Chapter 1: Hidden Heir: Chapter 1

“No, you listen to me. I don’t care if you have to get into your own car and deliver it yourself. I have been waiting for that compost delivery for three weeks now, and you’ve been giving me the runaround. Enough is enough!”

I’m not usually one to lose my temper. Most would say I’m too mild-mannered for my own good. The floral business isn’t an industry typically known for its aggressive employees. However, today, my patience is being tested and I’m at the end of my rope.

“Do you even understand what I do here? I sell flowers. Flowers come from plants and you know what plants need to stay alive and healthy? Compost! I’m not purchasing eight bags as a hobby.” Before me are several gorgeous plants that are slowly starting to wilt from their desperate desire to be repotted into bigger, safer pots.

Something I can’t do because my compost supplier lost my delivery order.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” the squeaky voice says through the phone. “But there’s really nothing I can do.” The person can’t be much older than eighteen. If I were in a better mood, I’d feel bad for them taking the brunt of my irritation.

I’ll deal with the guilt later.

“There must be something! I’ve sent proof of purchase, I even sent proof of the payment being taken out of my account. I need that compost immediately. Surely you have some sort of expedited shipping.”

“On compost?” The tone of their voice suggests I just mentioned the most ludicrous idea in floral history.

My irritation peaks and I grip my phone so hard that it leaves an indentation in my palm. “You know what? Forget it. Process my refund and don’t contact me again.”

Ending the call abruptly gives me a momentary pulse of release. Closing my eyes, I force myself to breathe deeply, focusing on the rich mixture of nature, the floral and musty scents that make up the relaxing atmosphere of my flower shop. When I open my eyes, I’m once again faced with the dull petals and sad stalks of my needy flowers.

I pride myself on advertising that all flowers are homegrown and raised right here in the store, guaranteeing the freshest blossoms for every occasion. Between that and my knack for posting funny videos on my Instagram, my humble shop, Hive Blossoms, catapulted to being at the top of search results on Instagram for a full month. It was a dream come true, given how much I’ve been struggling to make ends meet. Three months of my business in the red is more than enough reason for me to get snippy with my compost supplier.

It’s the foundation of my business. Literally.

Brushing my fingertips over some wilting purple petals, my thoughts race as to where I can get some emergency soil. I’ve cleared out the local hardware shop and the convenience store. I’m going to have to go further afield.

Shutting up shop at one in the afternoon isn’t ideal, but as I flip the sign to ‘Back in ten’ and lock the door, I tell myself it’s a painful necessity. I won’t have a shop if I don’t get my flower situation sorted.

It’s a short drive to the hardware store, but unfortunately, they haven’t restocked from the last time I bought all of their soil. Same for the convenience store, so I’m forced to drive farther away, trusting my GPS to bring me some brown, earthen goodness.

Each minute I’m in my car and away from the store is a minute I’m losing out on a potential client. I need clients like my flowers need compost. Every single cent keeps me afloat, and that’s the only way to stop the big scary, final warning letters coming from my bank.

I’ve been working nonstop for nearly three years, trying to balance my shop, my online presence, rude, but well-paying clients, my asshole brother, and raising my daughter better than my parents raised me. There’s barely time left for me to breathe. Not even these long drives to a small store in some forgotten corner of the city are spaces for me to relax.

I never stop.

But it will be worth it once the income becomes consistent and I can make sure my daughter, Tiffany, grows up without having to worry about when the next meal will hit the table.

Not like I did.

The small store I’m guided to thankfully had a few bags of compost that I buy up immediately. After loading them into my car, I check my phone. I’ll have just enough time to get these back to my store before I have to collect my daughter from her nanny. Hiring a nanny for Tiff is the only extravagant expense that I risk, but it’s worth it to ensure my daughter has the same, secure person watching her every day.

The nanny was a tender point of argument between my brother and me. He was certain the money could be spent on something much more useful, but he and I greatly differ on what counts as useful.

If he can’t smoke it, inject it, or dissolve it, it’s useless.

Hannah’s been a lifesaver, though. Not only does Tiff adore her, but she’s become like extended family, and even shared Thanksgiving with us last year.

