A Bouquet of Love

by Janice Thompson

  “I need to do that,” she said and sighed. “Just the other day I filled an order for a family that had just lost their mom. So sad. I hate working funerals most of all.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard, but think of the comfort and joy those flowers bring.” I gave her an encouraging smile.

  “Weddings are still my favorite.”

  “Mine too.”

  Our conversation turned to fabrics and then to Gabi’s dress design. Before I knew it, Marcella had told me the whole story of how Gabi had fallen in love with her husband-to-be, a reporter for Texas Bride. Then her words grew more serious as she talked about her own marriage.

  “I won’t say it’s all a bed of roses. Marriage is a lot of work, especially when you bring kids into the picture. But love—if you can find it—will change your heart forever. It will make you rethink the things you thought you wanted and give you a sense of purpose.”

  “Not sure I’ve ever really been in love,” I said. “I thought I was once. I was seventeen.” I giggled as I reflected on the boy I’d been so enamored with. He’d gone on to college in another state, and my heart had broken into a thousand pieces.

  “Hard to know what love looks like until it slaps you upside the head,” she said.

  “I like to think about it.” I rose and put the orchids and tea roses back into the case. “It gets me excited just dreaming about it. I figure it’s kind of like waiting for a rose to open up. You know? I’ve been waiting a long time, but I know it’s gonna be worth the wait.”

  I heard someone clear his throat behind me and turned to find Alex standing there. His cockeyed grin clued me in to the fact that he’d overheard our conversation. Oops. Well, what could I do about it now?

  “Did I hear someone say something about roses?” His eyes sparkled as he lifted the bucket filled with the most gorgeous reds I’d ever laid eyes on. “We have a new line with bolder colors than we’ve ever produced.”

  “Oh, Alex . . .” Marcella and I spoke in unison as we leaned in close to get a better look.

  “They’re beautiful,” I added.

  “Glad you agree.” The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “My dad is sure this one’s going to be our biggest seller. And based on what you just said, I’m going to tell my dad we should call them . . . brace yourselves . . .” He looked at me. “The Cassia.”

  “No way.” Was he teasing me? Judging from the serious look in his eyes, no.

  “I think it’s a great idea.” He put the bucket down and flexed his upper arms. “Impulsive decision based on our last conversation. Hope you don’t mind. That whole story about waiting for them to open up was great. Seems like we’ve been waiting for this new line to bloom for ages.” He pulled one from the bucket and passed it my way. “What do you think?”

  “I love it.”

  “Great. Just wanted your stamp of approval before making the name official. There are over one hundred species of roses.” His fingers swept over mine as he touched the rose in my hand. “I thought you might get a kick out of knowing you’re now one of them.”

  “I’m so flattered.” Really, flattered hardly described the feelings going on inside my heart right now. Zing-zing-zing! I breathed in the luscious scent of the gorgeous red bloom and sighed. “I just can’t believe you would do this. You hardly know me.”

  “Oh, I know you, all right.” He gave me a little wink. “You’re a rose, remember? I can tell you anything you want to know about yourself, just based on that.”

  “Right, right.” I hardly knew what else to say. In our family, things—and people—got named with ABCs for convenience’s sake. No one took the time to focus on one person’s name like this. To give it special meaning. I didn’t know how to take such a grandiose gesture.

  And how timely that Marcella and Alex had both made a point to tell me how much my love of flowers meant to them. It felt really good to have someone—in this case, a couple of someones—notice and even care about my interests. I certainly didn’t get that sort of admiration at home. Not over flowers, anyway. Jingles, sure. Roses, not so much.

  Alex continued to share his father’s vision for the new Cassia line as he came and went from the shop, lugging in bucket after bucket. The reds had blown me away, of course, but those pinks! And the yellows. I could hardly believe the vibrant colors.

  “These yellows are my mom’s favorites,” he said. “But then again they would be. She’s a Texas girl through and through.”

  “Texas girl?”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “You’re a Texas girl now too. All Texas gals love yellow roses, right, Marcella?”

