Petals and Promises.
Through the smudged windowpanes of Bernard Milton's flower shop, sunlight filtered in, creating gold streaks on the assortment of blooms that filled the tiny room with strong fragrances. Standing behind the counter, Clara Hawthorne skillfully arranged a bouquet of lilies and roses with her fingers. Her brow furrowed, not because of the task at hand but rather because of the constant thoughts that were bothering her.
As Bernard came out of the storeroom, his white apron spotted with green, the register chimed. "Clara, if you continue to fuss over those flowers, they will begin to wither as a form of retaliation."
Although it didn't reach her weary eyes, Clara gave a slight smile. "The package includes perfection, Bernard. Or so you tell me repeatedly.
The silence was broken by a loud voice. "Pardon me! Hours ago, this delivery was meant to arrive! A red-faced, impatient woman with a crumpled invoice stood at the counter.
Clara stood up straight, taking a measured stride forward. "Ma'am, I really apologize for that. Allow me to correct it. She spoke in a steady, quiet voice, like she was calming a storm. She quickly changed the woman's order and added an additional rose as a token of her goodwill.
Bernard leaned on the counter when the woman hurried out. "You're too talented for this setting. I'm not worthy of you.
"You don't," she joked, but her smile was short-lived.
Bernard gave her an envelope that was sealed. "But this place also doesn't deserve this kind of trouble,"
Clara's pulse accelerated as she gazed at the envelope. She opened it and saw the dreaded words bolded: FINAL NOTICE. Her chest grew constricted.
The moment was cut short by her phone's high-pitched ring. Her voice faltered as she said, "Hello?"
This is Whitaker Architecture, Miss Hawthorne. Your interview is scheduled for tomorrow.
Clara's fingers clenched around the phone as she froze. "Tomorrow?"
Indeed. Are you free?
Her shoulders squared as she looked at the notice she was holding. Indeed. I'll be present.
As Clara entered her small flat, she heard the front door's well-known squeak. The kitchen smelled of simmering broth, but it was overpowered by the subtle, metallic odor of disinfection.
From the small living room, her mother's voice rang out, "Clara?" Her cardigan hung freely from her shoulders, and she appeared moments later, beaming despite her weakness. "You've arrived home early."
Leaning in, Clara planted a kiss on her cheek. "Just because I was ejected by Bernard." claimed I put in too much labor.
Peter, her younger brother, said, "He's not wrong," while bent over a textbook at the dinner table.
Clara eyed Peter's handwritten notes while sitting on the couch's edge. "That seems less like homework and more like a battlefield."
Peter glared and snapped the book closed. "I shouldn't be in college; you should. It's unfair.
"Pet, life isn't fair. The lights must be kept on by someone.
The tension was broken by their mother's cough. As the fit passed, Clara rushed to her side and helped to steady her. "Sit down, Mom. You're going overboard.
Weakly, her mother waved her away. "I'm all right, Clara. You don't have to work alone on this.
Later that night, Clara took out an ancient pocket watch her father's final present before his accident from a drawer in her room. Tracing its etched surface, she hesitated before putting it in her handbag.
She was given some crumpled banknotes by the cashier at the pawnshop. She felt a hollow ache in her chest, but it was enough for groceries.
She put the milk and bread on the counter when she got home. Her mother glanced in her direction. "Where did you go, Clara?"
"Mom, don't worry about it," Clara interrupted quietly. "Just concentrate on improving."
Clara muttered to herself as she lay in bed that night, gazing at the cracked ceiling, "Tomorrow. I must make it worthwhile.
As Clara navigated Manhattan's congested pavements, the city was bustling with activity. Her mind was racing with a mixture of nervousness and prepared answers as her fingers gripped the scuffed leather strap of her portfolio bag.
She bumped into someone as she turned a corner, knocking her luggage to the floor. Sketches and papers splattered across the sidewalk.
"Be careful where you go!" a harsh, clipped voice yelled.
Glaring up, Clara knelt to collect her strewn-about possessions. The man who had collided with her loomed over her, his sleek suit and shiny shoes a jarring contrast to her battered flats. More painful than his remarks was the cold detached look in his black eyes.
