Operation Flower Petal

Chapter 3

Adelaide Buckingham’s hand tightened on her phone. She bit her bottom lip and listened to the gloating voices of Greg’s parents.

“We received a copy of the profit-and-loss from the accountant. You made another loss,” her mother-in-law crowed. “Only two-and-a-half years before the land reverts to a true Buckingham.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she swallowed hard. Ada—as her family and friends called her—started to reply before pressing her lips together in a firm line. Speaking her mind wouldn’t help. The best way to honor Greg was to continue working.

“Flowers! I’ve never heard of anything so stupid in all my life,” her father-in-law muttered. “Greg would turn in his grave if he knew what you were doing to our land.”

Still, Ada didn’t justify the changes she’d made or the way she’d pivoted her plans to give herself a better chance of making Greg’s farming dream come true.

“I’m glad you received the accounts. I guess I’ll speak to you next year.” She got the words out without crying and disconnected the call. Their glee and malicious triumph in her failure became more difficult with each passing year. She had to make her flower-growing enterprise work. It was her last chance, and she’d put every last dollar into the change, every bit of energy, every last hope.

Ada picked up the glass of juice she’d poured herself and took a sip. Her gaze settled on the next piece of bad news—the day’s mail.

A strangled yowl wrenched Ada from her death stare at the envelopes. She grimaced and peered out the window. Country commotion. The racket shouldn’t disturb her any longer, yet she jumped every time she heard a weird noise. When she spotted nothing out of place, she turned back to the white envelopes on her kitchen counter.

Waiting. Unopened.

Lurking pieces of evil ready to jump out at her like a jack-in-a-box.

It didn’t take much to guess the top one’s contents since the sender had emblazoned their symbol plus their return postal address on the front—her copy of the farm accounts.

The second envelope had Ada holding back a scream and her stomach turning rock hard.

The yowl sounded again, closer this time. The stressed call had Ada leaping to her feet and taking the one stride necessary to reach her front entrance. Calling up every scrap of bravery, she wrenched open the door and padded onto her wooden deck. It took long seconds for her gaze to adjust to the dark. She scanned the shadows, uneasy at the out-of-place cry, but determined not to act like a nervous city-girl—the label her husband’s family had saddled her with after she’d married their son.

Greg hadn’t cared Ada couldn’t spout the finer points of a Romney sheep or whistle a sheepdog. He’d loved her, and she’d returned the sentiment until the day he’d died, murdered by a mystery assailant almost three years ago.

When the distressed cry came for a third time, she pinpointed the direction and spotted faint movement.

“A cat,” she whispered, her tense shoulders relaxing. Laughing at her nerves, she slipped back inside. In her tiny house’s compact kitchen, she pulled a bottle of milk from her fridge and located an old bowl. Some i***t had tired of their pet and dumped it in the countryside. Nothing much surprised Ada these days, although she wondered how the cat had turned up in her backyard. Her land sat at the end of a long valley, sandwiched between the Moewai River and the range of mountains behind. Access for her and her neighbors was via a no-exit road, which ended at her property.

Ada set the bowl outside and retreated to her house and her pile of mail.

“Damn and blast.” She swooped forward, plucked up the letter from the bank, and ripped it open. Although her hands trembled, Ada scanned the note from the loan’s manager. Hot tears filled her eyes while anger pumped through her veins. She tightened her grip, the paper wrinkling under the pressure.

“Greg, if you were here,” she gritted out, “I would murder you myself.”

Then shame swamped her, and her shoulders slumped.

Greg had dreamed of farming sheep rather than embracing the family dairy farm legacy, and thanks to the generous help of his aunt, he’d inherited this block of land. A shudder slipped down her spine at the memory of the family blowup and what she called the disowning. Unfortunately, the inheritance came with strings, but she and Greg had discussed the risk, agreed on the plan.

disowningGreg hadn’t gone with full disclosure.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered because talking to her dead husband assuaged her loneliness. “You would’ve told me, eventually. We would’ve worked out the problems.” But even as she uttered the words, irritation flickered inside her.

Greg had left her standing in a heap of sheep doodoo.

Until she’d received the first communication from the bank six months ago, she hadn’t known of the loan. It wasn’t from their local Moewai bank. After her initial shock, she’d managed the funds to cover the final interest installment plus part of the principal, but the balance was due in full in two months. Not only could she not repay the rest, but because of the will stipulating her tenure of the land, the property wasn’t hers free and clear until she made a profit. Selling any part of it was impossible.

When she and Greg had taken possession of the land, the goal of making a profit within eight years had seemed easy. After Greg’s murder, she’d stood her ground, and the judge had agreed with her. Legally, she had two more years to make a profit. If she failed, the land returned to Greg’s family, and she’d walk away with nothing.

And didn’t they enjoy reminding her of the fact?

Each year, they gloated over the negative income figures and the bottom line.

Hot tears stung her eyes, and she flung the crumpled letter on her counter. Sniffing, she reached for the third letter. This one came from the New Zealand Army, although what they wanted, she had no idea.

Ada ripped open the envelope and read the request on the single sheet of paper.

Dear Greg,

Dear Greg,Re: Army Training Exercise

Re: Army Training ExerciseYou approached us several years ago with an offer of your land should we require it for one of our training exercises. I’ve tried ringing the cell number you gave me at the time of our meeting, and this is the last resort since I couldn’t find a way of contacting you online.

