"I know it sounds silly, but I thought it would make the decision to get engaged easier. You know, like weighing the pluses and minuses of a situation? Anyway, what I realized is that listing things like confidence and reliability is all well and good, but what truly matters is that we love and trust each other, enjoy being together, and agree on the important things in life. We do agree on the important things in life, right?"

Marco pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. "I think we do."

"I do, too. I mean, we both believe in justice, honesty, and solid values. We both have strong morals and close family ties. We're hard workers, know how to save money-"

"And want to have a family of our own," Marco supplied.

"Not a big family, though."

"Two?"

"Two. Someday."

"In the not-too-distant future."

"We'll need to discuss that further . . . along with the long hours you put in on your various jobs. But that's what's great about our relationship. We can discuss these things."

Marco eyed me warily. "Are you going to start another list?"

"Maybe I should."

"You actually wrote down my pluses and minuses?"

I shrugged. "Like I said, I thought it would help me decide."

"Did it?"

"Well, yes."

"And?"

"And what was my decision?"

"Yep."

"My decision was yes."

"So that's your answer, then?"

"To what?"

We were standing alongside my yellow Corvette in the cold, in the dark, in the snow. Marco reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny black velvet box.

"To this." He opened the box, displaying a diamond ring inside.

I stopped breathing.

He took the ring out of the box. "Will you marry me, Abby?"

Oh, the thoughts that raced through my mind as I stared at the sparkling token of commitment: children, my family, Marco's family, our careers, money, wedding plans, change!

Okay, Abracadabra. What will it be? Say yes or pull up that protective shield?

My eyes filled with tears as my gaze shifted from the glittering diamond to the face of the man I loved. Was there even a doubt?

I nodded, smiling through my tears. "Yes, Salvare. I will."

Don't miss the next delightful.

Flower Shop Mystery,

Dirty Rotten Tendrils.

Available in October 2010 from Obsidian.

Monday.

My destination that morning was Bloomers, my cozy flower shop located across the street from New Chapel, Indiana's, stately limestone courthouse. I was taking a circuitous route to get there, however, because, strangely enough, the public lot where I usually parked was full. So I'd left my refurbished and much-beloved 1960 yellow Corvette under a shady maple tree across from the YMCA and started off for a leisurely stroll around the square, soaking in the sunshine of the brilliant early-spring day.

I love my small town. In New Chapel, unlike big cities, you won't experience heavy traffic snarls, clouds of toxic exhaust fumes, or frustrated drivers honking horns at every tiny irritation. What's more, you can park in a public lot for about two dollars a day or, as in my case today, along any side street for free. Try to do that in downtown Chicago.

I sniffed the air to catch a whiff of the crocuses blooming in the old cement planters that rimmed the courthouse lawn. They'd be followed by daffodils and tulips, and then by Knock Out roses, all of which would suffer benign neglect by the parks department employees until the winter snows blanketed them once again.

Up ahead I saw Jingles, the ancient window washer, wielding his squeegee with extreme precision against a boutique's display gla.s.s. "How's it going, Jingles?" I called.

"It's a different kind of morning, Miss Abby," he said solemnly, then pulled the wet squeegee from the top of the pane to the bottom and dried it with his yellow rag.

Jingles wasn't normally given to deep thought, and for him, that comment qualified as one. "It'll be fine, Jingles," I called. "We've got solid citizens in New Chapel. They're not going to go crazy because a local boy who took first place on a reality show is coming back to town."

Jingles just kept wiping the gla.s.s. On the other side of the window, the shop's owner was setting out an array of tropic-bright purses and stylish spring jackets. She waved and smiled.

Another benefit of small-town life was the friendliness of the townsfolk. Also, the easy pace. You could amble down any sidewalk and not be bothered by rushing commuters, jostling crowds, jackhammer drilling, or vendors shouting- "Hey! Look out!"

A man in a cherry picker gestured frantically toward an old wooden sign dangling by one nail over the gift shop's doorway. With a gasp, I jumped back seconds before the sign broke from its tether and crashed onto the sidewalk in front of me, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris.

The shop owner, Mr. Hanley, who was about one hundred forty years old, called from the recessed doorway, "Sorry, Abby. Gotta get my new signage up today, you know."

His signage? He pointed to a shiny new sign leaning against the side of the store. Instead of HANLEY'S GIFTS, it now said YE OLDE GIFT SHOPPE.

"No harm done, Mr. Hanley." I shook detritus from my hair, brushed off my navy peacoat, took a deep breath, and continued up Lincoln Avenue toward Franklin Street.

At that moment, a white pickup truck sporting the town logo pulled up alongside me with a shriek of dry brakes and a backfire of thick gray smoke. A man in tan overalls jumped out to place orange cones around a cracked square of the cement sidewalk. Another man followed with a jackhammer, which he immediately fired up.

Plugging my ears with my fingertips and trying not to inhale the fumes, I scurried toward the corner. As I waited for the light to change, I was joined by at least ten people, with a dozen more on the sidewalk across the street. On the green light, we surged forward en ma.s.se and narrowly missed being run down by a white stretch limousine. The driver laid on his horn, glaring at us as he sped past. Two black limousines followed. They honked, too, just for the practice, I suspected.

Behind them came a line of vans with satellite dishes on top and markings on the side for the four national television stations, ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox, and our local cable channel, WNCN. They were followed by several more vehicles with men hanging out the windows armed with huge cameras with telescopic lenses. Three police cars trailed the parade, their sirens and lights fully engaged as they approached the courthouse, as though to impress upon the citizens the importance of the limousines' occupants.

"That was him in the white car!" someone behind me screamed, and at once I was swept along in a tide of people in their stampede to follow the convoy, now creating a snarl of horn-honking traffic on the far side of the square. I managed to break free at the curb and make a frantic dash to safer sh.o.r.es.

