“Oh, I’m sorry about that.” And I wait.
He clears his throat. “Ruby, I know we don’t know each other all that well. Our conversations have been limited to the books we find at the library and the state of the grounds at the town park, and I also know that I am more than a few decades your senior, but I feel as if we would be excellent companions at this event.”
I’m so startled I must appear afraid.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, waving his hand in front of his face, shaking his head, and turning to walk away.
“No, no,” I plead. “I’m just surprised, is all.” I’m afraid I have hurt his feelings.
He turns back to face me.
“I . . . I’ve never been asked to go to a gala with the president,” I explain. “I’m just surprised.” I also have the thought that I haven’t been asked out by a man in a very long time. James Harvey, the high school principal, asked me to go to the prom last spring, but he was just in need of another chaperone since the English teacher was out on maternity leave.
He smiles, but it’s easy to see he is still worried he should not have asked me.
“When is it?” I ask, not at all knowing how to respond. I like Captain Miller, always have. I enjoy the eccentricities of interesting people. I find the former astronaut fascinating. In fact, I never told him but I read his book about his space travel, about his epiphany. I always wanted to ask him about it all but just never had the nerve to approach him. Still, I had never thought of going on a date with him. And that is what this is, right?
“It’s not so much a date,” he says, as if he has read my mind, “as it is a social event that two friends attend together.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, glad to have that cleared up. I’m still waiting for him to tell me when it is, and then I need to know where. I’m not really interested in flying to Washington, D.C. Who would watch Clem?
“It’s March fifteenth, the day of the ides,” he adds.
I nod. I know a little Shakespeare.
“It’s in Seattle. I would fly the Cessna. We’d only be gone for a few hours.”
I had heard he had a private plane that he kept at the hangar at the small airport up the hill. I think it was Bernie Wilson, the lawyer, who told me it was a real expensive one, twin engines, six seats. He said it was the nicest private aircraft he had ever seen.
March fifteenth, I think. It’s just slightly more than a month away. I check the calendar by the cash register and can see that it’s on a Saturday, so I wouldn’t have to open the shop the next day. Clementine will be fine at home for that long, and I’ll just have Jimmy drop by to check on her if I’m running late.
“Captain Miller,” I say, surprising even myself. “I would love to accompany you to Seattle to the gala.” I can’t imagine why I am doing this, and I glance over at the orchids I was arranging for Vivian Jerome.
After Cooper brought them, I just couldn’t do it; I chickened out and put them away. And then, this morning, seeing them in the cooler, I changed my mind again. I was starting on the arrangement right after Nora left. I intend to call Conrad to come pick it up this afternoon. Maybe it is already working some of its magic.
He is smiling and nodding and bowing. I wonder how long it has been since he’s asked a woman out, and I think he must have put the bow tie on just for this occasion.
“I am the guest speaker at the Rotary gathering in Deer Park this morning,” he says, and that’s when I realize that the bow tie wasn’t meant for me. “So I guess I should be heading in that direction.”
I nod. I know the group meets at eleven o’clock. They meet at the steak house in town and they have lunch to follow. Sometimes they buy tulips for a centerpiece or give carnations to the speaker.
“Thank you, Ruby. I am honored that you will accompany me.” There is a slight rose color added to his cheeks.
“I am honored, Captain Miller, that you have asked.”
“Dan,” he says, calling out his first name. “Please, call me Dan.”
I feel my own cheeks warm and I look away. “Okay, Dan.”
And he turns to walk out. I wait until the door closes and he has passed by the shop windows. I glance down at Clementine, who has watched the entire exchange. There is an inquisitive look on her face.
“I really can’t say,” I tell her, knowing that she is hoping for a reason to explain what has just happened. I shake my head and pick up the long stem of cymbidium. I hold it to my nose and close my eyes. Vivian will not know what hit her.