As she stuffed the last of her documents into her bag, Clara whispered to herself, "Pardon me for existing."
His eyes stayed on her for a bit longer than was necessary, yet he did not move. "Perhaps don't let your possessions run amok the next time."
She shot back, "Maybe next time, try looking where you're walking," and vanished into the crowd of people crossing the street.
Unbeknownst to Clara, the man squatted down a few moments later and picked up a sketchbook that had been left on the sidewalk. His brows knitted at the architectural patterns as he turned the pages. They were unpolished but full of promise.
With a little smirk, Ethan Whitaker tucked the sketchbook under his arm. "Interesting."
Clara was astounded by the immaculate, contemporary interior of Whitaker Architecture when she entered via the tall glass doors. Shining marble floors, elaborate chandeliers, and sweeping stairs that curved upward like graceful vines adorned the room. Every nook and cranny spoke of precision and ambition, a world far different from her lowly existence.
Her heels clicked against the marble, resonating louder than she would have liked, and she gripped her portfolio tightly. She was led to a conference room by a sharp-bobbed receptionist with a sharp voice. With her fists clasped to hide her nervousness, Clara sat rigidly.
With her clipboard in her hand like a weapon, the tall, graying-haired HR manager walked in. She started off with a skeptical tone, saying, "Miss Hawthorne, your resume is... unconventional." "No architecture degree in formal terms?"
Clara forced herself to look into the woman's eyes after swallowing. "No, but my designs are self-evident."
Without any response, the manager flipped through her portfolio and raised an eyebrow. Clara sensed the quiet ebbing and flowing like a thread on the verge of breaking.
The room was filled with a commanding presence when the door cracked open. Ethan Whitaker entered with a sharply fitted suit and dark eyes that scanned the room. The HR manager abruptly became more deferential and stood up straight.
"Are you prone to daydreaming during crucial meetings?" Ethan asked in a silky yet challenge-tinged voice.
Clara blinked, becoming better fast. She shot back, drawing several shocked glances, "Only when they're boring."
Ethan pulled a chair and looked over her portfolio with a sly smile. "Interesting. Let's check to see whether your designs are as fast.
He slid a blank piece of paper in her direction. "Draw a solution to this problem in ten minutes." He watched her closely as she worked, outlining a complicated problem with a well-known client. Clara's hands worked quickly as her thoughts raced to combine imagination with pragmatism.
Ethan's eyes flitted over the sketch as she explained her answer. His tone stayed stern, but his face softened for a minute. "Not too awful. However, this won't be simple.
He held out his hand. "If you can manage it, you have the job."
Clara's mind were running faster than the train as the underground ride home passed her in a whirl. Replaying every second of the interview, she held her portfolio close to her chest. The anxiety that Ethan's comments had left behind clashed with the excitement of achievement.
The creak of the ancient hinges and the smell of soup welcomed her as she pulled open the door to her apartment. Her mother was knitting a scarf with her weak hands while she sat in the shabby armchair with a blanket over her legs. Her younger brother Peter was leaning over his homework, tapping the table with his pencil.
Her mother remarked, "You're home early," in a loving but worn-out voice.
With a mixture of joy and shock, Clara declared, "I got the job."
Peter's face briefly lit up as he looked up, but then it clouded. "That's fantastic, but it won't solve every problem, will it?"
Clara paused her smile. It's a beginning. This might be it. Perhaps things will finally change.
Her mother's fingers touched Clara's hand as she extended her arm. But don't let it take you away from who you are. That is not worth a job.
Later that evening, Clara sat on her bed and traced the edges of her sketchbook as the apartment grew quiet. She unfolded it, looking over her creations and imagining what this chance would bring.
The city lights stretched out below Ethan Whitaker as he sat in his apartment across town. His gaze scanned the pages of Clara's lost sketchbook as he held it in his hands. The designs were crude and unrefined, but they were full of passion and creativity.
As he closed the book, a shadow of something passed across his face. He spoke in a low, nearly whispery voice. "She makes me think of her."
He put down the sketchbook and reclined in his chair, his thoughts racing. Although the city outside was still bustling with activity, Ethan's vision was limited to the past and the potential storm that Clara Hawthorne would bring.