Chapter 4 Petals and Paychecks

Lily's POV

Before the sun rose on my first day of work, I knew there was one last goodbye I had to make. The walk back to my childhood home was heavy with finality.

The walk back to my childhood home was heavy with finality. The dilapidated stilted house sat at the edge of pack territory, shamefully hidden among overgrown trees like an embarrassing secret.

I pushed open the door, wincing at the familiar creak. The interior was a monument to our family's collapse—empty bottles littered the floor where my father had dropped them, dust covering everything except the paths I'd worn moving through the rooms.

My fingers brushed against a crack in the living room wall. I remembered exactly how it formed—dad hurling a chair after mom had begged him to stop drinking. I was twelve then, hiding with Silver in our bedroom closet, hands pressed over my ears.

In the corner of my parents' bedroom, I knelt beside the loose floorboard where mom had hidden her treasures. I pried it open and removed the small metal box. Inside was her lavender scarf—the one she wore on special occasions—and dad's old leather notebook filled with medicinal plant information from his days before the alcohol took over.

"At least you taught me something useful," I murmured, leafing through the pages of careful illustrations and notes.

In my room—the one I'd shared with Silver after mom died—I stood silently, remembering how I'd pushed the dresser against the door on bad nights. The walls were bare now; we'd taken our few belongings with us when we left.

"We're really leaving," I whispered, both to myself and the ghost of the scared girl who had survived here. The mixture of relief and grief was overwhelming. This broken home was still the only one I'd ever known.

The morning air felt electric as I pedaled my second-hand bicycle through Silver Ridge. The small town was just waking up—shopkeepers opening doors, early risers walking dogs, the smell of coffee drifting from the bakery.

Green Thumb sat on the corner of Maple and Pine, its cheery yellow facade a stark contrast to the gray businesses surrounding it. The flower shop was small but charming, with window displays that changed weekly and always drew admiring glances from passersby.

I slowed my bike to a stop across the street, my heart hammering against my ribs. This wasn't just a job—it was my first real step toward independence, toward building something for Silver and me that couldn't be shattered by a drunken fist or cruel words.

"You can do this," I whispered to myself, securing my bicycle to a rack nearby.

I smoothed down my only decent shirt—a light blue button-up I'd found at the thrift store last week—and checked my reflection in a nearby window. The face that stared back looked both too young and too old for eighteen, with eyes that had seen more than they should have.

Through the large front window, I could see Mrs. Bennett arranging flowers, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun, her movements precise and confident. Old Martha had spoken highly of her—"A fair woman who values hard work over social standing," she'd said.

I took a deep breath and walked to the door, my hand hesitating on the brass handle. What if I wasn't good enough? What if my knowledge of wild plants didn't translate to cultivated flowers? What if—

My wolf stirred inside me, not aggressively but reassuringly. She rarely made her presence known during daylight hours, but I felt her strength flowing through me now.

The small bell above the door jingled as I pushed it open, announcing my arrival. Mrs. Bennett looked up from the arrangement she was crafting, her eyes finding mine across the shop filled with color and life.

"You must be Lily," she smiled, pushing her silver-streaked hair behind her ears. "Martha's told me all about you. Right on time—I appreciate punctuality."

"Good morning, Mrs. Bennett." I tried to sound confident. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity."

"Martha speaks highly of your knowledge of local plants. We'll see if that translates to floral work." She gestured for me to come behind the counter. "Hang your jacket there and we'll get started."

I nodded, grateful that Old Martha had talked me up. This job meant everything—the final piece needed for my plan. Every paycheck would bring Silver and me one step closer to leaving Silver Ridge together.

"Is your brother still adjusting well at Martha's house?" she asked, handing me an apron with the shop's logo.

"He's doing great with her for now," I replied, my fingers trembling slightly as I tied the apron strings.

"Martha mentioned you've been saving for his education too. That's admirable." Her eyes softened. "Not many sisters would make such sacrifices."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "He's smart. He deserves the chance."

"Well, let's see if you have what it takes to work with flowers," she said, handing me a pair of shears. "These roses need deadheading. I'll show you how to properly shape them."

Mrs. Bennett demonstrated the technique, and I followed her lead. My fingers worked carefully, removing wilted blooms exactly as she showed me. With plants, I found a certainty that human relationships never offered. They responded predictably to care, followed natural cycles, existed without hidden agendas.

"You have a natural touch," Mrs. Bennett observed after watching me work for a while. "The plants seem to respond to you."

I focused on the roses, avoiding her gaze. "My father taught me about plants when I was young. Before... everything."

"Sometimes knowledge comes to us from complicated places," she said simply. "What matters is what we do with it."

Throughout the morning, she walked me through basic tasks—watering schedules, display arrangements, pricing structures. I absorbed every detail, determined not to waste this chance.

After lunch, Mrs. Bennett led me to the greenhouse attached to the shop's back.

"This is where the real magic happens," she explained, pushing open the glass door. "A florist is only as good as her source materials."

The humid air wrapped around me, carrying the mingled scents of dozens of flower varieties. Light filtered through the glass ceiling, creating a kaleidoscope of colors across the concrete floor.

"The first thing you need to know is that different flowers have very different needs," she began. "The azaleas need more acidic soil," she explained, adjusting a drip system. "And these orchids—"

"Need higher humidity but indirect light," I finished automatically, then bit my lip. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

Instead of being annoyed, Mrs. Bennett smiled. "Martha wasn't exaggerating about your knowledge. That's good—it means I won't have to start from scratch."

We moved systematically through sections dedicated to seasonal blooms, evergreens, and specialty varieties. Mrs. Bennett shared which arrangements sold best for different occasions and which customers preferred which flowers.

"The Aldermans always want lilies for their dinner parties, but Mrs. Hemsworth considers them funeral flowers," she noted. "Little details like that make all the difference in this business."

I absorbed every word, filing away the knowledge. Learning had become second nature—survival meant never wasting an opportunity to acquire useful information.

"And here," Mrs. Bennett said, unlocking the door to the final greenhouse room, "are some of our more specialized varieties."

The humidity hit me first, then the riot of colors—exotic blooms from climates far removed from our mountain town. Butterflies fluttered between flowers, part of the controlled ecosystem she'd created.

"These need particular attention to—" Mrs. Bennett continued, but her voice suddenly seemed distant.

I hurried to keep up with her, but when my eyes followed her pointing finger to the flowers she was introducing, my heart stopped.