She’s here to pick up a custom birthday arrangement, which I fetch from the back. She asks for a card, and when she’s done filling it out, she hands it to her son, who opens the card and reads, “‘To Tom, the love of my life. Happy birthday from your Delia and Blake.’” He looks up and smiles, and two deep dimples appear in his cheeks. Next to me, Owen breathes in sharply and starts coughing. “It’s for Dad!” exclaims Blake.

“He’s so cute,” Owen tells the mom. “Those dimples.”

“Oh, how sweet of you to say that. He is pretty cute, isn’t he?” She looks fondly down at Blake. “He gets the dimples from his father. He’s a carbon copy, really. I mean, right to the core, except for the hair, obviously.”

Owen rings her up, and we help her put the arrangement in the back of her Range Rover. She buckles Blake into his booster seat, and Owen hands him a rose, which Blake accepts with another (dimpled) smile.

“Oh, you’re so sweet! Say thank you, Blakey!”

“Thank you,” says Blake.

“You’re welcome. And happy birthday to your husband, Mrs. . . .”

“Ohara. It’s Japanese. Sometimes we pretend it’s Irish, though. Ohara, O’Hara, get it? Our nickname for our daughter Aubrey is Scarlett.” She laughs: Aren’t we clever! “Ah, well. Anyway, the flowers are gorgeous. Thanks, guys.” She climbs into the driver’s seat and waves as she shuts the door.

Wow. Mrs. Ohara was so glamorous and so swimming-in-money wealthy. Maybe she’s someone famous. Maybe she’s a tech billionaire. Maybe she’s book-group friends with Sheryl Sandberg and Susan Wojcicki. If we could start building a clientele base of people like her, maybe Mom would give us a little more time. Dammit. We should have asked her to refer us, or at least review us—she was so plainly taken in by Owen’s charms. Such as they are.

On our way inside, Owen steps a little too close to me and bumps me slightly, which feels more like a deliberate gesture than an accident. I sneak a quick look at him, and he catches my eye and immediately looks away.

Once inside the shop, Owen hovers next to me, clearly anxious to say something, so I get a broom and start sweeping to get away from him. After a while, I can’t take it anymore.

“What?”

He bites his bottom lip, as if reconsidering telling me anything, like he’s trying to trap in his mouth whatever was on the tip of his tongue.

“What?”

“Oh. Uh.” He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “I was just wondering how you’re doing. You okay?”

“Uh . . . yeah? Why are you asking me? Why would I not be okay?”

“Well. I mean. Did you get a good look at that kid? At his chin? And his dimples?”