•ELEVEN•
I CHECK the clock on the wall and see that it is already fifteen minutes after one and I still haven’t gotten the plants in the van to take out to the Buckley house for Kathy. I was hoping that Nora would have made it back by now. She’s been gone for more than four hours and I wonder if there is some problem with getting Jimmy out of jail. I’m surprised she hasn’t called.
When I haven’t been thinking about my morning proposal and what happened to make me say yes to Captain Miller, I have been making the arrangements for the week, looking over my orders, and thinking about the Buckley place and what plants would work best for today’s showing.
For the stands that will be placed on both sides of the front door, I have decided on two dwarf umbrella trees, schefflera arboricola, that are equal in height. I have had them for months and they need a little fresh air, a change of environment, so I bring them in from the corners where they’ve been, wipe off the tan plastic planters, and pinch off a couple of the dead leaves. I test the soil and add a little water, tell them they are beautiful, and place them on the table behind the counter.
I then pull out the good-luck bamboo from a shelf in the rear of the shop; it will work nicely in the master bedroom. I remove the river rocks inside the plastic cube planter and wash and dry them, returning them to anchor the plant. I tie a bright purple ribbon around the stems because purple is especially potent for banishing what lies in the past. It seems to me that if the new veterinarian is trying to start a new life, he’ll need all the positive energy he can get to help rid himself of what he is leaving behind. Finally, I decide on a cyclamen for the dining room table. Simple, elegant, the upswept pink petals and the jewel green leaves add a splash of color without overwhelming Kathy’s potential customer. It is a friendly plant and easy to move from place to place.
I look over the four plants I have placed on the table, the four plants chosen to fill up an empty house, and I find their tall green bodies full of life and eager to please. “You are doing important work today,” I tell them, as if they are employees heading out to serve the public. “And I will make sure I pick you up tomorrow afternoon in time for your evening dinner and bath.”
Clementine sighs and stretches. She is used to my one-sided conversations with plants, with the mail, and with her.
“I am so sorry I’m late!” Nora bursts in the front door, startling me and the dog and maybe even the four potted plants. I think I see a stem of bamboo tremble.
“No worries,” I reply, turning to the door and to Nora, who is trying to catch her breath. She has one hand on her chest and the other clutching the set of car keys. Her face is bright red. “They hadn’t released him yet,” she explains. “So I had to wait for them to process all the paperwork and for him to meet with the arresting officer. It took a lot longer than we thought.”
I smile. I certainly had enough to do to keep me busy, and I hadn’t even thought about having to leave for the showing of the real estate property until just a few minutes before.
“I took Jimmy home,” she adds, and moves inside the shop. She drops her keys in her coat pocket and then joins me behind the counter. She shakes her head. “Oh, the cyclamen looks nice; is it a new one?” She has just noticed the plants on the design table.
“No,” I answer. “Just hidden in the back. I think the trip will be good for her and the others. It must get terribly boring to have to stay in the same place all the time.”
Nora nods.
She knows the way I think of the plants, how I treat them like humans, how I move them from week to week, giving them a new view out the window, a spin on the shelf, how I spray them down in the evenings and add a little fertilizer to their soil on Fridays. She knows all of my tricks and peculiarities when it comes to the plants and flowers at my shop, and she has never let on that she finds it odd or unreasonable. This is just one of the reasons I keep Nora on the payroll even though I barely have enough money to cover the bills.
“Is he okay?” I ask, referring to Jimmy.
She picks up a river rock from the bamboo, then replaces it in the planter, blows out a long breath, walks behind the table, takes off her coat, and hangs it on the hook by the back door. “He got beat up,” she replies. “He doesn’t remember what happened. Some guy at a bar is all he knows.”
“Did they take him to the hospital?”
She shakes her head. “He told them he didn’t want to go, so they just bandaged him up in the jail. He’s got a big lump on the back of his head, a few scrapes, a busted lip. I think a rib is broken but he wouldn’t let me take him to the emergency room either. And even if I did, I doubt they would be able to fix what’s most battered.”
