Two hours later, I was the proud owner of sixty uniquely shaped vases for less than a hundred dollars. I thought the Tiffany blue of the vases would pop against the green walls. The florist suggested orange flowers because orange and turquoise blue mix and mingle so happily together. She gave me a list of all sorts of orange flowers. I would have to modify my green to a leafy green or mossy green. No matter, I was cooking. I had learned that visions, like life, require adaptability.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Four

I hadn’t expected it. I thought I was stronger. Better. Valentine’s Day buried me in those treacherous contractions of could’ve beens. I observed the massive arrangements, boxes of chocolates, festively wrapped presents, cards, and small boxes. I reflected. All that was mine last year. It had all been illusory. Fleeting. I watched from my perch at the bar. I noticed a blind spot. I texted Dexter.

“You realize every time you text Dexter, it costs money,” Griffin said as he placed a second drink at my place. Before I could react, a beautiful blonde with enough makeup on to last until next week gushed up to the bar.

“Hey, Griffin. I’ll take the usual,” she said, her attitude as proprietary as a cat marking its spot. Within no time, Griffin had produced a pink drink for her. “You are the cutest bartender in Atlanta.” She took a sip and continued, “I heard a rumor that you and Henry were about to revamp this place. Are you going to get Julian out of storage to do it?”

“Not this time. We’re using Bailey Edgeworth.”

She interrupted. “The sister? I hear she’s a giant train wreck. I heard her life imploded on her, and she is destitute and getting a divorce!” I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think the word “destitute” was the worst crime in her mind.

“Annabel—” Griffin started, and I interrupted.

“What Griffin is trying to tell you is that I am the sister,” I said with air quotes. When the world knows your riches-to-rags story, what the hell does it matter anymore?

“So sorry, Bailey.” She was already inching away.

“No worries. It’s all true,” I answered with something bordering on satisfaction.

“I’m meeting friends. Griffin, I would love to interview you after your grand reopening.” The name finally clicked, and I realized she was the editor of Buckhead Magazine. She always wrote those inane articles about my men.

“Anything for you, Annabel.” He smiled, but I knew it was for me. “I’ll send over some drinks when your party arrives,” he said with a wink.

When she left, I said, “Don’t encourage her.”