You approached us several years ago with an offer of your land should we require it for one of our training exercises. I’ve tried ringing the cell number you gave me at the time of our meeting, and this is the last resort since I couldn’t find a way of contacting you online.Ada paused in her reading and frowned at the letter. The man—a Captain Jacob Massey—couldn’t have known Greg well if he’d missed her husband’s murder. She continued reading.

We would like to use your high country to conduct training exercises for our troops. I understand you have a working farm, and this will cause an interruption in your farming endeavors, so we are offering payment of one thousand dollars per day for one month. At this stage, we are undecided about the time the exercises will continue. We think three weeks, but it will not be longer than one month.

We would like to use your high country to conduct training exercises for our troops. I understand you have a working farm, and this will cause an interruption in your farming endeavors, so we are offering payment of one thousand dollars per day for one month. At this stage, we are undecided about the time the exercises will continue. We think three weeks, but it will not be longer than one month.If you agree with us using your land, please call the number below to discuss the same.

If you agree with us using your land, please call the number below to discuss the same.Yours faithfully,

Yours faithfully,Captain Jacob Massey

Captain Jacob MasseyAda hissed out her breath, hope surging through her to replace the helplessness she’d experienced since she’d first learned of the loan her husband had taken out without telling her. A thousand dollars a day. Three weeks. Wow! That was twenty-one thousand dollars. While she owed the bank fifty-thousand dollars, this was a fantastic start.

A lifeline.

She had her emergency fund of five thousand dollars, plus if she harvested her flowers, dried, and packed them ready to sell, she might manage a few more thousand. It might be enough for the bank to consider refinancing.

It was too late to call the captain, but she’d do it in the morning. Bolstered by the opportunity, she decided she was hungry.

As she constructed a ham and cheese sandwich, she glanced out the window. A dark shape slinked toward the bowl of milk. Ada froze, holding her breath when the cat sniffed the contents, then lapped at the offering. She smiled, relieved both of them were having a better end to their day.

With another smile of approval, she turned on the radio and listened to the talk-back station. The callers discussed local affairs. At present, politics was popular since the elections were in a few months. Ada settled into her comfortable chair while she focused on mindful breathing. It usually helped, but this evening her problems kept leaping from her locked mental box and circling back to give her a hard time.

What if the bank manager didn’t agree to a partial payment? Everyone—her local bank manager and Greg’s family—had pooh-poohed her fledgling business selling dried flowers as confetti. She’d continued anyway, inspired by a television special she’d watched.

“Don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Adelaide Buckingham,” she whispered.

First, she’d speak to the army man. She yawned but sensed she wouldn’t sleep, not with her busy mind. With a sigh, Ada pulled out the folder holding the mockups for her label designs.

She sifted through her three choices. Keep it simple, she decided. With that in mind, she discarded the busiest of the three designs. The other two were appealing, but the color combination of one drew her more.

With that decided, she powered up her laptop and used the same motif on her fledgling website. She tweaked her homepage and reread her ‘about’ page. Bland and uninspiring, it lacked the emotion necessary to grab the attention of brides and wedding planners.

Ada discarded her copy and started again.

I love flowers. When my husband died, I needed to make significant changes. I’m a city girl with a love of plants and gardening, so I sold the sheep—a silly animal I found challenging to deal with due to my lack of experience—and searched for another way to make the farm productive. After watching a reality show on television where couples visit properties with an eye to moving to the country, the show’s special interest feature snared my attention. It detailed a farmer who’d diversified and grown flowers. He dried the flowers and produced a natural, environmentally friendly confetti, popular with brides, the church ministers, and the local council because cleanup was minimal compared to paper confetti or rice.

I love flowers. When my husband died, I needed to make significant changes. I’m a city girl with a love of plants and gardening, so I sold the sheep—a silly animal I found challenging to deal with due to my lack of experience—and searched for another way to make the farm productive. After watching a reality show on television where couples visit properties with an eye to moving to the country, the show’s special interest feature snared my attention. It detailed a farmer who’d diversified and grown flowers. He dried the flowers and produced a natural, environmentally friendly confetti, popular with brides, the church ministers, and the local council because cleanup was minimal compared to paper confetti or rice.The idea stuck with me. It intrigued me, and after researching the flowers available in New Zealand, I chose to grow delphiniums. They’re perfect for the climate and suit the rich soil here at Moewai.

The idea stuck with me. It intrigued me, and after researching the flowers available in New Zealand, I chose to grow delphiniums. They’re perfect for the climate and suit the rich soil here at Moewai.Moewai Flowers was born.

Moewai Flowers was born.Ada reread what she’d written. Better. Much better. When she yawned again, she checked her watch. Almost midnight.

In her bedroom, she pulled on an oversize T-shirt and crawled into bed. She must’ve dozed because she awoke with her heart racing. The cat yowled.

Ada swallowed and c****d her head. Was someone whispering? No, it was the wind. She fumbled with her light and checked the time. Five-thirty. She exhaled. Her alarm would wail in half an hour, anyway.

After dressing in her old clothes and making tea, she slipped outside to sit on her deck. The birds sang and tweeted their dawn chorus, and she intended to enjoy the show. Her backside had almost hit the seat cushion when she noticed the writing in scarlet paint emblazoned across the wall of her shed.

Leave or face the wrath.

Leave or face the wrath.Ada cursed and went to call the cops.

Again.

Again.