Acts of Violets Read Online Free

family-owned shops, banks, law offices, and restaurants. Five blocks east of the square marked the western edge of the campus of New Chapel University, a small private college where I would have graduated from law school if I hadn’t flunked out. It had something to do with the law professors not liking the way my brain functioned— when it functioned. Apparently, I was supposed to use things like legal precedence, not common sense.
    With Nikki forging a path through the crowd and my mother pushing Dad’s wheelchair, we made our way up the crowded sidewalk on Franklin, past the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill—Marco’s place. At a table outside, two of Marco’s waitstaff were selling grilled bratwurst, hot dogs, and beer by the plastic cupful. Through the big picture window I could see Chris, the head bartender, standing behind the long, polished walnut counter, chatting with a row of customers as he worked the taps.
    Two doors down was Bloomers, with its two bay windows and its old-fashioned yellow framed door with beveled glass center. Bloomers occupied the first floor of a deep, three-story, redbrick building. On the right side was our Victorian-inspired coffee and tea parlor, complete with white wrought-iron tables and chairs, and china cups and saucers in an old-fashioned rose pattern—a great find at the antique mall.
    On the other side was the sales floor, where customers could browse the glass-fronted display cooler for fresh flowers; or the shelves of old bookcases and an antique armoire for silk floral arrangements and small gift items; or even the walls, draped with swags and wreaths and decorative mirrors. For me, though, the real delight lay behind a curtained doorway in the back—my own little slice of paradise, the workroom.
    It was a tropical garden-like space filled with fresh blossoms, dried flowers, heavenly aromas, and glass vases and pottery containers of all sizes. It was in that room that I could open up my soul and let it sing. Holding those dewy petals in my fingers, smelling the sweet fragrance of the beautiful blossoms, I was lifted away from the everyday problems and stresses of life and transported into a zone of tranquility.
    I had always loved the old redbrick building on the square, but I never dreamed I would own a business in it. After my disastrous year at law school and my breakup with my fiancé, Pryce Osborne II, I didn’t think I had any dreams left. Then my former employer, Lottie Dombowski, made a startling suggestion: buy her flower shop.
    She hadn’t really wanted to sell the quaint little shop, but her husband’s enormous medical bills had wiped out her cash reserves. I wanted to help her out—I had worked as her assistant, delivering flowes and helping with arrangements—but what did I know about running a business? Nothing. Still, the only things I’d ever had luck with were plants, so six months ago I used the rest of the trust fund my grandfather had left me to secure a mortgage; then I immediately hired Lottie as my assistant. It had worked out beautifully for both of us.
    When we reached Bloomers, Lottie was out front assembling a bouquet for a waiting customer, while Grace was inside, handling the shop and coffee parlor. Business was usually dead on the festival’s opening day, so we used the table outside to lure customers from the arts and crafts fair across the street.
    While Mom took Dad inside for a cup of Grace’s famed chamomile tea, and Nikki went along for a cup of espresso, I stayed to chat with Lottie.
    “How’s business?” I asked quietly.
    “Starting to pick up now that the parade is over.” She handed the wrapped arrangement to the customer, then glanced at me. “All right,” she said, folding her arms over her bounteous bosom, “you want to tell me what’s causing that wrinkle in your forehead?”
    I tried to erase the crease with my index finger—as if there was a way to hide anything from the mother of seventeen-year-old quadruplet boys.