The door to Tilly Ravensdale's shop flew open as a warm gust of wind, gentle as a kiss in summer, causing flower petals to swirl in the air. The aroma of roses and tulips wafted through the shop, enveloping Dora in her own mind; she always loved opening the door and letting the scent linger in her nose and tasting it on her tongue. The marigold gems, in their vibrant yellow color, seemed to glitter in the pale rays of sunshine, reminding Dora of the fairytales she used to listen to her mother read to her when she was a child.

The sign above the counter read, The Flower Girl and Dora thought it an apt name for the store because Tilly was certainly one of the best floral arrangers in all of New York City.

It was only in Dora's wildest dreams that she could have half the skill of Matilda Ravensdale — the woman even dressed like one of those people one would see on Instagram photos. A walking cottagecore poster girl dressed in vintage style ruffle tiered dresses with puffy sleeves.

Dora paled in comparison with her off-white long-sleeved shirt and grey shawl. She had also fallen into the skinny-jean team with long black go-go boots that her father absolutely detested. She wished she was brave enough to go with something a little more adventurous. It was why she would spend hours on social media sites, scouring image after image, and putting it to her wish list, but never actually purchasing it.

Fresh cut stems crunched under her feet, releasing the heady scent that she had grown accustomed to over the few years that she had been working with Tilly.

The plethora of flowers that took up most of the counter where Tilly was still arranging the bouquet of light pink and white roses was marvelous. With as simple as roses, her boss knew how to make them look enchanting, as if sparkling in the sunlight. Tilly must not have noticed Dora's entrance, even through the crystal toned ding of the bell as the old door flung open. It was something that she needed to note to her boss — replace hinges on the front door.

"Tilly," Dora said. "I'm back. Do you need me to start with a bouquet? I really am sorry I'm late. I lost track of the time."

There was no response as her boss continued to cut stems and lay all the roses in a perfect array.

Dora sucked in the fragrance of rose air through her teeth. "Tilly, please don't do this to me. Do I still have a job?"

Tilly looked up and gasped, putting her hand to her chest, heaving as she grappled both ends of the portable wooden top counter.

"Dora, I didn't even see or hear you come in. For a second, I thought you were an old woman."

"I'm younger than you." Dora laughed. She walked to the edge of the counter and grabbed a stem carefully so as not to get pricked by a thorn. "You need to get your eyes checked."

"So," she said, after a period of silence hung over them like a cloud. "How did it go at David's shop? What was this thing he wanted you to see so badly?"

"It was a desk." Dora placed a rose in a vase shaped like an hourglass.

"A desk?" she arched a brow. "All this over a desk? Here I was thinking it was that locket you've been raving about for weeks. The one you shared with him when you found it online. Not that?"

Dora shook her head. "It's a desk. A rare one, too. Louand and Straub's the company name."

"I know it," she said. "My husband had one of those. I don't have it anymore. Obviously, since he left me for another." She stopped and gritted her teeth as she cut a rose stem, then another, and then another. "For another woman."

Dora never knew what or how to reply to this whenever she went on a tangent about her ex-husband.

"Was it rare, um, like the one David got? He said the company liquidated."

"No, not really. They made hundreds of these desks under the name. Almost all of Belgravia was obsessed with the company at first, but I won't bore you with the history. Leaving England was the best decision I ever made. Good God, New York is a breath of fresh air to all the stifling mansions in Ravensdale. Change subject? I don't want to have a heart attack screaming about Edmund here."

Dora set a bouquet aside and began working on another one. "Well, David gave me a birthday present. I've got it at the register if you want to have a look-see."

"Wait, when was your birthday?"

"June 15th," Dora said.

"And he waited until now to give you your present?" Tilly said, arching her brow.

"He was in London."

Strange seeming to Dora, but she could have sworn in the moment that she saw Tilly's lips form a small frown that only lasted mere seconds. Tilly continued to arrange the roses without so much as looking up at Dora.

"Why was he there?" Tilly asked, her pitch lower than normal. "I thought he hated it as much as I do."

"Well, the auction, that's why. It was the locket." Dora sighed, leaning onto the table. "He wanted to give that to me instead."

Tilly grabbed a champagned toned ribbon and with careful motion, tied around the hour-glass shaped vase. "I see. A locket, huh? What did it look like? You never showed me."

Dora closed her eyes and conjured up the image in her mind. There she saw it as bright and shining as the day she first beheld it on the computer screen. She did not know what to call it — love at first sight? Was that too romantic for the sensation that swept over her?

The flowers were forget-me-nots, her mother's favorite. She thought of her mother then and her heart swelled a little. Seeing the locket and its contents brought back memories she had tried to bury down for a long time. Her father, even years later, was still grieving the loss. She did not want it for herself, no. She wanted it more for him than anything else. To give him something that at least he could remember her by because lately it felt he was slipping away.

"Dora." Tilly patted her shoulder. "Are you awake? I guess I overworked you, after all. You were snoring like a dump truck."

"Oh, I didn't even realize I did that," she said, scratching the base of her neck as she chuckled. "What was your question again?"

"What does it look like?" she asked. "The locket, I mean."

"It's a pressed flower locket, with forget-me-nots inside it. It's brass too. God, it was beautiful. It was even more expensive than the desk, though. It sold for twelve thousand dollars. The jerk who bought it jumped the price that high. David had to give up, unfortunately."

Tilly's cell phone rang, the tune something a little familiar to Dora — perhaps Mozart or Beethoven?

