Page 83 of How Sweet It Is

And as I walk away, I don’t look back. Because if I do, I’m afraid I won’t be able to leave at all.

CHAPTER 40

CLAIRE MATTHEWS — SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7

Iopen the back door of my parents’ flower shop, The Violet Letter. As I walk into the office, the mess of paperwork all over the desk startles me. It looks like a hurricane had a fight with a bookkeeper and the hurricane won. What happened here while I was gone?

It’s been over a month since I was transported off Willow Shade Island. I finished testifying and was released from witness protection yesterday. The trial has ended, and Victor DeLuca has been sentenced to life in prison, and many of his men have been arrested with trials of their own soon. I’ve been given the all clear to return to my life.

All this time, I’ve been trying to figure out what I’ll do now that I’m free to go anywhere I want, and I can’t figure it out. So I came to my parents’ flower shop to see how it’s doing. Maybe if they’re flourishing without me, I can leave and not feel terribly guilty. The mess all over the desk isn’t promising. I don’t even want to go into the front shop. I can smell the rotting flowers from here. I know I was the one who always kept up with theordering and rotation, but why didn’t they do it while I was gone?

The back door opens, and I hear my mother’s heels clicking on the floor. My mother appears in the doorway like a storm in pearls. She’s sharp-eyed, brisk, and already annoyed by something. Her dark hair is perfectly styled, but there’s a tension around her mouth that never seems to soften.

She looks me over. “Claire, I didn’t expect you here this early.”

“I told you I’d be by. The trial ended.”

“Thank goodness. It’s been a nightmare without you.”

A small thread of hope runs through me, that maybe she sees my value. That she sees how hard I’ve worked for them, although I’m disappointed she hasn’t come to envelop me in a hug. She didn’t even ask how I’m doing. We haven’t seen each other for months, I’ve witnessed a murder and was almost kidnapped, and of course it’s all about her and the nightmare she’s been in.

I force a smile. “I just wanted to check on the shop. See how things were going.”

My mother’s eyes sweep the desk. “Well, I’m sure you can see for yourself how things have been going. You always had a knack for making the shop look pretty. It’s a shame you left us in this mess.”

Guilt pricks the back of my throat. “I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.”

“You thought that leaving us in the lurch like this was a good idea?” She lets out a dry laugh and moves a pile of papers off the chair before sitting. “We did the best we could, of course. Your father nearly gave himself a heart attack working on the books late into the night. You know he’s not good with numbers.”

I swallow hard. “I could’ve walked you through it over the phone if only they’d let me contact you.”

“Oh no, you had enough on your plate. Hiding from mobsters and testifying in court. Such a dramatic year you’ve had.” She waves a hand through the air as if brushing away the entire ordeal like it’s gossip from a soap opera. “Meanwhile, we’ve been drowning in paperwork, late orders, angry brides. But I’m sure you didn’t mean to leave us so unprepared. You just… didn’t think it through.”

Her tone is sweet, like honey that’s starting to rot.

“I really am sorry,” I say, my voice small, even as I’m wondering why I’m apologizing.

She leans forward, fingers steepled. “Well, at least you’re back now. You can fix what you broke. You always were good at sorting out your own messes.”

I blink. My messes? She’s blaming me for all of this?

She stands abruptly and smooths out her skirt. “We’ll need you on weekends. And I hope you didn’t make any big plans, because we’ve got the Wilson wedding next week, and the hydrangeas are already a disaster. But I suppose that’s what we get for letting you order from that new wholesaler before you vanished.”

I stare at her, stomach twisting. I remember placing that order weeks before the trial even started. Everything had been organized. What went wrong? Was it my fault?

“You know,” she adds with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “it’s a good thing you’re not the flighty type. I’ve always admired that about you. You don’t give up, even when your poor choices come back to bite us.”

I can’t even respond. My chest is tight with shame, confusion, and the aching need to prove her wrong and make it right all at once.

“I’ll get started on the Wilson wedding,” I whisper.

She nods, already halfway out the door. “Good girl.”

And just like that, I’m twelve again and desperate to earn that scrap of praise. Desperate to be the one she can be proud of.

The back door slams, and she’s gone. I let out a sigh. My mother’s the kind of person who runs on caffeine, anxiety, and unspoken expectations, constantly moving and somehow always the victim of someone else’s shortcomings. If the shop is in chaos, it’s because I left. If she’s tired, it’s because no one else pulled their weight. She spreads blame like fertilizer then wonders why nothing ever blooms the way she wants.

I pick up the phone and call Zoey. She always grounds me.

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