The Art of Arranging Flowers

by Lynne Branard

  I lean over and smooth down the quilt and think about Janice, how bright and cheerful she always was, how fond she was of this town, this house, the people she entertained. I think about her petite body, how she walked every morning, waving as she passed my shop, a big smile on her face, how she always had a vase of fresh flowers delivered to her on Mondays, how she truly wanted my business to thrive.

  I realize that I hadn’t thought much about it in a while, but I miss Janice. She was a fine human being, a good citizen, an attentive friend. And even though Wade wasn’t ever a real sentimental man, never really talked about their marriage, or spoke of his undying love for his wife, or participated in public shows of affection, it is clear her death has paralyzed him. In the same way that cancer tortured and wracked Janice’s little body, grief has spoiled and smashed Wade’s.

  I sit down for a second and then slide back and lean against the pillows. The mattress is soft and I take in a breath and close my eyes. Janice and Wade slept here; I’m sure of it. I sense the ordinariness of this space, the unspectacular nightly routine of two people who know each other, love each other, are accustomed to each other, crawling under these covers and lying together, the simple but splendid way couples sleep, back to back or spooned around each other, the light touch of fingers around fingers while turned face to face.

  I realize, lying here in the Buckleys’ bed, that I have only known this intimacy, this easy way to end a day and fall into my dreams, with my sister. I have only known what it is to share such sacred, holy space with Daisy, mostly when we were children but a final time just before she died. I have never wrapped myself around anyone else and I somehow suspect I never will.

  I sense the lived-in nature of this room, this bed, but I also know too well the sorrow. I turn over to my side, pulling my knees to my chest, and do not even hear the sound of the car driving up the driveway or the opening and closing of the front door. I do not know that I am no longer alone until I hear the voice calling from below.

  “Hello. Am I at the right place?”

  I jump up, smooth down my shirt, my slacks, check my hair in the mirror, and hurry downstairs.

  •THIRTEEN•

  HELLO.” I enter the kitchen and find a man standing at the kitchen sink, peering out the back window.

  There are chickadees at a feeder. Kathy even made sure to set out bird food, obviously hoping to fill the yard with animal life, knowing this might be a nice touch for showing a house to a veterinarian. I’m surprised she didn’t ask to borrow Clementine. Having a big dog by the fireplace might have been the clincher.

  He turns to me and I think he looks disappointed, or maybe confused. I’m not sure which emotion it is that has caused the deep crease in his brow and his lips to press together, forming such a tight line.

  “You’re not Kathy,” he says.

  I’m still not sure if it’s disappointment or confusion.

  “No,” I answer. “I’m not.”

  I pause and then realize I should probably introduce myself, since I’m the one who isn’t supposed to be here.

  “Ruby Jewell.” I move closer to him and hold out my hand. “I’m the florist,” I say, and then decide that isn’t really the right introduction, but for some reason I keep going. “I brought some . . . I work with . . .” Suddenly, everything I say sounds inappropriate or is somehow doing away with the portrait Kathy was trying to paint.

  I know, of course, that everyone understands that real estate agents want the best light shined on a property and that they’ll do what they can to create and direct that best light, but everyone also understands that in order for that proposition to work, the best light needs to be in place, shining on things in as natural a way as possible when a potential buyer arrives. If not, it suddenly appears as if everything might just be some tactic or ploy and a person begins to question the sincerity of their agent and the genuine good nature of the house.

  My presence at the Buckley house when the customer arrives, my arranging the plants that are being rented to the real estate agent for the purpose of staging a pleasant presentation, is sort of like members of an audience walking in while the unhidden puppeteers practice, the puppets nothing more than plastic faces and pieces of cloth merely stuck and moving on human hands. You may stay and watch the show, but somehow some of the magic is now missing.

  “I need to be going.” I drop this stranger’s hand, clear my throat, nod a good-bye, and start to hurry out of the room. Maybe he won’t tell Kathy I was here. Maybe I can get out before she drives up.

  “It’s okay,” he responds, folding his arms across his chest. “I think this house is too big for me anyway.”

  I turn back to face him.

  “Kathy seems bent on giving me Dr. Buckley’s entire life here in Creekside. The office is great, but this house . . .” He looks around. “It’s clearly more Dr. and Mrs. Buckley than me.” He waits. “I’m John,” he adds.

  I nod as if I know, because the truth is I do know.

  “How many children did they raise here anyway?”

  “None,” I answer. “It was just the two of them and their pets.”

  “Did they stable horses in here?”

  I can’t help myself; I laugh. “No, just a few dogs.”

  He is shaking his head. “I wouldn’t know what to do with this much space,” he confesses.

  “Mrs. Buckley entertained a lot,” I explain. “There were many socials and get-togethers in this house.”

  “Ah,” he replies, drawing out the word, nodding for emphasis. “Well, I figure the only get-together I will be hosting will be Super Bowl parties, and my socials will likely be poker games.”