"Hold that thought," she said. "I really must take this call."

Tilly cradled the phone to her ear and greeted the other person on the line, brushing past Dora as she retreated to the back of the room.

Dora set aside the bouquet that she had finished and went up to the register. No customers had come in since she'd been there, which surprised Dora. The place was usually full of people in between her arranging and checking people out. Her hand brushed against the book David gifted her and smiled, seeing the title of the book.

Sarah Greyson: A Life in Paint

Dora opened the book, and her gaze rested upon a painting that she had never known before. It was not in any gallery that she was aware of. She tracked where every one of Sarah Greyson's paintings ever were. There was The Innocents, perhaps her most famous, at The Louvre. Then, The Stranger and Elizabeth at Hyde Park at the MoMa. The Doctor at The New Orleans Museum of Art.

The painting was that of a young man, standing in a garden by himself. His head hung low, contemplative, in the painting and immediately Dora connected with it. She looked down at the title and it read The Parting.

"What do you mean, you can't?"

Tilly's voice was loud enough to ring through from the closed door of their back room and it made Dora stop in her tracks and bring her ear closer to the source of the sound.

"Come on, you know that's ridiculous. You should have told me you would not buy it, you stupid idiot. You know I gave up my life for you, Edmund? I gave up a career in art because you wanted to marry me. And you blow it all away for that woman? Disrespect me again, you piece of crap. You're even worse than a piece of crap. You're a pile of chicken poop. Yeah, you heard me right. You're so nasty and filled with acid that you burn things; you burn everything in your wake. I can't believe I married someone like you."

Then the harrowing scream that followed. Dora didn't know what to do. Only that at the moment she felt a complete wave of sorrow for Tilly. But what could she do for her? She'd had her fair share of men breaking her heart, but she was never married. Never had to deal with the pain that Tilly was going through, and she was going to run through in her mind the things that she was going to tell her, the words of support for someone that she looked up to like a sister almost — the sister that she never really even had.

Tilly walked out and quickly wiped her eyes, cheeks, sniffled and resumed working on flowers. She kept her head hung low, never looking up once.

"You never told me you're an artist," Dora said, breaking the silence between them.

"You heard it," she said, drawing a long sigh. "Edmund broke my heart yet again."

"You're avoiding my question. You never told me you were an artist."

"I honestly don't want to talk about it. It's a tough point in my life. I lost a good friend around that time, too."

Dora frowned. "What happened to your friend, Tilly?"

"She died, Dora. My best friend, dead. Just like that. We were at an artist's retreat, and she never came back. They found her favorite shoes by the river a few days later. It was because the art school accused her of plagiarism. She lost everything. I stopped painting after her death." She shuddered and her body wracked with sobs. "Oh, God, Dora. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Let's close up the shop. I can't even look at flowers right now. I need to go home."

                                                                                            ***

Dora breathed in the air of Manhattan as she walked along the sidewalk, passing by rows of shops. A few blocks away was David's shop. She contemplated going in. After all, it only took about ten minutes to get there on foot. She wanted to see that desk again. There was something that drew her in even more than the pressed-flower locket.

She picked up her pace and saw her reflection in some of the glass from buildings. For a moment, she thought she saw herself in a dress and not her outfit. Only lasting a few seconds, she took the thought out of her mind. She must have been even more overworked and tired than she thought, especially since she fell asleep on the job.

Relief took over her body when she opened the door to the shop after seeing the open sign on.

"Welcome in!" David's voice said, rather absentmindedly, as the bell dinged.

"Now tell me, kind sir," Dora said. "Where may I find the nearest old-fashioned very expensive desk that costs more than my salary for eight months?"

He dashed from the register and with a bright smile, said, "Well, if you're interested in the desk, I have some suggestions. I have a very fine one right here. It is a treat!" He laughed and walked up to Dora, pulling her in for an embrace. I thought you were going to be working overtime. Not that I'm complaining. The rare treat is seeing you here not once, but twice in a day."

"Tilly got into one of her moods again. Can't say I blame her, though. Her ex sounds like a genuine piece of work. Edmund Ravensdale. The dude that's been on the news lately about the Titanic Gala they're hosting in England."

He nodded. "I've seen the news. I could have stayed longer to go to the gala, but I wasn't sure. I missed..." He paused for a moment, sighing. "I missed New York."

"Well, New York missed you, too, Dave. It wasn't the same without you."

He smiled and touched her cheek with one finger. "I guess I'm officially a citizen then."

"Dave, you've been a citizen since before we even met."

"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "But I never really felt like I fit in here. Not till we met. So, there's that, I guess."

Dora was about to respond when the door opened, and an older man walked in. He wore a fine gray suit, his hair not completely white but almost there. He seemed to Dora to be in his seventies, maybe early eighties.

"Oh, Dr. Thomas!" David said with a smile. "This is the expert I was telling you about, Dora. It is lovely to see you again, sir. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He nodded. "I want to purchase the desk, Mr. Markham."

Dora's heart sunk. No. It was supposed to be hers.

"But David," Dora said through clenched teeth. "The desk. I want it." 

"Oh well, Dr. Thomas, it looks like you've got some competition. This young woman, my friend Dora, wants to purchase it as well."

He gave Dora a once-over, and the way he looked at her made her blood almost boil. What was it about the man that made her blood boil at first glance? She did not know, nor did she care. All she wanted was that desk and she would stop at nothing to get it.