Page 79 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

I leaned against the wall, trying to hear past the voicemail echoing in my head.

Ruby’s laughter flashed through my mind—her knee-deep in tulips, yelling at squirrels in her garden like they owed her rent.

Sophie’s little voice rang again.“Flower doctor.”

This—this town, these people, thatwoman—they reminded me of who I was when no one was watching. The man who didn’t just save lives but stayed after to make sure those livesthrived.

I stared down at my phone, the notification still blinking.

It was the kind of offer I’d once dreamed of.

Now?

It felt like a ghost knocking.

Chapter twenty-one

Ruby

The exhibition hall buzzed with low murmurs, the kind that made your skin prickle with anticipation. I stood behind my installation—barely breathing—as the judges made their slow, deliberate way down the row. Every step they took felt like thunderclaps in my chest.

My hands were stained with chlorophyll, fingertips still speckled with pollen. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past two nights, and my heart thumped as if it were trying to break free and run for the hills. But I stood tall—next to my piece,The Bloom After the Storm.

It wasn’t the flashiest. It didn’t have rare orchids flown in from halfway across the globe. But it had something else.

Heart.

Each quadrant told a story—Winter's wilted grays and brittle branches. Spring’s cautious new shoots of hyacinth and crocus. Summer bursting with wild color and unruly growth. And Fall, soft and rich in warm amber marigolds and rust-red dahlias.Nestled in the center was a spiral path of moss and freesia—a quiet invitation for reflection, or renewal.

“This installation,” one of the judges said, eyes scanning the spiral, “is deeply narrative.”

I didn’t speak unless asked. That had been one of the rules. But something in his voice felt like an opening.

“It’s a journey,” I said, heart hammering. “From grief to growth. From hiding to blooming.”

Another judge nodded slowly. “There’s an intentional imperfection here. Wild edges. Crooked lines.”

I smiled, even as my stomach tightened. “Healing’s messy. So, I left space for that.”

The panel scribbled notes, murmured again, and moved on.

I exhaled—finally—and only then realized I’d been holding my breath.

A woman with a sharp bob and a badge that said “SPONSOR – NORTHERN BOTANICA” approached quietly from the side. “Ruby Shea?”

I blinked. “Yes?”

“I’m Nancy Garrett, creative director at Northern Botanica Magazine. We’re curating a feature on innovative florists redefining the artform. Can I have your card?”

My mouth went dry. “You want… my card?”

“I do.” She smiled. “Your work’s unlike anything else here. It has soul. The kind readers connect with.”

I fumbled in my bag and handed her one with slightly smudged ink and a small dried lavender sprig tucked into the corner. “Sorry, it’s homemade.”

She held it like it was gold. “Even better.”

As she walked away, I stared after her, dazed. My knees wobbled. My work had connected. Someone outside Cedar Springs hadseenme.

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