Chapter Four: The Marigold Trace
1165 Words
The office was quiet again.
Sunlight poured across the glossy floor, warming the glass-topped table he'd not left in over an hour. The boardroom stood empty now, yet he still sat at the head, forearms on the table, looking at the open file in front of him.
Sharon Elise Brown.
Age: 23. Georgetown alumnus. Double major in political science and design. Founder of the GrowBold movement. Richmond-born. Daughter of a florist named Celia Brown. No political affiliations have been reported. No scandal. No skeletons. Just work, grit, and a well-oiled online image that somehow felt real.
And yet.
Derek's gaze drifted over her press picture for the third time. She was laughing, smiling, and tilted her head to the left. That smile—it did not seem staged. It seemed to be remembered.
But from where?
He closed the folder.
Looked out the window.
And let the question settle heavy on his ribs.
It wasn't an attraction. While that was there too, he couldn't help but admit it. From the moment she had walked into the room, she had attracted attention like a magnet. Confident but not cocky. Witty but not cold. And something about the way she looked at him—like she already knew him with all the spit and polish stripped away—shook him more than he'd expected.
It wasn't just that.
It was her voice.
There had been something in her rhythm—warm and insistent. As if she were speaking the truth, though not saying it. And when she spoke to him, something deeper vibrated, like the thrum of something very old.
Something lost.
He leaned back in his chair.
Undid the top button of his shirt.
And frowned.
He'd seen thousands of women in his lifetime. Political candidates, tech entrepreneurs, social revolutionaries, influencers. They all shared the same drive. They all shared the same twinkle of hunger in their eyes.
But Sharon… she wasn't trying to impress him. She wasn't looking for approval.
She'd already decided that she belonged there.
And he couldn't help but think why that seemed so familiar.
He picked up her profile again.
Scrolled further.
Her app had launched eighteen months earlier and took off in weeks. She started with a $12k grant, built it into a multiplatform strategy, and created real, measurable impacts in neighborhoods nobody else wanted to touch. She'd gained national recognition after her Atlanta keynote. That speech alone brought her a White House fellowship invitation—and one she declined.
He fell silent.
That puzzled him.
He reached for his phone and called his assistant. "Can you get the whole video of the GrowBold Atlanta keynote to me?"
"Yes, Mr. Royce."
He hung up, still staring at Sharon's face in the file.
Something tugged harder now.
And then his phone rang again. Private: Mom.
He hesitated at sending it to voicemail. He'd already sent two texts and a news link she'd sent earlier that morning unread.
But guilt won out.
He swiped to reply. "Hi, Ma."
"Derek," her voice sounded through, smooth and snapped with her no-nonsense tone. "I saw the news on the new partnership meetings. That girl—the one with the curls. She's everywhere today."
He smiled weakly. "You're tracking campaign gossip now?"
"I'm retired. What else is there to do?"
He chuckled. "She's impressive."
There was a silence. "What's her name again?"
"Sharon Brown."
The name fell into the silence.
Then his mother interjected, very softly, "Huh."
"What?"
"I don't know," she said deliberately. "That name… it just—it tickles something. Do you remember that summer in Richmond? When we'd go out early Saturday mornings for the campaign stops?"
"Barely," he responded. "I was what—nine?
"There was a little market near Jefferson Street. A flower stand. Run by a woman, I think, named Celia. You'd disappear every time we went. I'd have to go track you down, sit on boxes chatting with some little girl with sticky curls and jelly shoes."
His heart ceased beating.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the file.
"You sure?" he asked.
"I'm positive of the curls," she laughed. "She used to give you the broken marigolds. You used to stuff them into your backpack like they were gold."
He blinked.
Marigolds.
Something cracked open, fragile and hollow. A fleeting glimpse of bright orange petals. Dirt on his knees. The sound of a soft voice laughing because he couldn't say "zinnia." A girl hugging one flower as if it were a secret.
He leaned forward. "What happened to them?"
The family?" his mother inquired. "Moved, I suppose. Or we just stopped going to that stall. You stopped asking."
He looked back over his shoulder at the name on the profile.
Sharon Brown.
Celia Brown.
Richmond.
His heart quickened.
His mother kept talking, oblivious. "You know, I always wondered if you remembered her. You got quiet for a few weeks after that. Stared at flowers like they'd hurt you."
Derek let a quick breath out. "Thanks, Ma."
"You all right?
"Yup," he said. "Just. Remembering something I forgot I forgot."
She let it go. "You work too much."
"I know."
"Call me this weekend. We'll do dinner."
"I will."
She hung up.
And he sat frozen, staring at the profile again.
This time, the pieces began to move.
The marigolds.
The voice.
The eyes.
He closed the folder.
But her face refused to leave his head.
He opened his browser. Typed: Jefferson Street flower market – Celia Brown.
A few vintage listings showed up. One vintage community ad from a decade and a half back. And then—sitting at the edge of sharp focus in a blurry, scanned picture—he saw it.
A little girl in a sundress, curls tousled, holding a marigold in one hand and a notebook in the other.
You talk like your words are dancing.
He hadn't meant to say it then. It had just slipped out.
But he remembered now her laughter. Her gap-toothed grin. How she listened to him like he mattered.
And now she was in his boardroom.
Saying the same rhythm.
Older. Sharper. More lovely.
But still, her.
Derek sat back down in his chair, chest full of a hurt he couldn't articulate.
She never mentioned it. Never tried to make the connection. Never called him on forgetting.
She just let him shake her hand.
Like a stranger.
A low rumbling noise issued from his throat.
God, she must have known.
She must have known he had no idea who she was.
And still she just stood there as if the whole room belonged to her.
He clicked his fingers on the table.
Then reached for his phone.
"Gia," he said when she answered, "Let's plan a second meeting. With Sharon Brown. I want something more casual. No slides. No audience."
"Promised. Do I have to loop in PR?"
"No. Just her and me."
He hung up.
And grumbled at the quiet:
"Marigolds. Of all the damn flowers…"
- Writer
