Chapter 9: Two Weeks
Diane filed on a Tuesday.
I was at a client consultation when Julian texted me: *It's done.
Filed this morning.
Regulator confirmed receipt.*
I excused myself, stepped into the hallway, and stood there for a moment with my phone in my hand.
Then I went back in and finished the consultation.
I had chosen white garden roses and eucalyptus for the centerpieces.
The bride cried a little when she saw the mock-up.
I handed her a tissue and told her they were going to be beautiful.
They were.
Gerald called me that evening.
I almost didn't answer.
Then I did.
"You made a mistake." His voice was controlled, but something underneath it had shifted.
The total confidence from the reception was still there, but it was working harder now.
"Hello, Gerald."
"Whatever you think you've accomplished, you've only created problems for yourself.
Diane Marsh is a discredited former employee with a grudge.
Her documentation is three years old.
My attorneys will have this dismissed within a month."
"Maybe."
"There's no maybe.
I've been through regulatory complaints before.
I know exactly how they work and exactly how long they take and exactly how to make the person who filed them regret it."
"Is this the part where you tell me you're very good at making things difficult?"
A pause.
"I'm giving you a chance to step back."
"I don't want it."
"Meredith." His voice shifted into something almost paternal.
"You're a florist.
You're a young woman who had a painful experience and is now making decisions based on emotion.
I understand that.
But you are not equipped for what I can bring to bear on this situation."
"You're probably right," I said.
"I'm not equipped for it.
Diane is, though.
And her attorney is.
And the financial regulator doesn't particularly care whether I'm equipped or not — they care about the documentation."
Silence.
"I also want you to know," I continued, "that I've spoken to a solicitor about the funeral.
About the deception.
About what it means legally when a group of people conspire to make someone believe a person is d*ad."
"That's not—"
"It has a name, Gerald.
Several, depending on jurisdiction.
My solicitor is looking into which ones apply."
The silence this time was different.
"You're going to destroy this family," he said.
"You destroyed it.
I'm just the florist."
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking slightly.
I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and made a cup of tea and stood at the window while it steeped.
He called back twice.
I let both go to voicemail.
The following week, Adrian came to my shop.
I saw him through the front window before he came in.
He stood on the pavement for almost a full minute before he pushed the door open.
The bell above it rang the same way it always had.
He looked like he hadn't slept.
"I need to tell you something," he said.
"All right."
"Priya knows." He said it quietly.
"I told her.
The night of the wedding, after you left.
I couldn't—" He stopped.
"I couldn't let it go on."
I looked at him.
"She left," he said.
"She went back to her parents.
The merger is off."
"I see."
"My father—" He pressed a hand over his mouth for a moment.
"My father is not speaking to me.
He says I've ruined everything.
That I'm as bad as Julian." He looked up.
"I know that doesn't fix anything.
I know it doesn't come close.
But I needed you to know that I told her.
That I did that much."
I thought about what to say.
"Does she know about the financial investigation?"
"Her father's attorneys contacted her yesterday.
Yes."
"Then she'll be all right.
She has people looking out for her."
Adrian nodded slowly.
He looked around the shop — at the buckets of flowers, the ribbon spools, the small refrigerated case along the back wall.
"I'm sorry, Meredith." His voice broke slightly on the last word.
"I know that's not enough."
"No," I said.
"It isn't."
He nodded again.
He didn't try to argue with that.
"Is there anything—"
"No," I said.
"There isn't."
He left.
The bell rang again as the door closed.
I stood in the quiet shop for a moment.
Then I went back to the arrangement I'd been working on before he arrived — a birthday piece, yellow tulips and white freesia, for a woman turning seventy who had asked for something cheerful.
May you like
I finished it.
It was cheerful.
