Flowers in the Fog

The leash snapped taut in my hand, and I stumbled off the gravel path before I could finish saying hello to my ex. "Graham?" I panted into my phone. "You have about ten seconds to explain why you're calling me." Juniper, my best friend's black lab, dragged me toward the low stone wall beside Bellwether Cove's old greenhouse. Fog blurred the glass roof beyond it until the building looked like a dark shape floating above the town. "I'm trying to keep you from doing something you'll regret," Graham said. "That's not an explanation." Juniper pulled again. My wrist stung where the leash burned across my palm. I had promised Lila I'd give the dog a long walk while she handled an emergency at the flower shop. I hadn't planned to be hauled toward the greenhouse my family had owned for three generations, or to hear from the man who had walked away from me two years earlier. "Where are you?" Graham asked. "On the cliff path." "Near the greenhouse?" I stopped. Juniper stopped too, head lowered, tail stiff. "Why would that matter?" "Just go home, Nora." "I'm not taking orders from you." "I'm not giving you an order." His voice had gone tight in the particular way it did when he wanted to sound calm and couldn't manage it. The last time I'd heard that tone, he had been standing in my kitchen with a packed suitcase, explaining that he'd accepted a job two states away and that asking me to come with him would be unfair. I'd never forgiven him for deciding what was fair on my behalf. Juniper tugged toward the greenhouse gate. It hung open by a few inches. The brass padlock that usually secured it lay on the ground, its shackle bent. "Juniper, leave it," I said. The dog whined and pulled harder. "Nora," Graham said. "Listen to me. Don't go through that gate." My breath caught. I looked at the gap between its iron bars, then down at the broken lock. "What's going on?" A second voice answered him, muffled but close to his phone. Lila's. "She's not supposed to be there." Juniper barked once and lunged through the gate. I tightened my grip and followed before I could talk myself out of it. Wet grass soaked through my sneakers. The greenhouse doors stood open, and a pale rectangle of light spilled across the path inside. "Graham," I said. "Is Lila with you?" The call ended. I stared at the screen, then at the doorway. Juniper gave a low, urgent bark. I had known Lila since our first year at Wrenfield College. She had held my hand through my mother's funeral, kept the flower shop open when I couldn't get out of bed, and called me family often enough that I'd started believing it without question. The greenhouse wasn't just an old building. It was the last piece of my mother's life I still had a claim on. I'd inherited it outright, along with a mountain of bills and a staff of four people who had stayed through every winter leak and every summer power failure. I pushed the door open. Lila stood beside the worktable in her red raincoat. Graham was on the other side, holding a blue folder. When they saw me, Lila's hand went to her chest. Graham put the folder behind his back. Juniper rushed to Lila and leaned against her legs. "You brought him?" Lila asked. "I was walking him. What are you doing here?" "Nothing you need to worry about," Graham said. My eyes dropped to the folder. "Then you won't mind showing me what's in it." Lila looked at Graham. That glance lasted no more than a second, but I saw the years of familiarity in it. I saw the ease of two people who had already decided which words to use. The dog moved between them and me, his leash trailing across the damp floor. "Lila," I said. "What is this?" She took a breath. "I can explain." "Then explain." Graham set the folder on the table. On the top page, in black ink, was my name.