Page 118 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Do you need water? Are you having a vineyard episode?”

Helena snorts.

I set the crate exactly where Daisy told me to set it, not near the east window, because Eleanor mentioned temperature once and Daisy gave me a look that suggested this family has fought about sun exposure since the invention of glass.

“You told her no funeral flowers,” I say. “Reasonable.”

“See?” Daisy tells Helena. “Even my boyfriend understands wedding etiquette.”

Boyfriend.

Fake or not, the word hits different here.

In Boston, it was a contract written in ink and bad judgment. Here, on Thorn property, with her mother ten yards away and half the town waiting to report back by dinner, it feels like a match struck too close to dry wood.

Helena looks from Daisy to me, then back at the flowers. “I’ll remove one dahlia.”

“Three,” Daisy counters.

“One.”

“Two, and you get to keep the dramatic eucalyptus.”

Helena narrows her eyes. “You drive a hard bargain for a woman with brought-a-Wolfcraft-home-before-nine-in-the-morning energy.”

Daisy smiles. “It’s called range.”

“It’s called caffeine dependency.”

“Also range.”

Helena considers the bouquet. “Fine. I’ll remove two dahlias. But if Carla says the arrangement lacks emotional consequence, I’m blaming you.”

“Carla does not need emotional consequence in her bouquet,” Daisy says. “She already has a groom.”

Helena’s mouth twitches.

Mine does too.

Daisy catches it and points at both of us. “No. Absolutely not. Nobody is bonding over floral vengeance before breakfast.”

Helena removes two dahlias with the reluctant dignity of a woman surrendering weapons at customs.

“Happy?” she asks.

Daisy studies the bouquet. “Happier.”

“That’s not the same.”

“No, but it’s what I’m emotionally capable of today.”

Helena sighs.

Daisy nods as if she has just negotiated international peace with a woman holding floral snips.

Then she spots Lorna, one of the seasonal employees, struggling with a stack of menu cards, and she’s gone.

Not walking.