“But the recordings?”
He sighed.
“They upload to a cloud account.”
Eleanor folded her hands.
“Then I suggest you preserve today’s footage before anything happens to it.”
Gordon studied her.
“Why?”
“Because an innocent young woman’s reputation may depend on it.”
He looked toward the front window.
Vanessa was pacing outside, talking sharply into her phone.
Gordon lowered his voice.
“She’s an important customer.”
Eleanor held his gaze.
“So was the woman you dismissed.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he walked toward the office.
Eleanor waited while he opened the recording system.
The video took a moment to load.
Then the shop appeared on the screen.
There was Vanessa examining the roses.
Maya arranging flowers.
Eleanor standing near the counter with her daisy.
Gordon moved forward through the recording.
The damaged pot appeared.
Maya carried the rose toward the workroom.
And then Vanessa stepped beside Maya’s tote bag.
She looked toward the doorway.
Opened the bag.
Placed a small velvet pouch inside.
Then returned to the consultation table as though nothing had happened.
Gordon stared at the screen.
“Oh, no.”
Eleanor said nothing.
He played it again.
Then a third time.
His face changed from disbelief to shame.
“I let her do that.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“You can still make it right.”
Gordon swallowed.
“She’ll cancel the contract.”
“Perhaps.”
“That could ruin the shop.”
Eleanor glanced at the flowers around them.
“Mr. Pratt, your business has survived because people trust you. What do you think will happen when that trust is gone?”
He looked down.
Then he saved a copy of the recording.
“I’ll tell the truth.”
Eleanor nodded.
“Good.”
She reached into her handbag, which Walter had brought from the car, and took out a small card.
It carried the name of Richard Bell, her longtime attorney and business adviser.
“Please send the recording to this address,” she said.
Gordon looked at the card.
“Who are you?”
Eleanor smiled faintly.
“Someone who believes Maya deserves better.”
She left before he could ask anything else.
Walter was waiting beside the car.
He opened the door.
“Where to, Mrs. Hartwell?”
Eleanor sat down carefully.
“First, call Richard. I need him to preserve some information.”
Walter nodded.
“And after that?”
Eleanor looked down at the daisy in her lap.
“Find out where Maya Reyes lives. I’d like to visit her.”
Walter started the car.
He had worked for Eleanor and Harold for nearly twenty years.
He knew better than to ask unnecessary questions.
But as they drove away, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“Did the florist pass your test, ma’am?”
Eleanor looked out at the shops along the street.
“The florist did.”
She paused.
“Unfortunately, the bride did not.”
Maya lived in a modest duplex on Larkspur Lane.
The front steps needed painting, and a small wooden bench sat beside the door.
But the yard was beautiful.
Roses climbed along the fence.
Herbs grew in terracotta pots.
A narrow stone path led to a vegetable garden behind the house.
Eleanor stepped out of the car and took in the scene.
Someone had created beauty here with patience rather than money.
Maya opened the door wearing jeans and an old sweater.
“Ms. Brooks?”
Eleanor smiled.
“I hope I’m not intruding.”
Maya looked past her toward the elegant black car.
Then back at Eleanor.
“Of course not. Please come in.”
Inside, the house smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread.
A small dining table stood beside the kitchen window.
Family photographs lined the shelves.
Maya offered Eleanor tea and insisted she stay for lunch.
After the morning they’d both endured, Eleanor expected the young woman to be angry.
Instead, Maya seemed more concerned about whether her unexpected guest had eaten.
“You’re very kind,” Eleanor said.
Maya shrugged.
“My father always said there’s room for one more plate.”
They sat at the kitchen table.
Maya served vegetable soup and thick slices of homemade bread.
Eleanor tasted the soup.
“It’s wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
Maya smiled.
“I learned from my mother. She worked in a school cafeteria for thirty years.”
Eleanor looked around the room.
“Your parents must have been proud of you.”
Maya’s smile softened.
“I hope so.”
She glanced toward a framed photograph on the shelf.
It showed a smiling man standing among rosebushes.
“That’s my father, Tomas.”
Eleanor studied the picture.
“He looks happy.”
“He was always happiest in the garden.”
Maya reached for her tea.
“He started growing roses when he was a teenager. Later, he worked for nurseries and landscaping companies. He always wanted his own flower shop, but there was never enough money.”
“What happened?”
“He kept putting it off. He said there would be time after the mortgage was paid, after I finished school, after the next busy season.”
She looked toward the window.
“Then he became ill. We lost him two years ago.”
Eleanor listened.
Maya continued.
“Before he passed, he made me promise I’d open my own shop someday.”
“Have you tried?”
Maya gave a small laugh.
“I’ve looked at storefronts. I’ve made business plans. But every time I think about leaving a steady paycheck, I get scared.”
Eleanor nodded.
“That’s understandable.”
“Now I don’t have the steady paycheck anyway.”
She tried to smile.
Eleanor reached across the table.
“May I ask you something?”