The Longbourne Flower Shop had been a staple of Greenwich Village since the nineteenth century when my industrious British ancestors purchased a handful of buildings and made it their home and business. Greenhouses were built on the roof and spanned the backyards of all five properties—the shop, our home, and three tenant buildings which had been sold in the 90s to fund Longbourne’s expansion. It was our claim to fame, our draw. We were the largest greenhouse in Manhattan, and that we provided our own flowers rather than the Chelsea market or Long Island made us famous. Once, at least.

Home was a modest word for the building we occupied. Nearly five thousand square feet of Victorian brownstone stood proudly on Bleeker, our home passed down through five generations and grandfathered in by New York’s generous laws and codes. Six bedrooms, two parlors, servants’ quarters, a library. And as we passed through the grand doorway, the house seemed to be untouched by time, just like the flower shop. Although, rather than roller skates and skateboards and backpacks like when we had been kids, the entryway was littered with a jumbled pile of shoes, gym bags and purses, coats and scarves in the dead heat of July.

Laughter and chatter floated through the walls and doorways, the chaos of the house as familiar as Mom’s arms around me and the scent of the flower shop.

I’d always hated the quiet. Wendy hated that I couldn’t sit in silence. There was always music going, no matter the time of day or what I was doing. Even when I slept, I slept with white noise. It used to drive her crazy.

Then again, everything drove Wendy crazy.

It was just that the Bennet home was never quiet, nor was it clean despite a crew of three women who came weekly to try to manage the mess. Really, it consisted of them moving piles of things from one place to another in an effort to clean around them.

Mom and I headed into the dining room, which brimmed with raven-haired Bennets.

Our mother had an odd—and for some of the Bennet brood, inconvenient—taste for Roman names. The eldest was Julius, who went strictly by Jett. Calling him Julius would result in one of several reactions—a black eye, a popped nose, or a fat lip. Once, I’d earned all three along with an atomic wedgie. His twin sister was younger by three minutes. Elaine—Laney, which was our grandmother’s name—was as irreverent as she was headstrong and opinionated, a Bennet gene that streaked strong and loud. And then there was Marcus, who lounged at one end of the table in his suit with a newspaper in hand like some relic from the past—no one other than Dad read newspapers anymore. But there he sat with his nose in the crease like the dork he always was. At his side stood Kassius, my twin by Irish standards. Kash and I had been born eleven months apart and shared a room until I left for LA.