CHAPTER 6
The cemetery installation was scheduled for nine the next morning.
Kendra called it the Holloway Heritage Memorial Walk.
EverRest called it “community grief visibility.”
Beth called it theft so quietly only Diane heard.
They stood in the back room while the reopening crowd murmured beyond the curtain. The shop was technically under sales hold, but no one had left. People lingered in clusters, staring at the flowers as if the roses themselves might confess.
Theo read from the event page.
“Tomorrow, Holloway Heritage Florals and EverRest Memorial Services honor families touched by loss through the restored Grief Basket Fund.”
Diane’s face hardened. “My husband’s name is on that page?”
Theo swallowed.
“Yes.”
Simon Vale took the tablet and scrolled.
“The Burrell boy is on here.”
Beth closed her eyes.
No.
The Burrell family had asked for privacy after their son’s accident. Beth had delivered the flowers herself and left them on the porch because his mother could not open the door. The idea of his name printed on a corporate memorial path made Beth feel physically sick.
Kendra said, “Those families received fund support. Public acknowledgment encourages donations.”
“You charged some of them,” Diane said.
“Which is being reviewed.”
Beth turned on her. “You had no right to use their names.”
Kendra’s expression hardened. “I had every right to promote a fund attached to my family business.”
Lana Price spoke from the worktable. “The business is under hold.”
“The event is at the cemetery,” Kendra said. “Not here.”
Victor Ames, who had been too quiet, adjusted his cuffs. “EverRest will postpone until documentation is clarified.”
Kendra stared at him.
“You will not.”
Victor’s voice cooled. “We do not attach our brand to disputed grief assets.”
Beth almost laughed again.
Disputed grief assets.
Every phrase from his mouth sounded like a reason flowers should never be sold by people who did not know what hands looked like after holding a hospital railing. She pushed the thought away. Hospital imagery too much. She corrected herself: after holding a kitchen table at midnight. That was truer anyway.
Kendra grabbed her phone.
“What are you doing?” Theo asked.
“Fixing my event.”
She walked toward the front door.
Reece blocked her.
“Kendra.”
“Move.”
“No.”
They stood there, cousins by blood and strangers by choice.
Kendra lowered her voice. “I paid your back rent.”
Reece flinched.
The room heard it.
His cheeks went red.
Beth’s heart twisted.
There it was. Another leash.
Kendra used money like wire: thin, easy to hide, strong enough to cut skin.
Reece whispered, “I’ll pay you back.”
“You can’t.”
“No,” he said. “But I can stop owing you more.”
He did not move.
Kendra looked past him to the customers. Her public mask returned in pieces.
“This shop cannot function if every act of modernization is treated as betrayal.”
Diane stepped forward.
“You put my husband on a memorial event after charging me for free flowers.”
“That was a billing mistake.”
“You called Beth a thief for your mistake.”
Kendra’s mouth tightened.
Then the front bell rang again.
Beth braced herself.
But it was not another inspector. It was Marjorie Holloway, Kendra’s mother.
She entered in a pale blue coat, carefully made up, silver hair shining, posture stiff with the authority of someone who had been telling family stories for decades and believed repetition made them law.
“Kendra,” she said. “What have you done?”
Kendra’s relief was immediate and ugly.
“Mom, thank God. Tell them Beth has always overstepped.”
Marjorie looked at Beth.
Old history moved between them.
Beth had not seen Marjorie in nine years. Not since Celia’s seventieth birthday party, when Marjorie toasted “family sacrifice” and Beth washed dishes in the back because no one had set a place for her.
Marjorie’s gaze dropped to the order book.
“You still have that.”
Beth said, “Celia told me to keep it.”
Marjorie’s mouth thinned.
“Celia told many people sentimental things.”
“She filed this one with the city,” Lana said.
Marjorie looked at the inspector as if noticing her for the first time.
Kendra rushed forward. “The old operator agreement doesn’t matter if the fund was mishandled.”
Marjorie’s eyes flicked toward her daughter.
Too fast.
Beth saw it.
So did Simon.
“What do you know about the fund?” Simon asked.
Marjorie drew herself up. “I know my sister wasted money on people who remembered her fondly and paid her poorly.”
Beth felt the words as if they had been thrown at Celia’s photograph.
“Your sister believed flowers belonged to grief before profit.”
“My sister died with unpaid bills and a shop full of people calling her generous.”
“And you?”
Marjorie smiled without warmth.
“I lived.”
The cruelty was so calm it stunned the room.
Kendra looked suddenly less like a mastermind and more like a daughter raised on resentment with a better wardrobe.
Beth understood something then.
The rot was older than the reopening.
Marjorie walked to the wall where the new permit hung.
“This shop belongs to the Holloways.”
Beth opened the old order book to the front page.
Celia’s handwriting filled the first line:
Holloway & Thorn: Celia Holloway and Mara Mercer, founding partners.
The room stilled.
Beth had seen that page a thousand times and never asked the question it now demanded.
Mara Mercer.
Her mother.
Beth whispered, “Founding partners?”
Marjorie’s face changed.
Kendra looked confused. “Who is Mara?”
Beth looked at Marjorie.
“My mother worked here before I was born.”
Marjorie said nothing.
Beth’s pulse thundered.
“You told everyone Celia founded this shop alone.”
Marjorie looked at the door.
May you like
Simon Vale stepped in front of it.
“No one leaves,” he said, “until the first page is read.”