  “I see.” I glance around the kitchen. “Well, still, for a decent Super Bowl party you need good counter space, and you do have a lot of that here.”

  He was grinning when he caught my eye. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying. Now that you mention it, even to host a respectable poker game you need a big fridge and a good table area.”

  “Maybe extra bedrooms if the game goes too late and your guests need accommodations,” I add.

  “Nah, I’ll let ’em come and play cards, buy the beer and pretzels, but I don’t want my poker partners staying over. I need my personal boundaries; it doesn’t matter how big my house is.”

  I smile as I study John Cash, Kathy’s client. He is tall, lanky: a man, it is easy to see, who used to hunch as a boy, trying to hide his height, trying not to stand out or over his classmates, trying to fit in. He has long hands and beautiful blue eyes. His hair is thick and messy and he is wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt, red and blue stripes, and a pair of tan cargo pants. He has on hiking boots, and the back of his pants on his right leg is caught on the top of his boot. He has a warm smile, broad shoulders, and I believe he is right: This is much too much house for him. It’s clear to see that he is a log cabin kind of guy, a farmhouse guy, maybe, but definitely not a Colonial Revivalist.

  I hesitate. I know I need to leave, but I am clearly delaying my departure.

  “You’d have room for your family to visit.” Now I’m fishing.

  “My parents don’t travel, and my sister prefers hotels,” is his answer.

  “Children?” I ask.

  Now he knows I’m fishing. He shakes his head, and I see that this is a sore subject.

  “Horses?”

  He smiles, shaking his head. “Just a rowdy pack of shelter mutts and a parakeet.”

  I nod and glance away.

  “You?”

  It’s only fair that he asks.

  “No children, no family, no horses. One shelter mutt, no parakeet.”

  “And just how big is your house?”

  I look around. “About the size of that living room.”

  We’re staring at each other and suddenly I am really, strangely, completely uncomfortable in this moment.

  “So, I’m going to go now,” I say as I back up. “Ask Kathy about the Chatham place. It’s on Flowery Trail, has
its own creek and a tree house.” I turn to walk out. “Oh, and there’s a great room in it, perfect for a Super Bowl party.”

  I make it to the front door, and then with my hand on the doorknob, I look back. He is watching me.

  “The bamboo is a nice touch,” he says. “Almost makes me want to buy this place.”

  I can’t help myself but I’m grinning. “Then maybe you should make an offer,” I suggest. “And if you mention how much you like the plant, I bet she’ll let you keep it.” And before he has the chance to respond, I turn around, open the door, and head down the front steps.

  I am in my van and pulling out of the driveway, and I am extremely pleased that I have gotten all the way down the street before seeing Kathy’s Cadillac making the turn in my direction.

  She’s talking on her cell phone and I sigh in relief; she doesn’t even notice me.

  •FOURTEEN•

  WHAT’S wrong with you, and what is Captain Miller talking about in this message he left that the invitation states ‘cocktail attire’? And who is this little boy and why does he want to put a leash on Clementine?” Nora met me at the back door.

  It’s about three questions too many, and I walk in without answering any of them. Will is sitting on the floor near the table petting my dog. I had forgotten about the boy. It took a little time to get things straightened out with his grandmother for him to have the job. I never said anything to Nora about him joining the staff and now I’m surprised he’s actually here. He clearly thinks of this as his first day of work.

  “Don’t take her near the cats,” I tell him. “Clementine doesn’t like cats.”

  “Where are the cats?” Will asks.

  It’s an appropriate question, and I’m impressed that he’s thinking about his task. “They hang out at the garage on the corner and the empty lot by the railroad tracks.”

  He considers the aforementioned locations. It appears this was the direction he intended to go.

  “Take her across the street, go over the tracks, and walk down past the old Mexican restaurant and out to the creek behind the Lutheran church. She likes it out there and there aren’t any cats.”

  Will nods, hooks Clementine to the leash he had in his lap, and she stands and seems happy to have a place to go and someone to take her. I walk around the counter and open the front door. The two of them walk out to the sidewalk. Will stops. Clem sits. They both look up and down Main Street and then cross together. I can’t tell who is walking who, but I think they’ll be fine. Clementine is an easy companion. Unless there are cats. Then she’s somebody I don’t recognize.

  “Who is that kid?” Nora is standing right behind me, watching.

  I turn around and almost run right into her, she’s so close. She backs up and moves into the store. I follow.

  “Will Norris,” I answer.

  She shakes her head. The name isn’t ringing a bell.

  “Juanita’s grandson,” I explain.

  “That’s Diane’s boy?” she asks, peering over my shoulder, still able to see Will and Clementine until they finally disappear behind the old house on the corner of the street.

  I nod.

  “He looks nothing like her,” she comments.

  “What did she look like?”

  “Short, chubby, purple hair, piercings in her nose and lip and eyebrows, a tattoo of a feather across one side of her face.” She continues watching out the window.

  I don’t say a thing. I just follow her gaze.

