It took Anne a full thirty seconds to collect herself and close the front door. She was breathing quickly. Her heart hit against her rib cage like rain on the pavement.
“What thefuck,” she said out loud to herself. “What did you just do? Why did you tell her that?”
And a small, clear voice in the back of her head—a voice Anne Lowell had never heard before in her entire life—answered immediately.
She asked.
Chapter 1
Four years later.
“I hate ranunculus,” Anne muttered. “Too structured. Too many layers. No flower should be that stiff.”
Sadie, her face buried in a display bouquet of purple ranunculus and pink cymbidium orchids, was apparently too transported to respond. She inhaled through her nose, long and loud, then sighed happily.
Anne sighed, too—much less happily. Normally, she’d be glad to kill an hour or more in Purple Poppy, hands down the best florist shop within a thirty-minute drive, but today’s errand schedule was packed. At this rate, they’d never get out of Calabasas. “If you nuzzle that bouquet for much longer, you’ll have to buy it dinner. Did you hear what I said? About the flowers?”
Sadie straightened up, her hair quickly settling. Today’s wig—they were all deliberate fashion choices—was a straight, dark, chin-length bob that made her vaguely resemble Catherine Zeta-Jones inChicago. “Oh, I’m very aware you hate ranunculus,” she said, amusement in her voice. “You made that extremely clear the first forty-seven times you mentioned it.”
No one could ever accuse Anne of being wishy-washy. “I just can’t figure out the right arrangement. Every combination I can think of is—”
“—too obvious or too chaotic, I know,” Sadie finished. “Don’t you worry, sunshine. We’ll find the perfect flowers for your birthday party. Maybe—oh, I’ve got a real soft spot for calla lilies.” She pointed at an overstuffed white arrangement on a nearby table.
Calla lilies were for funerals. “I’m turning sixty, not dying, Sadie. Actually, I was thinking about a waterfall design, with some baker fern or eucalyptus.”
“If you don’t want your flowers to remind people of death, then I’d say we shouldn’t pick an arrangement that’s drooping out of the vase and onto the table.”
Fair. But Anne, who hated admitting she was wrong, would concede the point silently.
She looked around the small shop, stuffed to the brim with color and scent and greenery, until her gaze fell on an asymmetrical, loose bouquet near one corner. White hyacinth and blush roses weren’t exactly reinventing the wheel as far as floral arrangements went, but Anne, always ready to spot an unusual bloom, immediately seized on the—
“Amaranths!” Sadie cried out.
Anne turned to see her best friend staring at the same corner.
“Oh, those arebeauties. You know, I have a lipstick that’s the exact same color. Spitfire Scarlet.”
“Honestly, that combination really might work,” Anne said slowly, “if we balanced it with a few snowflake flowers.”
“And sweet pea.” Sadie’s eyes were wide and bright. “In lavender. Or maybe salmon, if we want to play off the blush roses?”
Anne could already see the bouquets arrayed on her dining room table, the light through the deck’s French doors shining through the rose petals. Her immediate satisfaction left no room for argument. She smiled at Sadie. “Salmon it is, then. Done.”
“If you wear that gold column dress for the party,” Sadie continued, still on a roll, “the one you got last year from The Row, then you’d complement the flowers perfectly. But I’m guessing you’ll pick some black silk thing to offset that hair of yours.” Her eyes were bright; Sadie loved talking fashion. “Dome a favor? Don’t add jewelry. The only accessory you need is contrast.”
“I mean, all right, but—” The accuracy of Sadie’s guess startled Anne, who’d purchased an obsidian silk crepe dress just the previous week. “How the hell did you know what I was planning to wear?”
“I pay attention,” Sadie said sweetly and pushed her oversized aviator glasses—no lenses—up her nose. “So do you. And that’s why I like you so much. Perspicacity is power, beloved.” She lifted her full eyebrows, grinning.
Beloved.Sadie called her that every once in a while, always breezily; other endearments, too, names likedear heart,dollface,andsunshine. But, embarrassingly,belovedalways made Anne’s cheeks warm, as did the occasional reference Sadie made to her feelings for Anne.
Sure, Anne knew Sadie liked her. Liked her a lot, in fact. She’d made no secret of that over the last four years. Two or three times—no, it was definitely three—Sadie had even told Anne she loved her. Which was nice. Very nice. In fact, after the first time it happened, Anne had hummed under her breath for the rest of the day.
But it was still shocking to Anne that Sadie could just—say how she felt. So easily.
She needed to fill the silence, which was getting louder by the second. “You like me because I pay attention? Elaborate.”
“I’m a poet,” Sadie said, as if that explained it.