Chapter 2

The next morning, a new tenant moved in next door to Springhill Florals.

A sheet of white paper was taped over the door: "Southside Pro Bono Legal Aid Center."

A young man hopped down from the moving truck.

White shirt, black slacks, a backpack over one shoulder.

A worker asked where to put the law books, and he took the box himself.

"By the window. And don't call me boss. My name's Blake James."

Blake James.

He glanced back and gave me a nod. Polite, controlled, careful not to intrude.

If I hadn't seen the messages on Jackson's phone, I'd probably have thought he was just a good-looking neighbor.

At noon, he came into my shop to buy white balloon flowers.

I asked, "For someone?"

He said, "For someone who helped me a long time ago."

I bent over the wrapping, and his eyes landed on the old scar on my wrist.

I held the flowers out to him.

Then he asked, "You're allergic to yam, aren't you?"

My hands went still.

"How would you know that?"

Blake dropped his gaze quickly.

"The lady next door told me. She said the owner of Springhill can't touch yam."

But on this old street, no one calls me the owner.

They all call me Vivi.

I smiled.

"Is that so?"

That afternoon, Kay came by carrying a thermal container.

"Vivi, Mr. Fox asked me to bring you some soup."

I lifted the lid. Yam chicken soup.

Seven years ago, I took one accidental sip of yam soup and my throat swelled until I couldn't speak.

Jackson carried me on his back to the ER, and afterward he set the word "yam" as a red alert on his phone.

Now he'd forgotten.

Or rather, he no longer cared.

I pushed the container back at her.

The smile on Kay's face thinned.

She leaned in, her voice dropping to almost a whisper.

"Mr. Fox needs someone who can share his load, not someone clinging to the past."

"So what is it you can share? Clients, business dinners, or delivering a pot of soup you know full well will send me into an allergic reaction?"

Her face went white.

The door pushed open just then, and Jackson walked in. He saw the red rims of Kay's eyes and his brow drew tight.

"What's going on?"

Kay lowered her head.

"It's nothing, Mr. Fox. I probably said the wrong thing."

Jackson looked at me.

"Vivi, Kay meant well."

I smiled.

"Wasn't she here to deliver your soup? How did I become the one bullying her?"

Kay said at once, "Never mind, Mr. Fox. It's only natural that Vivi doesn't like me."

Jackson sighed.

"Vivi, you never used to back people into a corner."

I looked at him.

"You never used to forget I'm allergic to yam."

He froze, opened his mouth, and said nothing back.

Jackson had brought a document with him.

"The company's preparing for a funding round. We need you to sign a licensing confirmation."

I opened to the first page: Confirmation of Rights to Springhill Floral Arts' Traditional Preservation Craft.

The agreement was written beautifully, but four words jumped off the page: permanent and exclusive.

I stared at that clause.

"This is the manuscript my mother left me."

Jackson said gently,

"Vivi, we're husband and wife. Why draw such sharp lines?"

"When the company grows, it's for this family too."

"Isn't the company all yours? Since when do you need my signature?"

He watched me for a few seconds. "You've gotten very hard to talk to lately."

After he slammed the door and left, the glass door next door swung open.

Blake stood in the doorway and gave the agreement on the table a single glance.

"Don't sign something like that."

I asked, "Does Mr. James like meddling in his neighbors' affairs?"

He was quiet for two seconds.

"This is a legal aid center."

"And how do you charge for advice?"

"The first sentence is free."

"And the second?"

He looked at me.

"The second is that your husband has no right to take what your mother left you."

As the glass door closed, I saw a black sedan parked across the street.

The window was half down, and someone inside was holding up a camera.

Jackson's game had already begun.