Chapter 4: The Garden Party Gamble

Maggie was joking, but Mrs. Thompson took it seriously. She sent out invitations to all the families in Maple Heights, planning a spring garden party at the house.

Her handwriting was neat, looping letters on cream-colored cardstock. She pressed wax seals onto every envelope, inviting half the town to the Thompsons’ garden for lemonade and strawberry shortcake. The invitations were the talk of Maple Heights for a week—rumors buzzing from the church steps to the post office.

In April, on the day of the party—

The morning sunlight streamed through the lace curtains. The house was buzzing with excitement—trays of cookies cooling on the counter, vases filled with tulips and daffodils. Somebody set out a tray of deviled eggs, and the lemonade was already sweating in mason jars. The smell of freshly cut grass drifted in through the open windows. I could hear the distant sound of kids riding bikes up and down the block, shouting about the party.

Early that morning, Maggie started helping me get ready.

“Miss, these are the dresses and jewelry Mrs. Thompson gave you last week. Which one do you want to wear today?”

Her arms were full of pastel dresses and shiny shoes. She laid them out across my bed, giving her opinion on each one. Maggie always fussed over details, from straightening my hair to dusting a bit of powder on my nose. She hummed the tune to ‘You Are My Sunshine’ as she worked, her presence soothing my nerves.

Looking at the row of dresses, I picked the brightest one.

It was a red dress, bold and unapologetic, with a full skirt that brushed against my knees. It felt like a tiny rebellion. I traced the fabric, remembering the last time I wore something this vivid.

The last time I wore something that colorful was on my fourteenth birthday. I’d gone to see Caleb, excited, but he was reading in the study. When he saw me, he just looked up a little:

“The mayor’s future daughter-in-law should be dignified and steady. Why are you dressed like a butterfly?”

The memory stung a little. Back then, I’d wanted nothing more than to impress him. But the words lingered, making me question every choice.

After that, I only picked safe, muted styles. But honestly, I loved red more than anything.

Today, I let myself enjoy the color, letting it remind me of summers on my grandmother’s ranch and the wild poppies that grew along the fence. It felt like claiming a piece of myself back.

As I got up to head to the backyard, I happened to see a little sachet on my dresser. I’d planned to give it to Caleb last month. Every year, I made him one.

The sachet was homemade—stitched together with uneven thread and filled with dried lavender and cedar chips. The habit started as a joke, a way to keep his textbooks from smelling like gym socks. I’d been making them for years, always hoping he’d notice.

On a whim, I tucked it into my sleeve.

I paused, weighing it in my hand, then slipped it into my pocket. Maybe it was time to give it to someone else—or maybe just keep it for myself, a reminder of everything I’d tried to be. The scent calmed me as I stepped out into the hall, ready to face whatever the day would bring.