Linsy pushed through the tea shop door, the bell’s cheerful jingle a mockery. The cool evening air did nothing to quell the heat of humiliation and fear burning in her chest. She’d made it three steps before Simon materialized, a hapless specter holding the white florist’s box like a condemned man holding his own sentence.

“Mrs. Helwart, please,” he implored, blocking her path gently. “Whatever was said… he meant well. Look.” He thrust the box toward her. “He chose these ...