Later, Marco sent me a copy of my ticket. He had paid it. But he attached a letter that he had sent to Chief Ass Burn’s superior, detailing the traffic stop and the exorbitant cost of the ticket and what Chief Ass Burn had said to me.

Wow. The man could write.

I thanked him by giving him five books I knew he’d love. I brought them to his clinic.

“Thank you, Marco.” I had given him a check for the ticket. He had ripped it up.

“My pleasure, but you didn’t need to give me these books. It was the least I could do. I’m sorry it happened.”

“I’ll be glad when Chief Allroy is back.”

“Me too.”

I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t. I smiled, turned away. I knew he was watching me get into my truck and drive away from his idyllic home on the island with, undoubtedly, a bouncy and comfy bed where I would not get to bounce or be comfy.

* * *

“You’re not selling pot out of Flowers, Lotions, and Potions, are you?” I set my fork down on my table. I had invited my mother and aunts for dinner at my place. I had candles down the center of the table, interspersed with Mister Lincoln red roses in three glass vases.

I’d made chicken parmigiana and lemon pie. No. That’s a lie. I bought chicken parmigiana from the new Italian restaurant and a lemon pie from Bettina. I had a small piece of lemon pie before dinner to cleanse my palate.

“No, heavens no!” My mother’s tone was outraged, as if I had asked her if she stole horses from neighboring farms.

“Goodness gracious golly! How could you think that?” Aunt Camellia said, all high-and-mighty. “Marijuana? In Flowers, Lotions, and Potions? Never.” She shook her finger at me. “Don’t even suggest it, young woman.”

“We are businesswomen,” Aunt Iris said, her brow furrowed at me. “We make decisions that positively affect our profit line and elevate the level of the company. We do not sell products that do not enhance this goal.”

“We can’t have people coming to the counter and saying, ‘One tulip bouquet, one joint,’” my mother said. “Or ‘Roses and mowie wowie, please!’”

“Oh, my gosh,” I moaned, knowing my question was perfectly legitimate. “I’m not intimidated.”

I had seen a number of people following my mother and aunts to the greenhouse. Chatting, laughing, gossiping. They would come out with a small bag of marijuana, wrapped in a pink ribbon. Yes, pink. And the pink ribbon always held a flower, a black-eyed Susan, white daisy, lupine, dahlia, or snapdragons, depending on what they had in the greenhouse and outside. They were selling pretty pot.

“Nothing wrong with making pot lovely,” my mother said when I talked to her and my aunts about it.