She waits, and I don’t respond. I’m not sure I’m following her.
“His pride,” she explains. “His bruised and battered pride, not to mention his sobriety record.”
I nod, turn away. I feel sorry for Jimmy, sad for him. I’m not an alcoholic, but I understand a daily struggle. I understand the work it takes to keep a monkey off your back or at least to be able to keep going day after day even while it weighs you down. Jimmy is a good man, but even goodness can’t push away darkness.
“You want me to help you put these in the van?” Nora asks, and I nod. It would take me at least four trips if I try to do it myself. I reach for one of the dwarf umbrellas, careful not to bend a stem.
“The stands are already in there. I put them in right after you left because I always forget to load the props.”
“What is it about the accessories that we can never remember to take them with the deliveries?” she asks.
“We’re flower people, Nora, not decorators. Flower people.” I’m heading to the door.
“You’re flower people,” she responds. “I’m not sure what I am.”
And there is something about the way she says this, the resignation in her voice, the self-loathing, that causes me to stop and turn to her and when I do, I see what she is thinking, the slumped way she is standing, the drop of her chin, the building up of tears. I walk back, put down the plant I had just picked up, and take her by the arms. She will not meet my eyes.
“Nora Dell, you listen to me.”
She does not raise her face.
I continue. “You are one of the finest people I know. You are kind and funny and honest. You can add numbers in your head that take me a pad of paper and a calculator to even put them in correct order. You are never late to work and you are always there when I need you. You understand how I run my business and how I like my coffee, and Clementine loves you like you’re family. You are not responsible for Jimmy’s mistakes. You are not responsible for this event. I know that you are a good sponsor, and you are the best friend I have.”
Her shoulders are drooped and her eyes stay lowered.
“Hey,” I say, making her look at me. I wait until she does.
“You couldn’t have stopped this from happening. There is nothing you could have done to change Jimmy’s mind or keep him from going to Spokane and going to that bar and getting in a fight and landing in jail. Jimmy makes his own decisions, and if he decides he wants to drink, there is nothing you can do about it.”
She nods slightly.
“You know this stuff,” I add. “You’re the one who told me this stuff,” I remind her. “My mother’s choices were my mother’s choices. You remember that little speech?”
It is hardly noticeable but there is a tiny movement of her lips. It is barely a smile, but it counts as far as I’m concerned. I have said everything I know to say about this matter.
“Now, I have to deliver these plants to a dead woman’s house, a dead woman who will jump out of her grave and wrestle me to the ground if I don’t place them in just the right spot before company arrives. Are you going to be okay?”
She nods, and I pull away.
“You get any lunch?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“All right, I brought some yogurt and fruit and a half a chicken salad sandwich with me this morning. You eat it. I’ll stop by the Happy Fortune and pick something up after I’m done at the Buckleys’.”
“No, I can’t eat your—”
I interrupt her. “I’d rather have an egg roll anyway. Please, eat the lunch.” I study her. “Did you check your blood sugar?” I ask. Nora is diabetic.
“It’s a little high,” she reports.
“Well, do what you need to do and eat the lunch. You can organize the Valentine’s delivery schedule and cut some red ribbon if you need a project.”
She nods.
I watch her closely.
“You’re a good friend, Nora,” I say again. “To me and to Jimmy, a very good friend.”
She sniffs and picks up the cyclamen, following me out the door.
•TWELVE•
THIS is one fine house,” I say to the plants resting in the tubs in the back of the van. I turn off the engine and take in the view. I recall that the architecture of the Colonial Revival style sought to follow the American colonial architecture of the period around the Revolutionary War. The houses, like Dr. Buckley’s, are usually two stories in height with the ridge pole running parallel to the street, a symmetrical front façade with an accented doorway and evenly spaced windows on either side of it.
There is an elaborate front door, complete with decorative crown pediments and an overhead fanlight. The window openings, though symmetrically located on either side of the front entrance, are hung in an adjacent pair rather than as single windows.
