Page 35
Chapter 12
Harper Brooks has been staring at the same shade of black for nearly twenty minutes when the phone starts vibrating on the table. It’s not that she can’t tell the difference between the two proofs in front of her. The problem is that she’s been reviewing corrections, captions, color profiles, and last-minute adjustments since first thing this morning, and she no longer knows how to interpret the information before her.
Victoria has been out for over an hour in a meeting with Eleanor, the sales department, and two heads of the European edition.
The phone vibrates again, and when she looks at the screen, she sighs deeply and runs her hand over her neck. “Mom.” For a split second, she considers letting it go to voicemail. But then she remembers that they weren’t able to talk last week, so she picks up.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Finally. I thought work had swallowed you whole. Again,” Nora’s voice rings out, energetic and direct.
Harper leans back in her chair, crosses her legs, and starts wiggling the foot she has propped up.
“You’re so dramatic,” Harper says with a smile, twirling a pencil between her fingers. “You sound like one of those clients who overreact when their wedding bouquet doesn’t arrive on time.”
“I raised a fashion editor in New York. I must have picked up a thing or two.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault, Mom.”
“Maybe just a little bit,” her mother jokes.
Harper smiles. Either way, Nora always manages to transport her back to Connecticut—to the little flower shop where she spent so many afternoons as a teenager doing homework amid buckets of hydrangeas, roses, and eucalyptus branches. Even now, miles away, she seems to catch the fresh, earthy scent that used to cling to her clothes every time she helped her mother cut stems.
“How’s the shop going?” Harper asks, relaxing her posture. “Has the wave of fall arrangements hit yet?”
Her mother bursts out laughing.
“Well, it’s full of people who’ve decided that falling in love in October requires pumpkin-colored flowers. And red ones. And some impossible combination that only exists in their heads. Horrible,” Nora snorts on the other end of the line. “I’m seriously thinking about closing up shop and doing something else that doesn’t involve explaining, for the umpteenth time, that peonies aren’t perennials.”
“You’d be terrible at it,” Harper teases, letting out a little giggle. “Flowers have always been your thing.”
“You’re right about that, too.”
Harper picks up one of the proofs and examines it while holding the phone between her shoulder and her ear.
“You should hire someone else. You and Jenna can’t handle everything on your own.”
“You always tell me the same thing, sweetheart.”
“And you always ignore my advice.”
For ten minutes, they talk about the flower shop, a neurotic bride who wants to decorate an entire wedding with out-of-season flowers, and the neighbor next door, who has once again left the recycling bags where they don’t belong.
“By the way, I’m glad everything went well in Los Angeles and that you have the dresses.”
Harper freezes. The pencil slips from her fingers and rolls across the table until it hits the keyboard. She plants both feet firmly on the floor and looks at her phone screen.
“And how do you know that? Who told you?”
Nora stays silent. It’s clear she’s put her foot in her mouth.
“Mom… answer me. How do you know we have the dresses? Because as far as I can remember, I haven’t told you yet.”
“She told me…” Nora says, and another silence falls. “Victoria told me. Among other things. Like she’s been doing every now and then for a while now.”
“Every now and then?” Harper repeats. “Are you telling me that my ex-wife has been calling my mom behind my back for years, and you haven’t dared to say anything to me?”
Harper runs her free hand through her hair, ruffling it in a frustrated gesture.