As I’m driving, a call comes through my work number, and I answer it quickly, forcing a smile to ensure I sound more happy than stressed.

“Hi! This is Hive Blossoms, Brooke speaking. How can I help you?”

“Hi Brooke!” says a female voice. “It’s Amy!”

“Amy?” My heart skips a beat as I search through my compost and flower-filled mind for who Amy is.

“Amy Henry? We spoke last week about my wedding? From Instagram?”

“Oh, Amy!”

I roll my eyes at myself and grip the steering wheel harder. How could I forget about her? She sent me a wonderful message on Instagram last week gushing about my flower displays and begging me to cover her wedding. I could not refuse—the amount of money she was offering due to such short notice made my heart skip a beat.

“Yes, of course! How can I help you, is everything alright?”

“Everything is perfect, but I’m afraid I have another change,” Amy says, the tone of her voice telling me that bad news is coming. “I’ve changed the color scheme again.”

Three times she’s changed the color scheme, and three times I’ve had to come up with new displays to wow her with. Each time she picks one, I start on the flowers, and then she emails with a new proposal. My thoughts drift to the most recent choice, orange and cream, and the peach spray roses I was pairing with cream gerpoms. They’re sitting in the back of my store ready for clipping.

Or at least, they were.

“That’s no problem at all!” I say, forcing a smile. “Every bride wants their big day to be perfect.”

“Exactly!” Amy chuckles. “I knew you’d understand. Anyway, I wanted to call you this time instead of emailing because this is the final change.”

“Are you sure?” I ask sweetly, hoping to avoid having to rework an entire display in two days.

“Yes, I promise. I have found the most stunning pearl dress with gorgeous caramel and gold studs, and gold threading. It’s to die for, oh my god. So I want a white and gold wedding, with maybe some browns thrown in. You know, real autumnal vibes. Can you help me with that?”

Autumnal vibes in the Spring are definitely a choice, but it’s good money, and I can’t afford to say no. “Don’t you worry, I’ve got you. If you could send me a picture of the dress so I can get an idea of the tone, that would be amazingly helpful.”

“Yay!” Amy squeals. “I’ve sent a bunch of pictures to your email. You’ll just die when you see it. I gotta go, but I look forward to seeing what you come up with!” She hangs up before I can reply, and silence falls in my car.

I could switch to toffee roses, but I have none in stock, which means I’ll have to buy them from elsewhere if Amy wants them. I do have some Angel Amber Kiss Pansies and depending on how deep the gold is on her dress, those could be perfect. The need for a new display consumes my thoughts for the rest of the drive, and by the time I park behind my store, I’m running late to pick up Tiffany.

I was supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago, and while her nanny is very understanding about my hectic schedule, me running late means more money for her. I haul one bag of compost over my shoulder and hurry inside my shop, dumping it down behind the counter then hurrying back out to collect the other one.

Once both are inside, I throw one back over my shoulder with a grunt and carry it through to the greenhouse. My ankle catches on the sharp, protruding corner of a cardboard box.

“Fuck!” Pain shoots through my ankle as I stumble, overbalance, and fall forward, the bag of compost becoming the only thing stopping me from smashing my face into the stone floor. “Motherfucking—.” I slam my hands down as I push myself up and glare over at the offending box.

Of course it belongs to my brother. After being kicked out of his apartment a few months ago, he dumped all of his stuff here because it was cheaper than renting a storage unit. There’s very little love loss between my brother and me, but he’s the only family I have, so I put up with him because that’s what you’re supposed to do with family. Although the thought of killing him becomes a very pleasant one as I kneel on the floor with my palms smarting and my ankle throbbing.

“Asshole,” I mutter, slowly clambering to my feet. Luckily, the compost didn’t burst. I place the bag in the usual corner, the second one joining it. The next twenty minutes are spent hobbling around the greenhouse taking as many pictures of brown, gold, and cream flowers as I can, then sending them to Amy for her to choose. By the time I get on the road to collect my daughter, my heart is pounding.