It appears as if someone has either painted or power-washed the outside of the place because the white wood glistens in the afternoon winter sun. The shutters, turquoise blue, stand bright and clean, opening to let the light pour through the windows. The yard has been weeded and mowed, and the narrow flower bed that sweeps around the house and along the sides is marked with new red bricks and filled with fresh soil. The front steps gleam and there are two plant stands, empty but already placed by the door.
Somebody has been getting this house in good condition to sell, and for a moment I wonder if Dr. Buckley hasn’t moved back from the lake to do the work. But I don’t really think that he has. I haven’t seen him in town in months. It’s probably Kathy’s pushing and prodding and the work of Timothy Barr’s painting company and Jerry Dexter’s landscaping crew completing all the labor. More than likely, Wade Buckley just gets the bill.
The house hasn’t been on the market that long, a few months, but I know there isn’t much real estate action in this small town and I know Kathy wants a commission. This is probably her most lucrative property, and I’m sure she’d love nothing better than to get the new veterinarian’s name on a contract for this house rather than on one of the cheaper places on her list. If she landed this sale, she would likely take the rest of the winter off.
I dig in my pocket for the house key she gave me and get out of the van. I head to the back and take out the two umbrella trees to put on the porch stands. Once there I realize ferns would have been more traditional, their long leafy stems dropping over the sides, their full pushy bodies filling up the space around the front door, but I still like the schefflera arboricolas and I remain confident with my decision. They’re regal in their guard positions, tall and thin, but still up to the task of greeting and welcoming those who enter. I stand back to admire them.
Next I open the door and check out the interior. Kathy was right; there is furniture throughout, sparse but well placed. A sofa in
the living room; two small tables with lamps; a couple of chairs, a wingback and an overstuffed one, carefully placed, one under the window and another along the wall. There are white sheer curtains and a few paintings, a large oriental rug in the center of the room and a coffee table set with an open book and two small candleholders, tiny silver birds, their faces set toward the light coming through the door.
There is a dining table and chairs, a china cabinet bearing a few saucers and cups, dinner plates, and a knickknack here and there to give a little color and fill up the shelves. There is the slightest scent of furniture polish, lemon I think, and I assume Kathy has also acquired the services of Linda Brown’s cleaning company because everything appears recently swept, mopped, and wiped down. It is obvious that Kathy has spared no expense with this showing, and like her, I am hopeful she will be rewarded for her careful attention.
I return to the van to get the other two plants, walk back in, and place the bamboo in the center of the dining table, thinking its bright purple ribbon is just the right touch. I judge and approve it and then head upstairs to the master bedroom to set the cyclamen somewhere to provide a little life. I find the perfect spot right away.
There is a small empty table beside a queen-sized bed that is covered by a quilt in a jewel box pattern, probably one that Janice Buckley bought at the craft show that they have every fall at the community center. She was a big supporter of local artisans, and we have some wonderful quilters in Creekside. I put the cyclamen on the table, spin it around to find its best side, and rub a leaf gently between my fingers the way Clementine likes me to fondle her ears. The pink petals stand at attention, the bright color rich and opulent, bringing out the same shade found in the delicate stitches of the quilt.
I look over at the bed and can’t help myself, but I wonder if this was Wade and Janice’s bed, wonder if this was the room where she died, wonder if he left it like it was, the dresser against the wall, a full-length mirror in the corner, a tall armoire near the window, all of the wood dark and rich, cherry or mahogany, I can’t say for sure. The bed, a sleigh frame, covered with eight or ten decorative pillows, thrown easily near the headboard, the light green bedskirt matching the quilt perfectly. I wonder if Wade just packed his bags and walked away, letting Kathy deal with the dust and the memories, the clothes and the jewelry Janice wore and the things the bereaved husband couldn’t stand to sell or handle or give away. I wonder if this was the way their bedroom was when she was alive and he was more than half himself.
The Art of Arranging Flowers Page 6