my shop, tossing things around—”

“I gently placed the potting mix next to your bench.”

“—then you can listen to an old man talk.” He huffs and stretches his neck to the side. “Get me that bunch of peonies, would you?”

I snort. “Oh, now you want help.”

He doesn’t spare me so much as a glance. “Be gentle with them.

They’re delicate.”

I know they are. Frank has some sort of sentimental connection to the full, round blooms. The top three bins are almost always exclusively full of pink and white peonies. Heaps of them, and yet they never make it into any of his arrangements.

I gently grab the bin and pull it down, toting it over to the table.

“Easy now.” He hovers at my side as I set the flowers down. “Put them so they— Perfect. Thank you.”

I brush my hands against my jeans. “No problem.” I watch the way he takes them out, one by one, laying them gently across his workspace. He was tossing the lavender around a few minutes ago, but with the peonies, he’s specific. Careful.

“You like peonies, Frank?”

His hands fumble one of the blooms, a lone white petal drifting to the worktop. He stares at it, then picks it up, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.

“My wife did.”

Three words said in a whisper, but they crack through the room like lightning. I watch his face, the faint tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders curve inward. Frank has never so much as mentioned his wife, and the information sends my curiosity blazing.

I wait for him to say more, but he stays quiet, still staring at that single petal.

“What was she like?” I hedge, my voice light. I don’t want to spook him.

He inhales a deep, bracing breath, then lets it out again, just as slow.

“She was beautiful,” he whispers after a long pause. “In every way a person can be.”

I hesitate. “What was her—”

Frank shakes himself free from his study of the flower. “That’s enough for now,” he gently admonishes. He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s a warning there. “That’s enough,” he repeats.

I brace both hands against his worktable. “I’m sorry, Frank.”

He reaches for some lavender and tucks it around a cluster of peonies. His fingers work quickly—efficiently—muscle memory as the colors start to twine together.

“For prying?” he asks, one eyebrow arching up.

“No.” My empathy is a gift, but sometimes I feel the weight of it like a curse; his hurts feel like my own. “That’s not what I’m sorry for.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, his voice a rough scratch. “I’m sorry, too.”