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Chapter thirty-one

R uby

The scent of fresh paint and lavender mingled in the morning air as I stepped through the arched entrance of the Hearts in Bloom Center.

The custom wooden sign, carved and painted by local artists, gleamed in soft pastels overhead.

Where Medicine and Magic Meet. It didn’t just feel like a place anymore. It felt like a promise.

I clipped my clipboard against my hip and scanned the courtyard.

The final flower delivery had just arrived, bursting with late spring daisies, foxglove, and peonies in shades that would make a sunset jealous.

Hazel was bossing around two teenage volunteers as they arranged potted lavender by the welcome desk.

Eleanor was bent over a crate of poetry booklets she insisted everyone receive at the door.

And Marge—God bless Marge—was attempting to hang fairy lights without a ladder, balancing on a wobbly folding chair and pure stubbornness.

“Marge,” I called, jogging over. “Either get down or grow wings.”

She snorted but let me steady the chair. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ve got cat-like reflexes.”

Hazel popped her head up from the planter display. “Those reflexes are retired, Marge. Just like you.”

The banter made me smile, and for the first time in what felt like years, I let myself breathe without waiting for something to go wrong. No crisis. No deadline crashing down. Just... peace.

Damien had already left earlier with the welcome kits. We’d spent the morning elbow to elbow, stuffing reusable totes with pamphlets, stress balls, seed packets, and tiny vials of rosemary essential oil. His handwriting had scrawled the tags: “For your mind, your heart, and your roots.”

He was different now. Not just softer—but fuller. Like all the jagged edges had finally settled into place.

I knelt beside Hazel, adjusting the soil around one of the lavender pots.

“Think they’ll come?” I asked, nodding toward the hill where the town square met the woods. We’d invited everyone from the hospital, the city, old friends and new ones alike.

“They’ll come,” Hazel said. “They’ve been watching this place bloom brick by brick. They want to see the petals open.”

“Poetic,” I said.

She shrugged. “I’m full of it today.”

Across the courtyard, Eleanor straightened and shouted, “Do we need name tags? I could make name tags.”

Marge groaned. “Eleanor, nobody’s gonna forget your name. You’re the only woman in town who still writes checks at the grocery store.”

Laughter fluttered through the courtyard like wind chimes.

As I stood and wiped my hands on my skirt, I caught sight of the mural Damien and I had finished together—a sweeping wildflower landscape with silhouettes of people holding hands through the seasons.

Children, elders, people in wheelchairs, doctors, artists, dreamers. It was messy and colorful and alive.

Just like us.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Damien:

"Ready to change the world, petal?"

I smiled and typed back: "I thought we already did."

I made one last round through the center—checking the community room where Eleanor had insisted on hosting monthly open-mic nights, peeking into the garden library where Hazel had alphabetized the fiction by emotional healing theme, and making sure the health nook Damien had designed was stocked with blood pressure cuffs, thermometers, and handouts written in plain, friendly language.

He’d even added a suggestion box labeled: “Got feelings? Drop them here.”

By the time the sun climbed to its highest point, everything was ready. Every flower fluffed. Every welcome station labeled in pastel chalk. Even the water fountain sparkled.

I walked to the center of the courtyard, spun in a slow circle, and let the moment sink in.

We’d built this.

Not just a building. A home. For every messy, aching, joyful part of who we were.

Hazel caught my gaze from across the path and gave me a thumbs-up.

I closed my eyes and whispered a quiet thank you to the sky.

Because for the first time in forever, I wasn’t searching for what came next.

I was standing in it.

…

There’s a certain kind of magic in messy hands and glitter-covered cheeks. The kids’ class was in full swing, and I stood in front of them with my apron dusted in pollen, paint, and the joy of too many enthusiastic flower picks.

“Remember,” I said, crouching beside little Ellie as she pressed petals into a mason jar lid, “centerpieces don’t have to be perfect—they just have to come from the heart.”

She grinned, missing one front tooth and sporting a daisy crown too big for her head. “Like the center, right Miss Ruby? From the heart!”

“Exactly.” I gave her a wink, but something in my chest swelled with more than just pride.

I glanced around the airy workroom of the Hearts in Bloom Center—sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows, the tables lined with wildflowers and clay vases the kids had painted themselves.

It was chaotic. It was vibrant. It was everything I’d dreamed.

Hazel popped in holding a tray of lemonade. “How are we doing in here? Any flower glue casualties?”

“Just three minor glitter explosions and one rogue ladybug rescue mission.”

“Sounds about right.” She winked and set the tray down. “You’re doing good, Ruby. Real good.”

My throat tightened as I nodded. “Thanks.”

The class wrapped up with the kids proudly displaying their handiwork, some of which were more abstract art than floral design, but every single one held something pure. Love. Joy. A whole lot of elbow grease.

As the last parent picked up their child and the room began to clear, I sat down on the bench near the archway we’d built last month—the one that overlooked the herb beds and now held my favorite wind chimes.

A shadow fell across the gravel path, and I looked up just as Damien approached. He was in his usual rolled-up sleeves, but his hands were tucked behind his back like a man with a secret.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said, eyes twinkling.

I raised a brow. “Unless it’s a giant espresso and ten new pairs of hands, I might cry.”

He chuckled and sat beside me. “No espresso. But I do have this.”

He revealed a small wooden plaque. My breath caught as I read the inscription:

For Ruby Shea—who made hearts bloom.

The engraving was elegant, simple, and impossibly powerful. It took me a moment to find words. “Damien…”

“I know it’s not much. But I wanted something here to always remind people—me included—that this center didn’t grow from blueprints or budgets. It grew from your heart.”

Tears stung my eyes. “It grew from both of us.”

He shrugged, trying to play it off, but I could see the emotion he was fighting to contain. “Maybe. But you taught me how to plant seeds instead of just control the soil.”

Without thinking, I reached for his hand and laced our fingers together. “You changed everything, Damien. Not just the center. Me.”

“Funny,” he murmured, brushing a thumb along my knuckle, “I was just about to say the same thing.”

The garden fell quiet for a moment, as if the world itself paused to let the two of us exist in this soft, soul-deep hush.

And then I kissed him.

It wasn’t planned, or perfect, or anything that would end up in a fairytale. But it was ours. Sweet, tearful, and kissed with the scent of rosemary and earth. We kissed under the garden arch as sunlight danced through the leaves and the wind chimes sang their gentle tune.

“Promise me something,” I whispered against his lips.

“Anything.”

“When the grand opening chaos is over, we plant a cherry blossom tree right here.”

He smiled. “You mean in our garden of chaos and cookies?”

“Exactly. Something that outlives every storm.”

He kissed me again, and for the first time in years, I felt wholly, completely rooted.