Page 11 of Dead Love
“Mom,” I said, tears filling my eyes, “I need this.”
This.A distraction. Anything. So that I didn’t have to think about how she was gone.
Shea’s chin sank, then she forced a smile. “Of course, sweetheart. Let’s go now.”
After she asked a seasonal worker to handle the shop for a couple of hours, we drove through town, up to the Wild Berry Trailhead off the side of the road. Mount Punica was considered an active volcano, with areas where the sulfur was heavier in the air than others. It hadn’t erupted in centuries, but the soil was still ripe for flowers, even ones like Middlemist Red camellia. It was rumored that John Middlemist sold it to a traveler who planted it here for good luck, as a peace offering to Mount Punica. If it was anywhere, there would be one in the flower field.
Focus on the flower,I reminded myself.
“All right,” Shea said, stepping out of the car. She surveyed our surroundings. “No one is ever out this way, but you know the rules. You check over here, and I’m going to hunt up there. I think I saw red and pink flowers the last time we went hiking.” She fixed the collar of her dress. “But if you see anyone, and I meananyone—you come and find me.”
I nodded, but my mind instantly glazed over, ready to get lost searching for that mysterious flower. Between the fir trees that lined the mountain, there was a clearing, with the sun’s rays resting on it like a spotlight. A fence of black huckleberry bushes lined the area. And in the center, poppies and lupines sprung up. Glacier lilies and windflowers swayed next to the sprawling edges of the western wallflower. I scanned the field; there were no symmetrical kaleidoscope petals of reds and pinks. No Middlemist Red camellia. But my eyes stopped on a flash of yellow: in the middle of the field, a single daffodil stretched up.
I had never seen one in this area before.
I bent down, kneeling in the middle of the stretching stems, wrapping a finger around the daffodil. It’s not like Nyla’s spirit was inside of this flower, and yet, I was drawn to it; it was the same color as her hair. I pictured us the day before, standing in the middle of Nectar Latte. Her easy-going nature. She was so good, she even made my mother relax sometimes. And yet Nylaandmy mother didn’t notice the man in the corner, watching me. No one did. Not even Andrew. But I did. A flash of gold sparked in his eyes as his gaze sunk over me, those golden specks disappearing into the darkness.
Vincent.That’s what the barista had said. Like the funeral home worker.
How many Vincents were there in Punica?
It was so rare for my mother to leave me alone, that I sat there dazed, almost like I was inside of a daydream, staring at that daffodil. It reminded me of a teacup; bright enough to warm your day, tender enough to drink from. It was almost like hypnosis was seeping into my skin, urging me to drink from it. To eat it. I raised it up, bringing it closer to my lips—
“Go on,” a deep male voice said. His voice coaxed me, wrapping a hand around my gut. I sat up quickly. In the shade of a tree, a man stood tall, his shoulders wide and sturdy. Muscular. His skin was abrasive, dark from the sun, with white streaks of scars dashing across his skin, deep valleys and bumpy keloids that had long since healed. His dark hair was a mess, stubble tracing his chin and jaw. His eyes were dark as if no light could penetrate them. He looked older than me. Maybe he was in his mid-thirties. “The ambulance will have an IV. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll take you to my home.”
My skin flushed. His home?
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Those flowers are poisonous.”
My hands started shaking. I knew that.
Suddenly, I knew where I had seen him. He was the man from Nectar Latte yesterday and from Halloween night, all of those years ago.
“You work at Quiet Meadows Funeral Home,” I said. He must have beentheVincent I had heard about. “Is that what you mean by home?”
He smirked at me, teasing me for the obvious connection.
“I don’t work at Quiet Meadows,” he said. “I own it.”
My skin flushed. Working and owning were two completely separate things. I knew that. “Did you name it after this place?”
“Now why would I do that, Kora?” he asked.
He knew my name. Had I told him it years ago? And did he remember me from back then too?
I bit my lip. “This is a quiet meadow. It’s peaceful,” I said.
He stayed on the edge of the clearing, his obsidian eyes penetrating. I pulled the daffodil apart in my hands, not realizing what I was doing until there was nothing left to shred.
“The narcissus,” he said, gesturing at the broken petals. “An interesting flower. Has quite the history. They symbolize rebirth and spring.”
My breathing hitched. Even when the voice inside of me warned me of all the things my mother had said, about why I couldn’t trust men—I wanted to know, to understand why he was here, why he was telling me this.
I shouldn’t have been talking to him. But I wanted to. A distraction.Anything.
“What’s the history?” I asked.