  “Yep.” Marcella nodded.

  None of this was making sense to me.

  “Mama’s from Splendora,” Alex said, “so she’s always been partial to the Yellow Rose of Texas.” His eyes narrowed. “You know that story, right?”

  “Not really.” I shrugged, still distracted by the beautiful roses.

  “Started right here in Galveston and involved a beautiful young woman named Emily who was kidnapped by Mexican forces while they ravaged the island.”

  Marcella shivered. “Such an awful story.”

  Alex leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones. Not sure why, since our only customer was on the opposite side of the shop. “According to folklore, Emily, um, distracted General Santa Anna and he let his guard down. This led to the Texans winning the fight.”

  He’d no sooner said the word Texans than an incoming customer started talking about the Texans—not the ones in the Battle of San Jacinto, but the football team. Turned out their victories were a bit more interesting to the guys.

  Seconds later I’d lost Alex altogether, but I could hardly take my eyes off the red rose he’d given me. I still couldn’t figure out what his story about Emily had to do with yellow roses, but I did like that fact that he’d called me a Texas girl. No one had ever called me that before. And strangely, it didn’t bother me. In fact, it felt pretty good—nearly as good as this rose felt as I lifted it and ran the soft petals across my cheek.

  Yep. I was a Texas girl, all right, one who couldn’t stop humming. Over the next half hour I went through every song in the Judy Garland catalog, humming with abandon. I hadn’t really noticed until a customer pointed it out.

  After waiting on a woman ordering flowers for a memorial service, Marcella decided to take her daughter home for a nap. “Why don’t you put the Out to Lunch sign on the door, Cassia?” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t mind staying here.” My stomach grumbled and Alex laughed.

  “I’ll make her go to lunch, Marcella,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “I’ll bet you will.” Marcella gave him a knowing look, and I felt little butterflies flit through my stomach.

  She left with Anna, and Alex turned my way, a pleading look in his eyes. “Okay, so what’s it gonna be?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What kind of food do you like?” Before I could tell him that I’d brought my lunch—a Greek salad and loukoumades—he snapped his fingers. “If we had more time I would take you to Moody Gardens. There’s a great restaurant there and we could look at the flowers. Ever been?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve been dying to go. Sometime when I have a few hours to kill.” Like that would ever happen.

  “Agreed. You really need to take your time at Moody Gardens to get the full effect, especially if you’re a flower lover.” He looked my way, those gorgeous eyes now sparkling. “Oh, I know. There’s a new place a few blocks down that’s really great. A Greek sandwich shop.”

  “Super-Gyros.” I bit my lip and forced myself not to say anything else.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Great place. I ate there Saturday. The gyro was out of this world, and the baklava . . . Man. Never had anything like it. I could eat a whole tray.”

  Mama would love that news, but I couldn’t comment. At least not yet.

  “Have you tried the place?” he asked. “It’s probably going to be really c
rowded, but it’ll be worth the wait, I promise.”

  “Oh, um . . . yeah, I’ve tried it.” I shrugged, unsure of what else to say. If I showed up at the Pappas homestead with a fella on my arm, Babbas was sure to grill him—and not on the kitchen stove. This guy didn’t stand a chance, Greek or not. Besides, I wasn’t ready to let any of my new Rossi-loving friends know about my family. Not yet.

  Alex went off on a tangent about the moist lamb on the sandwich he’d eaten Saturday, and I could see I’d lost him. After a moment I cleared my throat, and he startled back to attention. His gaze met mine and he grinned. “Sorry. I love gyros.”

  “I’ve always been a fan too,” I said. “But . . .”

  “But?” His lips curled down in a frown. “There’s a ‘but’?”

  “I, um . . . I ate there yesterday.” Brilliant! And I didn’t even have to fib.

  “Aw, man. Okay.” He shrugged. “Weird, though. I didn’t think they were open on Sunday. But anyway, you already know how good the food is, and you’re probably not wanting the same thing two days in a row.”

