One Hundred Candles [2] by Mara Purnhagen Page A

sitting room, where Mom and Dad were interviewing the fidgety owner. The property was one hundred and fifty years old and the original horse stable still stood in a backyard choked with kudzu.
    “So how are things with the new boyfriend?” Shane asked.
    “He’s not my boyfriend, exactly,” I mumbled. My love life was not a topic I wanted to talk about with Shane. He was too much like an uncle, and I doubted nieces had deep relationship discussions with their uncles.
    “That’s not what Noah says.”
    “You asked Noah about me?” I was mortified.
    Shane shrugged. “It just came up. He said something about flowers?”
    I knew exactly what he was referring to. After our abbreviated date the previous Saturday, Harris had mentioned that he would make it up to me. And he did.
    On Tuesday, Mr. Morley had announced that I had a delivery. I looked up from my monitor, where Noah and I had been splicing footage for Wednesday’s school news about new lab equipment. Standing inside the door was a girl holding a dozen dark red roses.
    “These are for you,” she said, thrusting the bouquet at me. “Is it your birthday?”
    “No.” I was completely surprised. Harris was sending me roses? It was official: we were definitely moving toward couple status.
    I carried the roses back to my station, breathing in their rich scent as I walked. They were such a deep shade of red that they were almost black. Something about the color was exotic, way better than typical red roses surrounded by baby’s breath.
    “Is it your birthday or something?” Noah asked.
    I laughed. “My birthday’s in June.” I sat down and searched for the card, but there wasn’t one.
    “Huh.” Noah was staring at my flowers. “Looks like you got a baker’s dozen.”
    “What?”
    “There’s thirteen roses there, not twelve.”
    I did a quick count and, sure enough, there were thirteen roses. “An extra rose? Lucky me.”
    “So you and Harris are a couple now, or what?” Noah’s voice sounded funny, as if he was asking about a foul odor.
    I fingered the silky soft petals of one of my roses. “We went out last weekend,” I said, ignoring his tone. “We’re not a couple, exactly.”
    “But you’re headed that way.”
    Even though it was a statement and not a question, I answered him. “Maybe.”
    I set the roses aside and returned to my work. On the monitor, Bliss was pointing to new Bunsen burners. I barely heard her voice, though. I was too happy, too wrapped up in my flowers and Harris and that one word:
    Maybe.
    Later, Harris downplayed the bouquet, saying it wasn’t a big deal. In fact, he seemed mystified that I was so happy about the delivery. He asked me out again, but I told him I couldn’t because I’d already agreed to help my parents. For a split second I thought about weaseling out of the investigation, but I really wanted to go. I needed to see my parents at work together. I needed to know that things were going to return to normal, and that outweighed everything else. Including a date with Harris.
    Four days later, the memory of the thirteen roses still brought a smile to my face, which of course Shane noticed.
    “I won’t pry,” he said. “But tell me this. Does he treat you well?”
    The roses were starting to wilt in their vase on my nightstand, but I didn’t think I’d ever throw them away. “Yes,” I told Shane. “He treats me very well. But please, don’t talk to Noah about it, okay? It’s awkward.”
    “Fair enough. I probably won’t see him for a while, anyways. Your dad’s keeping me busy editing the Zelden stuff and planning our next few projects.” He shook his head. “The caseload is crazy right now. Your mom wants to hire an assistant to weed through the emails.”
    I’d heard Mom mention that to Dad. The brief conversation had stood out to me because they had gone from yelling to almost completely ignoring each other unless something was directly related to their work. I almost preferred the