Page 148 of Lady and the Hitman
This nursery wasn’t just a business.
It was identity. Legacy. Home.
“I used to brag about you,” I said. “To everyone. My friends, my professors, my readers. I told them my parents were the kind of people who made things grow. Who built something with their hands and their hearts and never gave up.”
His mouth twitched. “We didn’t give up.”
“Then what happened?”
His shoulders sagged. “The world changed. We couldn’t keep up. Bigger companies undercut our contracts. Climate shifts ruined entire seasons. And when the banks came calling, there was nothing left to offer except the land.”
My breath caught. “You’re selling?”
“We don’t have a choice.”
I stumbled back a step, like the words had shoved me.
He went quiet again, his hands bracing against the edge of the table like he needed it to hold him upright.
And I—I couldn’t process it.
The nursery had always been more than a patch of soil and a few greenhouses. It had been the heart of Johns Island. The place where everyone came for seedlings and advice and gossip. My parents were pillars. Anchors. They donated trees to schools. Hosted workshops for kids. Kept tabs on every elder who lived alone and made sure their plants survived the frost.
They weren’t just business owners.
They were woven into the fabric of this place.
And now … they were unraveling.
“You taught me everything,” I whispered. “How to nurture something. How to stand firm when everything’s stacked against you. How to believe in what you build.”
My dad looked up finally, and his eyes were glassy.
“And now you know what it feels like to lose it.”
Devastation rippled through me.
I sat on an overturned soil bin, my legs too shaky to hold. The air felt thick. Too warm. Like the grief was taking up all the oxygen.
“What happens next?” I asked.
“Either we sell quick or give it back to the bank. Hope they don’t bulldoze it.”
My heart fractured all over again. “You think someone will turn it into condos?”
“One developer already has plans drawn up.”
I pressed my hands to my mouth to keep the sound in. It didn’t work. A sob clawed out anyway.
He walked over and crouched in front of me, his weathered hands resting on my knees.
“I’m sorry, baby girl. We didn’t want this. We fought like hell.”
“I know,” I said, and I meant it. “I just—I thought we’d have this place forever.”
“We thought that, too.”
I stayed there for a long while, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through the weight in my chest.
