Return to Rosewood. Bonnie K. Winn

      As he singled out the building key, Bret noticed that the door didn’t look firmly closed. He stepped back a few inches. The sign indicating whether they were open was flipped to Closed. Pushing on the door lightly, it opened. “Peter?”

      Silence.

      Bret glanced back at the parking lot, which was empty. Peter always drove to work. Turning on the inside lights, Bret could see that the ledger was laid out on the main counter. Peter was supposed to have closed up the previous evening, which meant locking the ledger in the small office.

      Heading to the back of the shop, Bret didn’t need long to see the office wasn’t locked, either. A too familiar anger grew. Peter had been slacking off more and more. And it was at the worst possible time.

      The recession hadn’t spared Rosewood. People didn’t consider plants a vital necessity. As receipts shrunk, Bret had been forced to rethink his business plan. He’d offered retirement packages to his three oldest employees. That had left him with Peter, whose redeeming quality was superior horticulture knowledge, and two young women who had agreed to share one position.

      However, as each woman found a full-time job elsewhere, they’d left. And, now it was just Bret and Peter. Unfortunately, Peter had taken the changes as a permanent job guarantee.

      Grabbing the phone, he punched in Peter’s number. It rang and rang. Bret slammed the phone down hard enough to make the base rattle.

      Just then he heard Peter’s old Camaro screech into the lot, the low underside scraping on the driveway as it did every day.

      Bret gritted his teeth as Peter took his time dragging into the store.

      Peter paused to flip the sign on the door to Open.

      “Turn it back.”

      Surprised, Peter frowned. “It’s time.”

      “It’s past time.”

      Shrugging, Peter yawned. “No customers.”

      “If anyone had come when we’re supposed to be open, do you think they’d wait around until you decided to show up?”

      Peter sighed, a long-suffering sound that told Bret that he wouldn’t listen. Certainly wouldn’t change.

      “We’ve talked about this…I don’t know. What? More than a dozen times now?” Bret raised his voice. “You’re constantly late. Last night you didn’t bother to put the ledger in the office. Not that it would’ve mattered. You didn’t lock the office or the front door.”

      Peter stared at the floor, clearly bored.

      “Consider yourself on probation.”

      “Probation?” Peter looked genuinely shocked, then amused. “You going to have the rest of the staff take over?”

      “I’d do as well running the place by myself. At least I wouldn’t lead the wolf to the hen house.”

      “Hen house?”

      How such a dimwit could be so talented with plants mystified Bret. “Just worry about your probation. Ninety days. Clean up your act or you’re out.”

      Anger flashed in the man’s muddy-colored eyes and he pinched his lips together.

      Bret waited to see if Peter would save him the trouble and quit.

      Instead, Peter picked up his scruffy backpack and stalked off toward the office.

      Bret remembered his promise to Sam that he’d pick up breakfast at the café. “Just a minute.”

      Peter slowed down, but didn’t come to a complete stop.

      “I’m going out for awhile. Anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell.”

      “Whatever.”

      Regretting hiring the man for the thousandth time, Bret turned the sign on the door and headed to his apartment over the shop via the outside stairwell. Employing Peter had been a favor. One of his older customers, Val Gertenstal, had convinced Bret that although Peter wasn’t a people person, he was a genius with plants. When they’d been fully staffed, Peter’s odd ways hadn’t mattered, since he worked in the cultivating area. Now that he was expected to help on both sides of the business, every ugly thorn was showing. And sticking into Bret’s hide.

      Once inside his apartment, Bret grabbed a cooler. Neighbors would eventually deluge Sam with casseroles and anything else she needed. Just as soon as the truth came out about the extent of the fire.

      Frowning, he wondered if she really had changed that much. She’d always been as honest as they came. Even though it had ripped out his heart, Sam had been truthful about why she’d left years earlier. Their priorities hadn’t meshed. Words he would never forget.

      By the time Bret got back to her house, Sam was staring out the large bay window in the living room. Always independent, she had to be chafing at all the constraints.

      He moved the dining room chairs away from one side of the table so Sam would have easy access. “You’d better get over here if you don’t want cold eggs.”

      She continued to stare out the window.

      “Let me rephrase. I don’t want cold eggs, so get a move on.”

      Startled, she pivoted, then stared.

      “Chair isn’t going to roll over here on its own.” He set the Styrofoam cups of coffee on the table. “You still take sugar?”

      “Uh, yeah. One.” She reached slowly to move the wheels.

      “Eggs are all scrambled. Thought that was easier. Della put in bacon, sausage and I don’t know what all.”

      “Della’s still at the café?”

      “Yep. And still telling me to eat my vegetables.”

      That edged out a smile as Samantha neared the table. “Guess she thought we ought to eat something besides French fries.”

      “A potato is a vegetable.” Watching, he saw her glance at the food.

      The arms of Samantha’s wheelchair fit easily beneath the century-old mahogany table. Although the house was Victorian, the furnishings were Edwardian and simpler in nature. They had been passed down along with the house. Samantha’s mother, Joyce, had added her own touches—particularly her love of collectibles, lots of collectibles. Still, the house hadn’t changed that much since it was built, aside from updates to the kitchen and bathrooms. But Bret suspected it was far different from Sam’s New York style.

      The waitress had sent along a stack of real plates and silverware. “Della said we can return this stuff whenever.”

      “So she knows?” Samantha asked in a small voice.

      “Have to start somewhere. How ’bout calling your uncle later?”

      Samantha ducked her head. “It would hurt his feelings if he heard from somebody else.” Her father’s brother, Uncle Don, and his family had always been close to hers. Joyce, an only child, didn’t have as many relatives. “I’ve made a real mess of things, haven’t I?”

      “Not yet.”

      The self-pity faded from her eyes. “Gee, don’t hold back. Say what you think.”

      “You already know what I think.”

      She sniffed the delicious aroma of fresh biscuits. “Hard to miss.”

      He handed her a biscuit on a small plate. “We have enough condiments to open our own café.”

      Her fragile hand shook as she picked up the biscuit and took a bite. Even though Sam had always been petite, she’d also been physically strong and active. It shocked him that she was so thin it looked like the breeze from a hand-held fan would blow her over. As she concentrated on her biscuit, Bret took the opportunity to scoop some eggs onto her plate.