Chapter 24
Eleanor POV
I carefully removed several specimens—black dahlias from New Zealand, ghost orchids that bloomed for only a few days each year, and finally, a tray of small, intense red blossoms with delicate petals.
"Persian buttercups," I explained. "This particular variety is extremely rare. The color is natural—no dyes or treatments."
Sophia reached out to touch one, her fingertips grazing the velvety petals. "These," she said decisively. "These are perfect."
"I should mention that some people have allergic reactions to this particular variety," I cautioned. "The pollen is unusually potent."
She waved away my concern. "I've never been allergic to anything in my life. I want these as the centerpiece."
"As you wish," I replied, gathering the flowers carefully. "I'll create something worthy of them."
Back at the main workstation, I began crafting her arrangement. My hands moved with practiced precision, selecting complementary blooms and foliage to enhance the rare buttercups without overwhelming them. Sophia watched intently, occasionally offering suggestions that I either incorporated or politely redirected.
When I finished, the result was undeniably striking—an asymmetrical cascade of deep reds and subtle blues, with the Persian buttercups forming the visual center like drops of crystallized blood. It wasn't my usual style, but it had a dark, compelling beauty that reflected both my technique and Sophia's dramatic aesthetic preferences.
"Will this make the statement you were looking for?" I asked, presenting the finished arrangement.
Sophia examined it from several angles, her expression critical. Finally, she gave a small nod. "It's... adequate," she conceded, which I suspected was high praise from her.
I wrapped the arrangement carefully, included care instructions, and processed her credit card payment. As I handed her the receipt, she gave me a look that seemed almost like respect.
"Your reputation isn't entirely undeserved," she said, which might have been the most backhanded compliment I'd ever received.
"Thank you for your business, Ms. Taylor," I replied evenly. "I hope you enjoy the flowers."
As the door closed behind her, Rachel and Mia both exhaled audibly.
"What was that?" Rachel asked, wide-eyed. "I felt like I was watching some kind of floral gladiator match."
I laughed, the tension in my shoulders finally relaxing. "Just a discerning customer with very specific taste."
"And the social skills of a cactus," Mia added under her breath.
The rest of the day passed in the comfortable rhythm of regular business. We completed two wedding consultations, arranged delivery for a corporate event, and I spent an hour sketching concepts for the Berkshire Hotel proposal. As closing time approached, Rachel left to pick up her children from after-school care, and Mia began the evening inventory count.
"That Taylor woman seemed familiar," Mia commented as she tallied the day's sales. "I think I've seen her picture in Boston Magazine—something about philanthropic families."
I shrugged, not particularly interested. "Boston's social circle is small. I've arranged flowers for half the names in that magazine."
"Still," Mia persisted, "there was something about her. Like she wasn't just shopping for flowers."
Before I could respond, the bell chimed again. I looked up, startled to see Sophia Taylor standing in the doorway once more. This time, however, her perfect composure was shattered. Angry red welts covered her cheeks and neck, and her eyes were watery and irritated.
"You did this to me," she accused, her voice tight with anger. "You deliberately sold me flowers you knew would cause this reaction."
I stared at her in confusion before understanding dawned. "The Persian buttercups—you're having an allergic reaction."
"Obviously!" she snapped, stepping closer to the counter. "You said some people might be allergic, but you didn't stop me from buying them."
"I did warn you," I replied calmly, though my heart was racing. "And you specifically said you've never been allergic to anything."
"You should have insisted!" Her voice rose slightly. "You're supposed to be the expert. My mother's hosting a dinner tonight for the hospital board, and now I look like this!" She gestured to her inflamed face.
Mia had retreated to the back room, clearly wanting no part of this confrontation. I took a deep breath, maintaining my professional demeanor.
"Ms. Taylor, I understand you're upset, but I did explicitly mention the possibility of an allergic reaction, which you dismissed. However, I can offer some suggestions to help reduce the symptoms."
"Save it," she cut me off. "I've already taken antihistamines. What I want to know is how you plan to make this right. Do you know who my family is in this city? One word from me, and your little shop will lose half its clientele."
The threat was clear, but instead of intimidating me, it only strengthened my resolve. I walked to the security monitor behind the counter and rewound the footage to our earlier conversation.
"Perhaps this will refresh your memory," I said, turning the screen toward her. The footage clearly showed me warning her about potential allergic reactions and her dismissive response.
Sophia watched, her expression shifting from anger to something more complex. "Fine," she conceded reluctantly. "You mentioned it. But you should have been more insistent when I said I wasn't allergic."
"I respect my clients' decisions, Ms. Taylor. You're an adult who made a choice after receiving information." I softened my tone slightly. "That said, I'm genuinely sorry you're experiencing this reaction. If you'll allow me, I can prepare a chamomile and lavender tea that might help reduce the inflammation."
She hesitated, pride warring with discomfort on her face. Finally, she gave a curt nod.
I went to our small kitchen area and quickly prepared the herbal tea, adding a touch of local honey known for its anti-inflammatory properties. When I returned, Sophia was examining a display of miniature succulent gardens, her back to me.
"This should help soothe both the external and internal symptoms," I said, offering her the steaming cup. "The effects of the pollen usually subside within a few hours, especially with antihistamines."
She accepted the tea, her fingers briefly brushing against mine. As she took a sip, her eyes remained fixed on me with an intensity that felt strangely personal.
"You really don't remember me, do you?" she asked suddenly.
The question caught me off guard. I studied her face more carefully, trying to see past the redness of the allergic reaction. There was something vaguely familiar about her features, but I couldn't place where or when we might have met.
"I'm sorry," I said carefully. "Have we met before today?"
Sophia's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, Eleanor," she said softly. "We've met once. I'm disappointed you don't remember."
A chill ran down my spine at the way she said my name—as if she knew me far better than a casual acquaintance would. I searched her face again, trying to place her in my memory, but came up empty.
"Perhaps you could remind me of the circumstances?" I suggested, my voice steady despite my growing unease.
Sophia took another sip of tea, watching me over the rim of the cup with an unreadable expression. "You really don't remember me, do you?"