  “It’s the best on the island.” I didn’t mean to do it, but the little jingle slipped out. Did I really just sing that out loud?

  “Wow, that’s cool.” He looked duly impressed by my impromptu concert. “Haven’t heard that one yet.”

  You will. Just stay tuned.

  He hesitated and I could feel his gaze on me. “So, let’s go someplace else. You like Italian food?”

  Yikes! “Well, yes, I like it, but . . .”

  A shimmer in his eyes clued me in to the fact that the boy loved his Italian food. “There’s a great place just down the street. Parma John’s. It’s a—”

  “Pizza place,” I finished for him.

  “Right.” He nodded. “I eat there all the time. In fact, the owners, the Rossis, own this place too.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that out already. I’ve pretty much decided the whole island is run by the Rossis.”

  Alex grinned. “Well, when you put it like that, it makes them sound devious. They’re just normal people.” He laughed. “Okay, I take that back. They’re about as far from normal as any family I’ve ever met, but you’ve gotta love ’em.”

  Try telling that to my father.

  “So, what do you say?” he asked. “You okay with pizza?”

  “I really don’t know if I should leave, especially with Marcella being gone.”

  “You heard what she said.” His eyes melted into mine. “Besides, I’ve got to eat, you’ve got to eat . . .” A lingering silence filled the space between us. “Might as well eat together.”

  I looked into his gorgeous dark eyes, and my gaze traveled to his lustrous, wavy black hair and that engaging smile. My sister would flip if she found out that Cowboy Adonis was asking me to lunch. And I would be a fool to turn him down. So what if Babbas caught me going into Parma John’s? I had to die somehow. Might as well be with this good-looking guy on my arm and pepperoni on my breath.

  9

  Yours and Mine

  You might be Greek if you know someone who always feels the need to point out how much something they bought costs.

  Pushing all reservations aside, I offered Alex a lame nod. “Sure. It’s hard to resist pizza. I’m starving.”

  He gave me a funny look, one that almost said, “Is that all that’s hard to resist?” but I turned away, my gaze shifting to the door. I walked over to it and hung the Out to Lunch sign, then ushered up a silent prayer, asking the Lord to send guardian angels to watch out for me should my father see me going into the restaurant owned by his archrival.

  “Should we walk or drive?” Alex asked. “I’ve got the delivery van. You could ride in style.”

  I shrugged. “Seems pointless to drive, especially on such a pretty day. It’s only seven blocks to Parma John’s, anyway.”

  “Wow, you’ve got the number of blocks memorized?” He gave me an admiring look. “You must love that place.”

  “Oh, I’ve never actually been inside,” I said. “I’m new to the island, remember?”

  “Okay.” He gave me a curious look. “But you know how far it is?”

  “Yeah. I’m weird like that. I tend to memorize things.” Like how many blocks I have to walk to and from work.

  “Interesting. I memorize things too, but usually names and species of flowers, that sort of thing.”

  “I do that too,” I acknowledged.

  We both stopped and stared into each other’s eyes. For a moment it felt as if the whole world stood still, like time had stopped. Then my phone beeped. Great. A text message. I glanced at it, surprised to see a note from Babbas.

  How late are you working for these flower people? Mama needs you to make a run to the grocery store for sugar.

  I quickly typed the response—5:00—then shoved the phone in my purse. “All done.”

  “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.” He held the door open in gentlemanly fashion and I stepped through it, then locked it behind us.

  A luscious breeze swept over us, coming off of nearby Galveston Bay. With the sun shining brightly overhead, the temperatures felt perfect. Great for a walk.

  Still, walking side by side down the Strand with this fellow was too risky. Someone from the Pappas family would see me going into Parma John’s, and my life would end right then and there. I needed a different plan.

  “Oh, I know.” I snapped my fingers. “I’ve been wanting to ride the trolley ever since I got here. What about that?”

  “Sounds good. Should be along shortly. You mind waiting a couple of minutes?”

  “Not at all.”

  He led the way to the trolley stop at the corner, and we waited for it to come by. Well, he waited. I stood behind him in case anyone in my family happened by.

