LITMIR.BIZ

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“Inglenook will also not be in full bloom until Garden Week in May.”

      Kristina had never actually known anyone whose house had a name.

      Honey gave Mrs. Davenport a measured look. “Which, of course, works out perfectly for you.”

      Mrs. Davenport sniffed. “Inglenook has taken the Garden of the Year award for the last five years.”

      “Perhaps not this year.” Honey batted her lashes. “It’s probably best not to count your trophies before they bloom.”

      Kristina’s mouth twitched. Garden divas. Got it. Stay out of the fray.

      Mrs. Parks shook her head. “Ladies, let’s get back to decorating the sanctuary of the Lord this Sunday.”

      As if taking on a life of its own, Kristina lifted her hand. “What about an arrangement of sasanqua camellia? I have several bushes in bloom right now...” Horrified, she dropped her hand into her lap.

      What on earth had possessed her to violate her personal policy of always flying under the radar? Rule one in navigating tricky social hierarchies—keep a low profile.

      Evy leaned forward, her trademark heels planted on the pine floor. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Her ponytail swished as she angled toward Mrs. Davenport. “Don’t you, Margaret?”

      Mrs. Davenport stared at Kristina. “Do I know you?”

      “Kristina Montgomery,” she whispered and knotted her fingers in her lap. “My son, Gray, and I just moved to Kiptohanock.”

      Margaret Davenport’s nose wrinkled. “A ‘come here.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” She was whispering again. “Weston Clark’s sister.”

      “Which makes you related to the Duers.” Mrs. Davenport pinched her lips together. “By marriage.”

      Already she’d fallen afoul of village politics. Blacklisted by association.

      Honey bristled. “As is Evy.”

      Margaret Davenport, also known as the Kiptohanock grapevine, had a soft spot for the young librarian. Behind her fashionable horn-rimmed glasses, Evy’s blue eyes sparkled.

      Honey placed her palms on the armrests. “Which makes Evy my sister, too.” She threw Mrs. Davenport a small smile. “By marriage.”

      Kristina should’ve asked Caroline, her sister by marriage, to draw Kiptohanock family trees to avoid any genealogical land mines.

      Mrs. Davenport steepled her hands under her chin. “And where exactly do you live, Kristina Montgomery?”

      “Outside town. Toward Locustville. I bought the Collier house.”

      Mrs. Davenport fluttered her hand. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Eileen Collier’s garden used to be a showplace.” Her lip curled. “Before that no-good grandson of hers made her a recluse.”

      Canyon Collier, the no-good grandson? Despite how she appreciated him taking Gray to task regarding his attitude, unease needled Kristina. She needed to find out more about her attractive pilot neighbor. For Gray’s sake, of course.

      “The camellias sound lovely.” The reverend’s wife smiled. “What about the other Sundays of Lent leading to Easter, ladies?”

      Kristina raised her hand again. “I have a garden border, mostly of fragrant old-fashioned violets.”

      Her eyes widened. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

      Yet she held her hands in front of herself to demonstrate. “We could place the violets in tiny frogs and group them around the base of the cross—”

      “Purple violets would match the altar cloth.” Mrs. Davenport uncoiled a smidgen. “And in my considerable experience, anyone who knows about a floral frog can’t be all bad.”

      Not a ringing endorsement, but nevertheless...

      Evy swiveled. “What’s a frog?”

      Mrs. Davenport motioned for Kristina to continue.

      She took a breath. “Frogs are used in the bottom of vases and bowls to hold flowers upright in an arrangement. The frogs are usually made in a woven grid of wire spikes. Or a frog can be a round glass disk with holes. Popular in the 1940s, ’50s and ’60s.” She flushed and fell silent.

      Honey nodded. “Do you have any frogs we could use for the altar arrangement?”

      Kristina didn’t usually talk so much. She was far more comfortable fading into the background. But flowers were a passion of hers. “I have my grandmother’s collection of vintage frogs. Colored Depression glass.”

      “Depression glass?” Mrs. Davenport’s eyes lit. “I love Depression glass.” She waved a beringed hand. “In fact, I collect those myself.”

      The baby stirred in her car seat. Honey lifted Daisy and cuddled the child in her arms. “Sounds wonderful. Anything else blooming in your garden, Kristina?”

      Kristina tilted her head, thinking out loud. “I have white and mauve Lenten roses. Some blooming daphne also.”

      Mrs. Davenport’s steely gaze softened. “Lenten roses for the Good Friday service. What could be more appropriate?” A frown creased her brow. “But with my work at the library, I’m not sure I could get to your house and put together a bouquet this week.”

      Evy patted Mrs. Davenport’s arm. “You’re always saying how you’re too busy because of social obligations. Why not put Kristina in charge of the altar flowers this Lenten season?”

      The newlywed librarian winked at Kristina. “Anyone who knows the Latin name for a camellia probably can be trusted to arrange the flowers.”

      Agnes Parks straightened. “An excellent idea. After all, you promised to help me run the Easter egg hunt on the square, Margaret.”

      Mrs. Davenport’s eyes narrowed as if she suspected an attempted coup. “That is true.” She scowled at Kristina. “We have high standards here in Kiptohanock, Mrs. Montgomery.”

      Kristina gulped. “I’ll do my best not to let you down, Mrs. Davenport.”

      Mrs. Davenport became brisk. “Then that item on today’s agenda is settled.” As she shuffled the pages in her lap, her eyes took on a gleam. “I have some ideas to make this year’s pancake supper at the firehouse even more successful than last year. But it will require every hand on deck.”

      Filled with sudden self-doubt, Kristina wondered what she’d done. She wasn’t a professional florist. Gray’s sarcastic remarks about her competence, or lack thereof, replayed in her head. But she loved flowers and always felt most at ease in a garden.

      Like Gray loved tinkering with airplanes? Was she making a mistake in trying to keep him from what he loved?

      Kristina winced at the memory of the scorn in his voice. Was that how he viewed his mother? Fearful, unskilled and worst of all, boring?

      Shell-shocked at Pax’s sudden death, she’d retreated like a turtle into its protective cover. And she’d dragged Gray—against his will—in there with her.

      Was it already too late? She’d been disturbed by the anger in Gray’s voice. At his bitterness—toward her.

      In trying too hard to keep Gray safe, had she already lost her son? Would Pax recognize the woman she’d become? Did she even like the woman she’d become?

      She was tired of waking each morning to the all-consuming fear of what the new day could bring. She was drowning them both with her fears. She’d had such dreams before she married Pax.

      Dreams she’d surrendered gladly as they pursued Pax’s career. Dreams sublimated as the demands of being a wife and mother slowly eroded everything she used to be. Was it time to reach for those dreams again?

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