Page 8 of Spring Fling

I blinked, rearranging my features into a bright smile. “Absolutely! Any color preference?”

She paused, eyes flicking to the pale pink and soft yellow tulips on my table. “Maybe a mix of pink and yellow. Something cheerful for my kitchen.”

I nodded, selecting half a dozen stems from my stash. “You’ve chosen well; these are in prime condition. Should last a good week if you refresh the water daily.” As I wrapped them in crisp parchment, I summoned a friendly tone. “Visiting from out of town?”

“Just over the next county line,” she answered, rummaging in her purse for payment. “I never miss this festival. Always nice to see new designers. I hope you do well here.”

“That’s the plan,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice. Was I just being naive to think I could compete with a well-known designer like Ariana who already had an entire following? I handed the customer her bouquet, trying to tune out the negative voice in my head. The older woman thanked me and left, seemingly pleased with her purchase.

I exhaled, silently cursing how my attention had drifted. The memory of Ariana cuddled up to Hayden still clung to my mind like persistent pollen. He’s probably just a flirt. Ormaybe they really were dating? Then I recalled how passionately he’d once kissed me, how real it felt, and my chest tightened.Stop caring, Daisy. This is exactly what you promised yourself wouldn’t happen.My previous boyfriend had belittled my dream, and I broke free from that negativity. So why allow another man—even one I once shared an unforgettable night with—to rattle me?

I squared my shoulders, focusing on a sprawling arrangement of ranunculus and tulips that I planned to highlight for the day’s partial judging. The festival had daily mini-reviews leading up to the final best-in-bloom award. If I wanted to wow the roving panel, I needed everything perfect. Over the next half hour, I busied myself, tying ribbons, spritzing the leaves, ensuring each stem had fresh water. Although visitors paused to admire my creations, I kept my responses short. My mind churned, battling the lingering questions that remained.

As midday approached, I realized I hadn’t taken a proper break. My back ached from stooping and fussing, and my stomach rumbled in protest. With no immediate crowd at my booth, I decided to slip away for a quick snack or at least a moment’s respite. Surely the arrangement is secure, I reassured myself, carefully tucking my last spool of ribbon behind the display.

Clutching my purse, I told the neighboring vendor—a kind older florist named William—that I’d be back shortly. He gave me a nod of understanding, busy with his own customers. I headed toward the nearest refreshment stand, the crowd thickening around the central stage. A hush of relief eased the tension in my shoulders. Maybe stepping away would help me exhale the jealous swirl in my mind.

I sipped a lemonade I found at a stall, letting its tangy sweetness revive me. Briefly, I scanned the festival for any signof Ariana or Hayden, half-hoping not to spot them together. No immediate sign. Good. I took an extra minute to breathe in the festival’s lively ambiance—music from a small band playing folksy tunes, families with wide-eyed kids admiring bright geranium pots, couples strolling hand in hand. This is what I love about the Spring Market. Fresh starts, new seeds, blossoming possibilities.

After a few minutes, I decided to head back. The show was due for a wave of midday visitors soon, and I couldn’t afford to lose any potential buyers. But as I threaded my way back to Booth #12, I noticed a small knot of onlookers glancing anxiously at something near my setup. My pulse lurched. What’s happening?

Hurrying closer, I spotted scattered petals across the grass, a toppled vase, water pooling around the base of my star arrangement. My throat tightened in disbelief. Several stems lay bent or broken, their blossoms crushed. My signature piece, the one meant to impress the judges, looked like a battered casualty. An accident… or sabotage?

Heart racing, I crouched beside the spilled water, carefully lifting the limp blooms. The thick glass vase had hairline fractures. My mind whirled with shock.No, no, no.I blinked back tears rapidly, half expecting to find a clue or some sign of who’d done this. A couple of passersby hovered, asking if I needed help, but I barely managed a polite shake of my head.

William scurried over as fast as he could with the help of his cane, clearly flustered. “I’m so sorry, Daisy—I was distracted with a customer and heard a crash. By the time I looked over, your arrangement was on the ground. I didn’t see who or what knocked it over.” His voice was thick with sympathy.

My eyes stung with unshed tears. “It’s… okay. Not your fault.” A wave of panic threatened to drown me. Some of theseflowers were rare, or at least not easy to replace mid-festival. And reassembling an entire display in limited time seemed daunting. “Probably an accident,” I murmured, not wanting to cast blame. Yet an ugly thought stirred: Could someone have done this deliberately? But I lacked proof, and I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

Still, my heart pounded, anger mixing with grief. I’d invested so much in this piece—time, money, creative energy. Now it lay half-ruined, water draining away into the trampled grass. Quickly, I gathered the salvageable blooms. My hands trembled, tears threatening, but I swallowed them back. There’s no point in falling apart here. The festival wouldn’t pause because I had a mishap.

From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Ariana’s booth. She stood tall, directing a frazzled assistant to adjust more extravagant, high-impact displays. She herself wore immaculate lipstick, not appearing to lift a single vase. My lips pressed tight.

I wrestled my arrangement onto a stable surface, discarding the most damaged stems. The next half hour felt like a feverish scramble—snipping new ends, refilling a fresh vase, retying ribbons in a vain attempt to recreate the original magic. My mind buzzed with a hot mix of frustration and heartbreak. I’d come so close to finishing everything perfectly, and now half the design looked second-rate.

Finally, I realized I was too wound up. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and my eyes stung dangerously. I need air. I asked William if he could keep an eye on my booth for a moment, then stepped away. My chest felt unbearably tight, tears continuing to prick the back of my eyes.Don’t cry in public, Daisy.

I stumbled behind a row of vendor tents, searching for a quiet spot. Near an old oak tree, I spotted Rory, who was jottingnotes in a small notebook. She caught sight of me and frowned, setting her notebook aside. “Daisy? Is everything all right?”

My composure cracked. “Someone—or something—knocked over my main centerpiece. I spent hours perfecting it. Now it’s half destroyed. Judging is soon.” The last words came out in a shaky rush.

Rory’s eyes glowed with sympathy. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” She placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “That’s awful. But you’re not going to give up, right?”

I attempted a deep breath. “I’m trying not to. It’s just… so very discouraging.”

She gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “I know. These festival competitions can be cutthroat. But I’ve seen your work. You’re truly talented. You can bounce back from this.”

Her faith in me offered a fragile buoy. I exhaled slowly, recalling my vow not to let obstacles derail me. “Maybe I can salvage enough to make an impression. Or pivot to another design. I just… I hate thinking I might lose out from a random accident.”

“Don’t let negativity swamp you,” Rory advised. “Do what you can. Show them your skill.”

I nodded, watery gratitude swelling in my chest. “Thank you. I needed that.” Determination rekindled—maybe battered blooms meant an opportunity to be resourceful, to prove I had skill beyond a single fancy piece. “All right. I’ll figure something out.”

Encouraged, I returned to my booth, wiping away any lingering dampness from my cheeks. Though my star piece wasn’t as grand as before, I could still craft something striking with the leftover stems. Stiffening my spine, I decided I’drearrange them in a new form—something unexpected. My mind spun with possibilities, adrenaline fueling my creativity.

I’d just set up a fresh concept—smaller but more contemporary—when I heard a low, tentative voice behind me. “Daisy?”

I turned to see Hayden, worry etched across his features. A pang of conflicting emotion shot through me: relief at seeing genuine concern in eyes, overshadowed by the memory of Ariana draping herself on him. I tried not to let that memory sour my tone. “Hey,” I answered, focusing on adjusting a swirl of trailing vines.

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