Synopsis: Daisy Bluhm doesn’t want to run the family flower shop. But when her father suffers a stroke, Daisy and her slacker brother, Bud, are the family’s only hope of saving the store. Will saving her family’s dreams mean giving up her own?

CHAPTER ONE

Smother calling.

I saw my phone’s caller ID screen light up a millisecond before the factory-default ringtone split the silence; a shrill electronic klaxon bouncing off the bare walls of in the Kansas City Art Museum’s newly-renovated reception hall. 

Juggling the pen and small leather notebook I took to all client meetings, I managed to catch the volume button with the side of my thumb, and watched as the sound bars winked down to zero. I dropped the phone into the depths of my shoulder bag, where it continued buzzing in accusation, my mother’s voice scolding me via vibration: I know you can hear me, Daisy. Pick up the phone. 

I gave the museum director a tight, embarrassed smile. “My apologies, Mr. Davis,” I said, pulling back my shoulders into the professional stance I practiced at home in the bathroom mirror. “I didn’t realize my ringer was still on. I assure you that Event Artistry prides itself on professionalism at all times. It won’t happen again.” I stared into the inky black eyes of the man who was in charge of sealing my fate. The Millie Maxwell Exhibit Opening was a plum assignment, a real Who’s Who event, and KCAM was banking on its success to catapult them into the next echelon of arts organizations, alongside the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art or the Kemper.  Fiona Grady, owner of Event Artistry and my boss, had made it clear that she wanted this contract, and that I was going to deliver it to her or I was going to look for a sales job somewhere else. I could not screw this up.  

Mr. Davis furrowed his brow, not breaking eye contact. He looked vaguely reptilian, I decided. The slicked back hair as dark as his wide-set eyes, the small snub nose above a thin-lipped mouth and pointy chin. He watched me as I held my face still, although I was beginning to worry internally. Was he really that upset about a phone call interrupting our meeting? I always turned my ringer down for meetings, but I’d been up late preparing the contract, and woken late. Plus, my Lyft had been almost ten minutes late due to road construction. Small mistakes led to big regrets, as Fiona would say. 

From the bottom of my purse, my phone began buzzing again. 

Go away, Mom. 

The moment teetered into awkward silence, then he broke and began to laugh. “I’m kidding, Ms. Bluhm,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder in a way that implied we were closer than two people who’d met twenty minutes ago in the lobby. “Don’t look so worried. Of course I don’t mind that your phone rang. You think a phone call is unprofessional? You’re here because the event planner I hired months ago quit her job and left town.” His eyes blazed in anger; his irises liquid. “Can you imagine? Walking away from a career-making event six weeks out. Following a man, no doubt.” His grip tightened then relaxed. “Not that I expect that type of stunt from you. Everything I’ve heard about you and your company is that you’re incredibly professional. That you’re available to your clients at all hours. I imagine your phone rings quite often.” He removed his hand, brushing his fingers against the flutter sleeve of my blouse as he did, and gave me a wink. “And please, call me Reg.”

I gave a quick nod, acknowledging his statement, but not validating it. I brought my notebook and pen up between us and took a step to the side. I didn’t correct his statement that it was “my” company. It wasn’t, but I had plans to change that. Soon. 

“Shall we continue the tour?” I cocked my head. “I want to tell you about our ideas for decorating the main exhibit hall.” I started down the hallway, heels clicking in the empty, soaring space. “Tell me, how do you feel about LED lighting and spandex?”

Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in his office. It was much less grand than his title implied, sporting the same industrial tan walls and carpet and generic office catalog furniture as the rest of the staff. I perched on a hardback plastic swivel chair (the Jules, a child’s chair from IKEA and wasn’t there some subconscious management mind play there to unpack), and smoothed my black pencil skirt. I pinched a rogue piece of lint between two french-tipped nails and dropped it into my purse before producing a black leather binder (a coordinated twin to the notebook I carried) with the event proposal and handed it across the cluttered desktop. 

Mr. Davis (Reg, he’d reminded me again) barely glanced at it, instead, he folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back. His shirt strained across his chest and shoulders, and I could see the faint outline of his undershirt beneath. I steepled my fingers together over my lap and waited, another close-lipped smile resting on my face. In negotiations, the person who speaks first loses. I was here to win. 

He broke the silence. “Well, Ms. Bluhm, I have to say I’m very impressed. I liked what your company did for the Governor's Ball, and I’m intrigued by your vision for our event.” He waved his hand over the contract on the desk. “Send over an electronic version of the contract. I’ll have accounting cut a check for the deposit.” 

My smile broadened, became authentic. Standing, I offered my hand across the desk. “That’s wonderful news, Mr. Davis— Reg,” I stressed, correcting myself before he could. “Event Artistry thanks you for your business.” 

He rose to his feet and shook my outstretched hand. His palm was cool and slightly damp (reptilian, I thought again), and he held on a fraction longer than I was comfortable with. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Daisy,” He leaned in and winked.

I continued smiling as he released my hand, fighting the urge to wipe it across my shirt. “I’ll email you everything as soon as I’m back in the office. And thank you again.” I strode from the office, shoulders back, head high, the very picture of professionalism. I wasn’t going to have to pack my boxes and leave town in shame. The contract was mine. Fiona’s. But still…

I’d done it. 

Yes!

***

Outside the museum, I texted my co-worker John, the good news. He responded immediately, a gif of champagne glasses toasting and the message: Drinks on you tonight!

My smile disappeared at the sight of the voicemail icon. I’d missed two calls from my mother. Even as I stared at the phone, it began ringing again: Smother calling. I rolled my eyes. The woman was worse than Beetlejuice. Merely thinking her name three times made her appear. Of course she had found a way to infiltrate this, the most important day of my life. It drove me crazy how she and my father refused to text, insisting instead that real communication involved hearing real voices. Oh, I heard voices all right: Daisy, come home. Daisy, your family needs you. Daisy, why do you want to move to Kansas City? 

The little voice I heard now whispered: Check the message, it might be important.

I walked to the curb to wait for my ride. Later, I promised; I’ll call her later.