Her family was all together, and no one was fighting.
Was Angela dreaming?
“Cool, Mom, look at that!” Zach ran toward the restored stone-and-wood huts of the Chinese miners’ settlement on the edge of historic Arrowtown, a village located about an hour from Wanaka.
Lilly followed hot on his heels. “Wait for me!”
“You guys, watch where you’re going.” Though they’d come first thing in the morning, a large crowd of tourists already joined them in their quest for history. Angela sped up her pace, leaving Sherry and Kylee to meander the dirt path. Finally, she caught up to the younger kids where they circled a tiny hut established during the 1860s Otago Gold Rush.
Not far behind them bubbled Bush Creek, a tributary off the Arrow River. As with every part of this beautiful country she’d seen in the week and a half since they’d arrived, swaying trees surrounded the settlement—everything from willow to poplar and hawthorn. The sun sparkled bright, not a cloud in the sky. It was supposed to reach seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit, making it a perfect day for running, but Angela had bailed on Eva at the last minute this morning. Her excuse had been preparing for the field trip, but to tell the truth, lactic acid stiffened her legs thanks to the way she’d started pushing herself this last week.
While waiting for Kylee and Sherry to catch up, Angela studied the pamphlet she’d received from the visitor center in the main part of Arrowtown. “According to this, migrants from China constructed the huts and stores with a variety of materials, including mud brick, corrugated iron, mortared stone, canvas, and wood.”
“Sweet.” Zach examined the hut in front of them from all angles. “How many people lived in them?”
As Sherry and Kylee joined them, Angela thumbed through the pamphlet again. “Looks like anywhere from two to six per house. And it was probably only men who lived here, since they were mining for gold and working their claims, though approximately seventy percent of them were married.”
Kylee’s eyes scanned her own pamphlet. “Sad.”
Huh. Angela had expected complete boredom on Kylee’s part, and yet, ever since her walk with Eva into town earlier this week, she’d been almost pleasant. Angela would have to ask Eva her secret.
“Why didn’t they live with their wives?” Lilly’s rumpled nose accentuated a spray of freckles across the arch. She fiddled with the wedding ring on her grandma’s right hand.
Sherry squatted down to Lilly’s level. “They probably had to work and send money home to their families. It would have been hard and very expensive to move everyone here.”
“Yeah, it says here that China was having a difficult time, so they came here to try to get wealthy.” Kylee lowered the pamphlet, frowning.
What was her daughter thinking? If only Angela could see into her brain. But asking might disrupt the tender bridge being built between them.
Zach darted inside one of the huts, then emerged. “No way would I want to live in one of those. I’d have taken my chances in China, thanks.”
How wonderful to see her children exploring and learning again. She’d missed homeschooling more than she’d ever allowed herself to admit. “Bud, if you were responsible for a family, you would do whatever it took to protect them.”
It took a moment for the words she’d spoken to leave her mouth and find their way into her heart. A sudden pang crushed her chest, and she blinked to keep a flash of hotness behind her eyes.
Because Wes . . . he hadn’t. He’d . . .
Angela breathed in sharply, then exhaled. No. She wouldn’t revisit that thought, because she’d already determined to move on, to make this trip about being a family again. And she couldn’t do that if she was always thinking bad things about her husband—things that made her want to curse his name. Things that would hurt her children.
Thankfully, no one seemed to notice her reaction. They toured the rest of the buildings, including the store of a respected community leader, and ate a picnic lunch near the creek. The kids begged for some ice cream, so they walked back into the adorable town and strolled down Buckingham Street, where they passed several small heritage buildings and miners’ cottages, as well as classy galleries, shops, cafés, restaurants, and a delicious-smelling fudge shop—all framed along the main tree-lined avenue.
The children ran ahead and hopped into a line forming outside a walk-up window. When they were next in line, Sherry took the younger kids to save seats at a table that had just become free several feet away.
A boy who looked about seventeen or eighteen worked the counter, and his eyes immediately flew to Kylee. “Hi.” He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “How ya going?”
