I work at The Bloom Room every weekday from eight to four.
It’s not glamorous.
It doesn’t pay much.
But it’s steady, and Mrs.
Patterson is the closest thing to family I’ve ever had.
Mrs.
Patterson is seventy-three years old, with silver hair, kind eyes, and a wisdom that comes from a lifetime of living.
She never married.
Never had children.
But she’s mothered half of Willow Creek, including me.
She’s the one who took me in when I showed up on her doorstep three years ago, pregnant, broke, and terrified.
She’s the one who gave me a job, a place to stay, and the courage to keep going.
She’s the one who held my hand when I gave birth to Sophie, who taught me how to change diapers, how to soothe a crying baby, how to be a mother.
She’s the one who told me, “You’re stronger than you think, Lily Anderson.
And you deserve more than you believe.”
I’m arranging roses when she comes up behind me, her hand warm on my shoulder.
“You’re distracted today.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
I sigh.
“It’s just…
Sophie asked about her father today.”
Mrs.
Patterson is quiet for a moment.
Then she says, “It was bound to happen eventually.”
“I know.
I just…
I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her he’s far away.
I told her he doesn’t know about her.”
Mrs.
Patterson nods slowly.
“And what are you going to tell her when she asks again?”
“I don’t know.”
She pats my shoulder.
“You can’t keep running from your past, sweetheart.
It always catches up.
The only question is: are you ready to face it?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
That afternoon, a customer walks in an elegant woman with silver-streaked hair and a designer purse.
She’s wearing a black dress and pearls, and she looks familiar somehow.
“Welcome to The Bloom Room,” I say, forcing a smile.
“How can I help you?”
The woman studies me for a moment.
Then she says, “I’ll take a bouquet of white roses.”
“Of course.” I move to the cooler and pull out the roses.
“Would you like a card with that?”
“No, thank you.”
I wrap the flowers and hand them to her.
She pays, and then she pauses at the door.
“You look familiar,” she says.
“Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so.”
She smiles, a strange, knowing smile and leaves.
But something about her stays with me.
Something about the way she looked at me, like she knew me.
I don’t realize until she’s gone that she was Eleanor Vance, the Alberts’ closest family friend.
That night, I dream of Alexander again.
And when I wake up, I realize the past isn’t chasing me anymore.
It’s caught me.