Cover

Dedication

To those of you

seeking perfection:

It’s here—

Right here, in the palm of your hand.

For nature doesn’t make mistakes,

and you, my darling, are already perfect.

Author’s Note

Many of us can claim our love for Jane Austen, but only a few of us are foolish enough to retell her stories.

I have taken some liberties with Pride and Prejudice, and I hope you’ll allow me to imagine the Bennet sisters as unruly men (less our Lizzie) and Longbourne as a flower shop in Manhattan. And I hope beyond hope that you enjoy my nod to the Bennets, who we love so well.

1

A Spade’s a Spade

KASH

Heaven existed within the walls of our greenhouse.

The shuck of my shovel against the iron wheelbarrow was the second hand on my day. Rich soil mounded on the spade, and I transferred it into the bed of black-eyed Susans, turning it to feed the sleepy dirt already gathered at the flowers’ feet.

I caught sight of the snowy top of my father’s head between stalks of amber amaranth down the row where he knelt, hands in the earth. He hummed along with the music playing from the portable speaker on our work cart, and with another shuck, I drove my shovel back into the wheelbarrow.

It was peaceful and familiar, the rhythm of our day, the slanting sun, the humid air and smell of flowers. I’d worked in my family’s greenhouse during high school—as had all my siblings—but where they’d made their way into the world, I’d hung back, content at Longbourne with Dad and unable to leave Mom without anyone to fuss over. And if there was one thing Mrs. Bennet required from life, it was someone to fuss over.

I found myself smiling at the thought. She’d see us all married off—in fact, she played the matchmaker like it was her full-time job—but I had to wonder what she’d do with herself once we were all gone. Press us for grandchildren and divert her attention to them, if the rest of the Bennet brood were lucky.

The crack of the swinging metal door against the wall wiped that smile off my face. I shot up from my task with a hard look, appalled and accusing, prepared to smite whoever had disturbed our sanctuary.

Lila Parker blew in like a gale—just like she had almost daily for the last two months—heels clicking like hammers against the cement floor. At the sight of her, my fury abated, replaced by a curious wonder and the incremental slowing of time that always accompanied her entrance.