CHAPTER 7
The first page of the order book had always been there.
That was what made Beth feel foolish and furious at the same time.
She had opened past it for decades, fingers moving automatically to customer names, dates, ribbon colors, delivery addresses. The title page was part of the scenery. Celia’s looping handwriting. The old shop logo stamped in the corner. A list of first-week orders from 1987.
And one line Beth had never understood because no one had invited her to understand it.
Holloway & Thorn: Celia Holloway and Mara Mercer, founding partners.
Beth’s mother had died when Beth was twelve.
Mara Mercer was not a story people told. She was a photograph on Beth’s dresser, a voice half remembered, a woman Celia described as “best at making cheap carnations look proud.”
Beth had thought Mara was an employee.
Marjorie had let her think that.
Celia had, too.
That hurt in a different way.
Beth looked at Marjorie. “Why is my mother listed as founding partner?”
Marjorie’s face had gone smooth. “Celia was dramatic with language.”
Lana Price leaned over the page. “Founding partner is not dramatic language in a business ledger.”
Kendra stared at her mother. “Mom?”
Marjorie ignored her.
Beth turned another page.
The first order in the book:
Mercer/Holloway Opening Week
Deposit: M.M. savings tin
Cooler rental: C.H. father loan
Rent: split
M.M.
Mara Mercer.
Beth touched the ink.
Her mother’s savings tin had helped open the shop.
Beth felt the room recede.
Celia had loved her. Beth did not doubt that. But love with secrets left bruises in strange places. For twenty-eight years, Beth had worked in a shop her mother helped build, being called loyal help by people who knew more than she did.
Simon Vale’s voice was gentle. “Beth.”
She shook her head once. Not now.
Kendra turned to Marjorie. “Did you know?”
Marjorie’s mouth tightened.
“Everyone knew Mara helped in the beginning.”
“Helped?” Beth repeated.
She flipped further.
The early pages held notes from two hands. Celia’s looping script and another, smaller, sharper handwriting.
Mara’s.
Beth recognized it from old birthday cards.
Not just flowers.
Pricing notes. Supplier calls. Rent splits. A margin note beside the first funeral order:
Never let a family choose between rent and a wreath. M.M.
Beth sat down on the stool behind the design table.
The line Kendra had printed in the brochure had not been Celia’s.
It had not only been Beth’s either.
It had begun with Mara.
Marjorie said, “This changes nothing.”
Lana looked up. “It may change a great deal.”
“No formal partnership was filed,” Marjorie snapped.
“Maybe,” Lana said. “Maybe not. Early business registrations are at city archive.”
Kendra looked at Victor Ames.
Victor looked as if he wanted to evaporate.
Marjorie moved toward the book.
Beth closed it.
“No.”
“You have no right to that.”
Beth looked up slowly.
“For the first time today,” she said, “I’m not sure you know what I have a right to.”
The words surprised her.
They surprised Kendra more.
Marjorie’s face hardened.
“Your mother left this town.”
Beth froze.
“No, she didn’t.”
Marjorie looked at her with something almost like pity.
“She tried.”
The shop went silent.
Beth’s heartbeat moved into her ears.
“My mother died after getting sick.”
Marjorie’s voice lowered. “Your mother died after she tried to force Celia to sell.”
Beth stood.
“That is a lie.”
“Ask Simon.”
Beth turned.
Simon Vale had gone pale.
The room shifted again.
Beth whispered, “Simon?”
He removed his glasses.
“I knew there was a dispute,” he said. “I was young. My father handled the paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
Marjorie smiled faintly.
There. She had wanted this. If the story became Mara greedy, Beth’s moral ground would crack. Kendra watched, confused but hopeful.
Simon swallowed. “There was a proposed buyout in 1988. But I never saw Mara sign.”
Marjorie said, “Because she refused. Then she got sick. Celia kept the shop. End of tragedy.”
Beth heard the missing shape.
“What happened to Mara’s share?”
Marjorie did not answer.
Lana typed on her tablet. “City archives may have partnership dissolution filings.”
Marjorie laughed. “Good luck. Those records are in basement storage. The old flood damaged half of them.”
Beth thought of Celia’s phrase.
I put your name where they cannot sweep it.
Maybe Celia had not only meant Beth.
Theo, still at the tablet, raised his hand slightly.
Everyone turned to him.
“There’s a scanned archive folder in the old POS system.”
Kendra snapped, “Theo.”
He flinched.
Beth said, “Open it.”
Theo tapped through menus.
The old point-of-sale system took forever, a dusty green-screen program running under modern software like a ghost with a password.
A folder appeared:
MERCER FILE — DO NOT MIGRATE
Beth stopped breathing.
Kendra looked at Marjorie.
Marjorie said, “Close that.”
Theo did not.
The folder opened.
Inside were three scans: opening registration, buyout draft, and a handwritten note from Celia.
Theo clicked the note.
Celia’s handwriting filled the screen.
Beth, if they ever try to sell the name without telling you about Mara, read the March page first.
Beth looked down at the order book.
The March ledger page was missing.
Kendra’s eyes went to the trash basket.
Not the white trash basket with the nameplate.
The large shred bin near the hallway.
Beth saw it.
So did Reece.
He crossed the room and lifted the shred bin lid.
Inside, under strips of glossy reopening flyers, lay the missing March page, folded once but not shredded.
Marjorie whispered, “Kendra.”
Kendra said, “I didn’t know what it was.”
Beth picked up the page with both hands.
May you like
At the bottom, beneath Celia’s final note about the Grief Basket Fund, was another line in shakier ink:
Mara’s share was never bought. Beth is not only operator. She is the unpaid half of this shop.