  Alex looked my way, brow wrinkled. “You okay back there?”

  “Yeah. Just, um, checking to see what time the next trolley comes by. Shouldn’t be long now.”

  He joined me and we stood reading the sign. Actually, he looked at the sign. I snuck another peek at his face, homing in on the clear-cut lines of his profile.

  He gave me a warm smile. “Glad the trolley’s up and running again.”

  “Me too.”

  “It took years to repair after the big storm. Everyone down here has been waiting on pins and needles to see it open.”

  “I would’ve been the first in line if I’d known. Growing up so close to San Francisco, I have a long running history with streetcars. I think that’s one reason I fell in love with Judy Garland music in the first place, because of that trolley song.”

  “Trolley song?” Alex looked perplexed. “Don’t know it.” The clanging of the trolley sounded and it squealed to a stop in front of us.

  “You never saw Meet Me in St. Louis? Best Judy Garland musical ever. After The Wizard of Oz, I mean. I used to watch that movie when I was a kid.”

  “Which one? The Wizard of Oz or Meet Me in St. Louis?” Alex gestured for me to climb aboard and I did so in a hurry, still concerned that one of my family members might happen along and see me.

  “Meet Me in St. Louis,” I said.

  “Ah.” Alex followed behind me, and we took a seat near the back. “I think my mom made me watch that movie once. Is that the one with Margaret Mitchell?”

  “Margaret O’Brien.” I hated to correct the boy, but someone had to set him straight.

  The trolley took off, and I held on tight as we zipped down the lane. Alex slipped his arm around my shoulders. “Right, right. I remember Margaret O’Brien.” As the trolley moved along, Alex lit into a story about Margaret Thatcher. I didn’t correct him this time.

  My thoughts shifted back in time to my first trolley ride in San Francisco as a little girl. Babbas had taken me on a shopping spree. I’d forgotten until now. What a special day that had been. He’d treated me like his little princess, even bought me a ruffled dress.

  “You’re humming again.” Alex gave me a funny look
. “You do that a lot, you know. Noticed it at the shop. But I don’t recognize half of the melodies.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’re Judy Garland songs. I’ve been on a kick lately.”

  “Well, since you’re so musical and all, maybe you can help me come up with something poetic to help promote Rigas Roses. I’m supposed to be coming up with the perfect advertisement for our local Splendora paper, but I stink at rhymes.”

  “What have you tried?” I asked.

  “Well, let’s see. I came up with ‘Roses are red, daffodils are yellow . . .’” He groaned. “See my problem? I can’t find anything to rhyme with yellow.”

  “Nor should you want to.” I laughed. “Trust me, that ‘Roses are red’ rhyme is too cliché, anyway.”

  “Still, it’s familiar, and familiar brings in customers. How about this: ‘Roses are red, lilies are white, buy from the Rigas family and you’ll be . . . all right’?”

  “But you want your customers to be more than all right, don’t you?” The trolley stopped and several people got on.

  “Yeah.” He paused as the trolley started up again. “Okay, this one: ‘Roses are red, carnations are pink, buy your flowers from us ’cause . . .’” He pursed his lips and appeared to be thinking. “‘Our service don’t stink’?”

  Crossing my arms at my chest, I offered him what I hoped would be a comforting smile. “An advertisement like that isn’t the best way to connect with your customers. Just sayin’.”

  “Help me work on it?” He gave me a pleading look. “Our family business depends on it.” I detected laughter in his eyes. “No pressure or anything.”

  Of course not. But who in the world kept spreading the word that I was good at rhymes and jingles? Crazy.

  “I guess I could think about it. If anything comes to me, I’ll let you know.” I offered a hopeful smile.

  The trolley drew near Parma John’s, and I glanced across the street at Super-Gyros. Babbas stood outside, chatting with his new friend, Officer O’Reilly. Just what I needed. I ducked down in my seat and tried to figure out how to go about getting off this thing without being seen. Another peek from the bottom of the window revealed my father and the officer laughing.