“Uh, hi.” Kylee bit her bottom lip, and her cheeks reddened.
Uh-oh. Angela stepped forward. “Can we get five one-scoop cups of your hokeypokey ice cream, please?” The words came out sharper than she’d intended.
Next to her, Kylee tensed.
“Yeah, no worries.” The kid started scooping the vanilla ice cream with bits of honeycomb in it. “I’ve not seen you before. Are you just visiting?” He directed the question at Kylee.
“We are.” Her daughter fiddled with her hair. “For four months, though.”
More than friendly interest lit in the boy’s eyes. “Where are you from?”
Hurry it up, bucko—and stop looking at my daughter like that. That’s what Angela wanted to say, but she held her tongue.
“New York.” Kylee traced a K on the wooden counter. “You?”
He laughed. “Up north originally, but here now.”
“Cool. We’re staying in Wanaka.”
Angela cleared her throat. This random boy did not need to know anything else about her fifteen-year-old daughter. She snatched the three already scooped cups of ice cream and pushed them toward Kylee. “Hon, can you please take these to the table?”
If glares could flatten, Angela would be a pancake, but her daughter did as she asked.
Angela paid for the ice cream and thanked the boy, who kept making eyes at Kylee until they left. Her daughter was quiet the rest of the way back to the house, and Angela couldn’t help but wonder if the tiny bridge of trust between them had crumbled at her feet.
* * *
Why was it so difficult to go in? It was only a shop, after all.
Eva stood outside Joanne’s Flowers for ten minutes at least. It was nearly dinnertime and she needed to get back soon. The entire walk into town she’d tried to talk herself out of coming, but the flowers inside had issued a siren call—and she was helpless to ignore it.
Blowing out a breath, Eva finally made her way into the shop. Despite there being less than two weeks until Christmas, the place was empty of customers.
Eva took in details she’d missed on her first visit to the boutique with Kylee. Wooden crates of varying sizes displayed an assortment of blooms, each housed in a glass vase. A vintage serving cart exhibited clay pots in earthy tones and charming polka-dotted jars perfect for growing windowsill herbs. From the ceiling hung antique pendant lights that resembled delicate vines ending with a glass shade in the shape of a flower. Floral supplies overflowed shelves and bookcases that lined the tan brick walls.
And the blooms themselves . . . they almost seemed to be waving at her, welcoming her home.
“Hullo,” a voice called from the back of the shop. “Be right there.”
“Take your time.” Eva wandered the rows of flowers, running the tips of her fingers across petals of every shape, size, and color.
She closed her eyes, imagining how it had felt to weave together an arrangement from scratch. Each type of bloom added its own unique something to a bouquet. Just being among them brought back the rush, the satisfaction Eva had felt in making something beautiful for a bride’s big day.
A clatter of heels sounded on the terrazzo, and Joanne appeared. “How can I—” As the older woman’s eyes alighted on Eva, her lips curved. “I was hoping you’d come back.”
“Nice to see you again.”
“Did your mother-in-law enjoy the bouquet last week?”
“She did, thank you.”
Joanne came closer, considering her. “What can I do for you today?”
Eva turned her eye to the flowers, drinking in the beauty, holding back tears. “Um . . . I just . . .”
As if sensing she needed time, Joanne walked to the front door, flipped the sign to Closed, snagged a basket, and returned to Eva.
“I didn’t realize you were closing. I can go.”
Waving her words away, Joanne nudged the basket into Eva’s hands. “Would you like to help me select the best blooms for an order I just received? I need roses, pohutukawa, hydrangeas, and freesias. Red ones, of course. Christmas and all that.”
“Oh. Sure.” Eva grasped the handle of the wire basket. “Wait, which one is the poo-hoo-too . . .”
“Pohutukawa. That one.” Joanne indicated a grouping of bright red blooms whose hundreds of slender petals protruded from the flower head, giving the appearance of prickly fuzz. “Part of the myrtle family. The pohutukawa is considered New Zealand’s Christmas tree. You should see one covered with these, all in full bloom. Absolutely marvelous.”