As a child, my parents were absent a lot of the time, and when they were around, it was never for anything resembling parenting. When I found out I was pregnant with Tiffany, it was a shock, but I swore I’d be a better parent than what I had. She’s only three years old and likely won’t remember a random Thursday when I was an hour late to collect her. But I will.

I don’t want to be my mother. I want to be better.

I’m breathless by the time I reach Hannah’s home. She opens the door within three knocks and smiles warmly at me.

“Brooke! Oh god, are you okay?” Hannah runs a worried eye over me. “You don’t look so good.”

“Terribly busy day,” I explain with a laugh, waving off her concern the best I can. “I am so very sorry that I’m late.”

“You’re fine,” Hannah chuckles. “Come in, Tiffany was just telling me all about an argument she had with a penguin.”

“A penguin?” I follow Hannah inside. “What do you mean?”

“I think it was her dream from naptime earlier but she’s convinced it was real.”

As soon as I step into the playroom, my daughter surges up from her playmat and sprints toward me with her arms outstretched. Her dark curls fly out behind her with one ribbon fluttering loosely, and her green eyes are as wide as saucers. She leaps into my arms, and the moment I breathe in her comforting scent, my stress melts away.

Yes, I was late. But I’m here now and that’s all that matters. With Tiffany in my arms, I pay Hannah for her time plus the extra and thank her profusely for being so understanding. Thankfully, Tiffany doesn’t fight me about the car seat; I don’t have the energy.

“So Tiff,” I say as I start the drive home. “Hannah told me you had a disagreement with a penguin today.”

“Yes!” Tiff claps her hands together. “It was being so rude over cake time and I said, I said, you can’t be loud because cake time is quiet time and the penguins just wouldn’t stop being loud! So I tried to find ‘annah and tell her, but she was hiding, and the penguin was being naughty so I tried to make it hush like this⁠—”

I glance in the rearview mirror to see her place her hand over her mouth.

“—and it bit me!”

“Oh no!” I say sadly. “You got a booboo?”

“Yes, a booboo but then when I found ‘annah… look!” She thrusts her hand toward me. “No more booboo!”

“Oh no!” I gasp, barely able to hide my smile. “What happened to your booboo?”

“I dunno!” Tiff says. “I think the penguin was magic but I told ‘annah if I see him again, I’ll tell her.”

“That’s a very good idea,” I smile widely. It definitely sounds like a dream mingled with reality, but Tiff speaks so seriously that it’s impossible not to be amused. “Did you have fun with Hannah though? Despite the penguin?”

“Yes!” Tiff declares loudly. “We drew pictures and we colored and we made pasta out of playdough. But Mommy you can’t eat it because it doesn’t taste good.”

“How do you know it doesn’t taste good?”

“Someone else ate it. Not me, though.” Tiff sighs dramatically, and the way she gazes out of the window reminds me of someone recalling something truly terrible. I suspect she was the one who ate the play dough.

“Okay, I won’t eat any of the pasta,” I assure her. “I’m glad you had a good day. What do you say we order a pizza and then watch a movie before bed?”

“Yay!” Tiff kicks her legs and claps. “Can we watch The Little Mermaid?”

We’ve watched that movie fifty times. What’s one more? “Sure. Maybe we’ll see something different this time.”

“Mmm-hmm!” Tiff begins humming along to some of the music from the movie. I split my focus between listening to her and driving. By the time we reach my apartment, the sun has disappeared below the skyline, and the lingering winter cold, not quite thawed by the presence of spring, sends chills through me as I unload Tiff from the car.

She yawns widely in my arms and I can feel it in my soul. Despite the exhaustion, I keep a smile on my face while balancing her on my hip. “Do you know what kind of pizza you want?” I ask as we step inside. Kicking the door closed, I toss my keys onto the entryway table and head for the living room.

“Cheese!” Tiff declares loudly. “Lots and lots of cheese!”

“Cheese it is, I just need to⁠—!”

Upon entering the room I’m shocked by what I see, and my heart drops into the pit of my stomach. Instinct has me drawing Tiff tight against me, immediately shoving her face into my neck.

“Ant?” I gasp.

My older brother is slouched over on the couch, dead to the world. There’s a heap of vomit just beneath his face, a tell-tale needle dangling from his arm.