“It’s your daughter’s seventeenth birthday.” And he was marking the day without the love of his life. His daughter’s mother. His partner. Flora wanted to gather him up and hug him. And she wanted to gather up his daughter, too. She knew loss, and understood the great tearing hole it left in a life. You were left to try to stick together pieces that no longer fit. Your life became a patchwork, with a few holes.

“Becca—my wife—would have known exactly what to buy her. She always chose the perfect gift no matter what the occasion. She probably would have thrown a party of some sort, with all the right people—but I’m not my wife and sadly she didn’t leave notes. Her death was sudden. I’m winging this.”

Flora breathed slowly. He didn’t need her crying for him. He needed her to solve his problem. And gifts were always difficult. She tried hard to buy the right gift for people, but she knew she wasn’t perfect. Becca, apparently, had been perfect. She imagined a cool blonde who carried a notebook and scribbled ideas for gifts the moment someone mentioned something in passing.

Buy Tasha a silk scarf in a peach shade for Christmas.

On Christmas Day Tasha would open her gift and gasp, unable to believe that someone had chosen so well.

No one would ever return a gift bought by Becca.

No one would ever look at it and think I already have three of those.

No wonder he missed his wife. And he did miss his wife, she could see that.

He had a powerful physical presence, and yet he seemed a little lost and dazed. Flora hadn’t known it was possible for someone to look so strong, and solid and yet totally vulnerable.

“Flowers are a perfect idea.” She felt a sudden urge to lighten his load. People-pleasing wasn’t always about being cowardly. Sometimes it was just about wanting to help someone. “Great choice.”

He glanced at the bouquet Julia had just finished. “Roses?”

“There are better choices for a seventeenth birthday. Tell me a little about her. What does she like?”

“At the moment? I’m not even sure. She doesn’t open up to me.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and then waved his hand apologetically. “You probably think I’m a terrible father.”

“You’re here, trying to find the perfect gift for your daughter, that makes you a thoughtful father. Grief is always difficult.”

“You speak from experience?”

She did. She was sure she knew everything he was feeling, and everything his daughter was feeling although Flora had been younger, of course. Was there a good age to lose a loved one? Flora didn’t think so. Even now, so many years later, she would catch the scent of a flower and miss her mother. “What does your daughter like to do in her spare time?”