“I can imagine.” Eva perused the options and selected a few of the strongest flowers. Why this woman was trusting her to do this, who could say? But handling the blossoms felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“So, what brings you to our fair island for four months?”
Talking about Brent while handling flowers . . . that also felt natural and right. “I’m part of a team running the ultra-marathon here in March.” She launched into an explanation of the purpose behind their trip.
Joanne worked alongside her in quiet, listening. Then she placed a hand on Eva’s back. “That is quite the tale. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Such a simple thing for someone to say. Yet so often, when people learned of Eva’s tragedy, they said nothing. Or worse, platitudes rolled off their tongue. Offering condolences without trying to make it better . . . that was the right way to comfort people who were grieving.
And often those who knew what to say had experienced grief themselves.
“I really appreciate you saying that.” Eva plucked a final pohutukawa bloom from the bucket in front of her, lifting it to her nose. Hmm. No real scent. “What about you? You don’t sound like you’re native to New Zealand.”
“No, I’m from a tiny town on the Cornish coast of England called Port Willis. But I’ve been in Wanaka nearly twenty years now.”
“What led you to move all the way here?”
Indicating that Eva should follow, Joanne headed to the back of the store. “My first husband, Ian, and I divorced. I have two boys, and the divorce occurred when Neil, my youngest, was two.” They slipped through the doorway separating the main floor from the workroom. “The whole thing left me so devastated I moved us here, where we didn’t know a single soul.”
“Why here?”
Joanne set the flower basket on the top of a round worktable strewn with all kinds of Christmas baubles used to make arrangements more festive. “Would you believe I saw it featured in a magazine? I am not the type to make drastic moves, but I was quite desperate at the time to create a new life for myself and my boys.”
“That must have taken incredible bravery.”
“Or incredible idiocy.” The shop owner chuckled as she selected a flower box from a shelving unit on the wall. “I had no one to help me with the children while I opened my business. They spent every morning, afternoon, and evening here playing amongst the flowers. Until I met Graeme, that is.”
“Who’s Graeme?”
“My neighbor first. Now, my husband.”
“Ah.” Eva slid into a folding chair next to the worktable. “And how long did it take before he swept you off your feet?”
“Eighteen years.”
“Really?” Friends-to-lovers stories were some of her favorites, even though it hadn’t happened that way for her and Brent.
“Yes. We’ve been married for eight months.” Joanne pulled her phone from the pocket of her black slacks, clicked the screen a few times, and walked toward Eva, phone extended. On the screen was a fancied-up Joanne in a gorgeous wedding dress with full lace sleeves and a long train, a handsome groom beside her. His salt-and-pepper hair looked distinguished, as it always did on a man.
“You look beautiful.” The couple stared at each other, smiles stretching across their faces, wrinkles crinkling the corners of their eyes. “And so happy.”
Slipping the phone back into her pocket, Joanne snagged some silver ribbon from her decor stash. “We are happy.”
What a blessed woman to have such a second chance.
Joanne watched Eva for a few moments. “Excuse me.” With a quick turn, she was out of the room before Eva could acknowledge her words.
Eva placed her hand on the basket of flowers, feeling the ridges of the stems, the crisp coolness from the water that had bolstered their life over the last several days. And then a hidden thorn pricked her, and reality nudged her back as she stared at the spot on her thumb now beading with the tiniest drop of blood.
Hissing, she popped the tip of her finger in her mouth, and the contact burned.
Joanne flitted back just as quickly as she’d left, her fist clutching something small. “Here.” The kind brunette pressed a hard, cold object into Eva’s hand.
A key. “What’s this?”
“That opens the back door. You are welcome here anytime, my dear. Day or night.”
“But . . . you don’t even know me.”
“I know enough. We are kindred spirits, as they say.” Joanne cupped Eva’s cheek gently, as a mother or kind aunt might. “Whenever you need a break from life, from the sadness, from the memories, you may come here and enjoy the flowers—nature’s promise to you that life will one day bloom again.”