As I stood with my back pressed against the door of the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill, people began to descend onto the courthouse lawn in droves, some carrying signs that said, WE LOVE YOU, CODY!, others waving banners, caught up in the kind of frenzy that only a celebrity could create.

And then, as though someone had cried "Action!", all along the streets surrounding the courthouse, workers emerged, some carrying paint cans and ladders, others erecting scaffolding, pushing wheelbarrows stacked with bricks, and toting brightly colored awnings. The parks department even sent men to spruce up the cement planters.

I stared around the square in astonishment. Then I noticed Jingles watching me with a look that said, I told you so.

The door behind me opened suddenly, and I had to grab on to the frame to keep from falling in. "Morning, b.u.t.tercup," my boyfriend, bar owner/ex-Army Ranger Marco Salvare, said, kissing the top of my head. "Lots of excitement in town today."

I turned to face him, trying to form my distress into a coherent remark. Marco's forehead wrinkled as he studied me. "Are you okay?"

"I want my small town back!" I wailed, and flung myself into his arms.

Seated across from Marco in the first booth at Down the Hatch, which wouldn't open until eleven o'clock, I propped my chin on my hand and sighed grumpily. "If this is a sign of what's to come, I'm leaving until it's over."

"Come on, Abby. It's not that bad. Besides, when was the last time a celebrity came to New Chapel?"

"Cody Verse is hardly a celebrity. Two months ago, only a handful of people had even heard of him. All he did was win a contest."

"You say that like it was the local spelling bee," Marco said. "America's Next Hit Single is a national television event. Cody had to outperform thousands of people just to get on the show."

"I get that, Marco, but come on! He didn't win the n.o.bel Prize. He sang a song that he cowrote with his friend and then took all the credit for."

"Or so his friend claims," Marco reminded me. "A friend who stands to gain a lot of money if he wins his lawsuit. Don't scowl at me. I hear what you're saying. Cody Verse's sudden fame has been blown all out of proportion."

"It doesn't hurt that he's dating Lila Redmond, either." Lila was the new It Girl, the hottest starlet since, well, whoever the last It Girl was.

Marco leaned back to stretch, lacing his fingers behind his dark, wavy hair, putting his hard-muscled torso on display. Today he was wearing jeans and a formfitting navy T-shirt with the white lettering Down the Hatch running the length of one sleeve. He was a yummy-hot male and all mine.

"I need coffee," he said, and got up to go to the coffee machine behind the bar. "I didn't get home last night until two in the morning." He held up the pot. "Want some?"

I shook my head. Not to hurt Marco's feelings or anything, but his bar was not known for its coffee. Or its decor, for that matter. The last time Down the Hatch had been decorated must have been in the seventies, when burnt orange, avocado green, and dark walnut paneling were all the rage, and a blue plastic carp pa.s.sed for wall sculpture.

I heard cheering in the distance and got up to look out the big plate-gla.s.s window at the front of the bar. "You should see the crowds now. Little kids, too. Did they call off school today? Maybe the mayor declared a holiday . . . Cody Verse Day."

"The lawsuit should be settled in a day or two," Marco said, coming to stand beside me with a coffee mug in his hand. "Then everything will return to normal."

"With Ken 'the Lip' Lipinski as his attorney? No way. When I clerked for Dave Hammond, I sat in on a few trials and saw Lipinski in action. The Lip is the kind of lawyer all those nasty jokes are about. He lies, stalls, grandstands, and cheats, and somehow manages to get away with it because he wins huge settlements for his clients. Trust me, Marco, Lipinski will do everything in his power to turn this lawsuit into a major media event."

"And Dave will do everything in his power to keep that from happening," Marco countered.

"I'm afraid he'll be fighting a losing battle. Dave usually refuses to take a case when Lipinski is on the other side, but this time he was hired before he knew who the opposing counsel was. Now he's stuck."

Marco took a drink of coffee. "Why doesn't he withdraw his appearance?"

"Because the Chappers have been with him for a long time, and he wouldn't do that to loyal clients. Have you noticed that Dave hasn't been himself lately, like something's weighing on his mind? Maybe it's his caseload. Being a public defender is never an easy job, and with the crime rate rising, he's busier than ever. Or maybe he's having some kind of midlife crisis. Whatever it is, having to deal with the Lip in a big, splashy civil case isn't going to help him any."

"I thought Dave's client was a young guy-Cody Verse's high school buddy," Marco said, heading for the bar. "Sure I can't get you some coffee?"

"No coffee, thanks. And technically, yes, Dave's client is Andrew Chapper, one half of the former Chapper and Verse duo. Andrew's grandparents have been with Dave since he first hung out his shingle. They're the ones who brought Andrew to see Dave. Apparently, they raised Andrew after his parents died in a car accident."

Marco came back to the window carrying a full coffee mug. He put his arm around me, and I leaned my head on his shoulder.

"I wish I could help Dave somehow," I said with a sigh. "Proving that Andrew cowrote the winning song is going to be tough. And who knows? It might not even get that far. If the judge rules in Lipinski's favor on his motion to dismiss, it's all over. Case closed. Andrew loses."

Marco nuzzled my ear. "It's not all bad news today, Sunshine. We've got something to celebrate, remember? Your engagement ring should be resized and ready to wear."

Oh, right. About that . . .

With the corners of his mouth curving in that s.e.xy way of his, he lifted my left hand to his lips to kiss my fingers. "What do you say I pick it up and give it to you at dinner tonight?"

"Marco, we need to talk."

Other Flower Shop Mysteries.

Mum's the Word.

Slay It with Flowers.

Dearly Depotted.

Snipped in the Bud.

Acts of Violets.

A Rose from the Dead.

Shoots to Kill.

Evil in Carnations.