  “Of course . . .” She turns around to face me when I move behind the counter. “If you take away the hair color and the tattoo and the piercings, it’s possible that they bear a resemblance.”

  I roll my eyes. “You think?”

  She waves her hand in front of her. “Never mind about him. Why did you seem so funny when you came in?”

  I pick up the orders by the cash register that must have been placed while I was gone and glance over the tickets. “I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.

  She walks over to me and gets real close to my face. She starts to sniff me and pulls away.

  “You met Kathy’s customer. You met that veterinarian.”

  I stare at Nora. I do not know how she can pick up on things so quickly. I swear she’s psychic, and I wonder what she would know if she hadn’t damaged herself so much in her drinking days. I figure she’d be working for the government or writing an astrology column for the paper at the very least.

  She’s right, of course, but I’m not letting on. “I just ran into him on my way out the door,” I lie.

  She gets real close again, leans in, and tilts her head from side to side like she can see better out of one eye, hear better out of one ear.

  I back away and move around the counter to the other side of the design table. “What is this order from Kyle Bridges?” I glance down at the ticket she filled out.

  She is studying me; I can feel her staring but I don’t look up.

  “He wants twelve long-stemmed roses for Nancy,” she answers, referring to Kyle’s wife.

  “He work an extra shift again?” I ask.

  Kyle buys twelve long-stemmed roses when Nancy gets mad, and she usually only gets mad when he takes an extra shift at the fire station. Creekside firemen work four days on, three days off, ten-hour shifts, but Kyle has a reputation for filling in for his buddies. Sometimes he works twenty hours straight. Nancy doesn’t think Kyle is as much kind and generous to his colleagues as he is invested in the late-night domino games that take place at the fire station after hours. Kyle has explained this little hiccup in his marriage to me before.

  “She changed the locks,” Nora replies.

  “Again?”

  “Did it and then went to work. Kyle still can’t get in. He had to go back to the station to take a shower and get his meals. I guess he’s hoping the roses will at least help him make it through the front door, if for no other reason than to pack a suitcase for the rest of the week.”

  I make a kind of humming noise that I like to make when I’ve heard hard news, and Nora appears as if she’s not going to make any other inquiries about John.

  “Is he coming by to get them?” I ask, heading to the rear of the shop.

  “He should be here any time.”

  Glad to have a task so that I don’t have to get the third degree about John Cash or about a message from Captain Miller, I go into the cooler and pull out twelve of the healthiest red roses I have. I examine them closely and snap off a few of the leaves still attached to the bottom of the stems. I pick out about ten branches of seeded eucalyptus and a handful of variegated pittosporum. I also grab one full-bodied stem of snapdragons, tiny white flowers, that I can delicately place somewhere in the bouquet.

  Snapdragons are a natural reducer of anger, and I figure Nancy could use a little anger reduction even though I’m pretty sure that the newlyweds are going to have to find some way of compromise regarding Kyle’s work schedule. The flowers help, but eventually the fireman is going to have to make a choice: the buddies at the station or his lonesome wife.

  I suspect he’s not far off from figuring it out, and I think maybe I should add a few white chestnut leaves in the bottom of the vase. Maybe the herb can help Kyle decide to settle in more at home.

  I walk the flowers out to the front of the shop, drop them on the table, go through the other door to the closet near the back door, and find my jar of white chestnut leaves on the third shelf. I open the container, shake out a few leaves into my hand, and put the jar back where I found it. When I return to the design table behind the counter, Will is back and Clementine is helping herself to some water in her bowl by the sink.

  “We didn’t see no cats,” Will reports. “And Clementine peed a bunch of times. We went all the way down the creek to the liquor store, back around the diner, and down Second Street by the church.” He pauses. “She’s a good dog.”

  Clementine glances over from the bowl. She raises her head in my direction as if to say, He’s a
good boy.

  I nod at them both.

  “You want to empty the buckets in the cooler and pour in some fresh water?” I ask.

  He shrugs, and I turn to Nora.

  She immediately understands that I’m asking her to show him how and waves Will around the counter and toward the cooler. “It’s hard,” I hear her explain. “You can’t touch the tops of the flowers, have to pick them up only by the stems very carefully, and then you walk the buckets all the way out past the back steps to empty them.”

  I smile, find my scissors, and start snipping the ends off Kyle’s roses.

  •FIFTEEN•

  I GLANCE at the clock above the door. Cooper is already six hours late delivering the Valentine’s flowers. I had planned to spend the morning getting a good start on the specials: one single rose, a bud vase tied with a red bow, and just a bit of greenery, stems of dagger fern or emerald palm. Nora had already secured the little boxes of candy to the stuffed animals and there was a line of teddy bears standing beside empty vases, covering the entire design table.

  Without the shipment of roses, however, that activity, along with assembling the standard dozen long-stemmed bouquets, was sidelined and I had to work on the other arrangements. Those included the funeral spray for John Clover’s service over at the Baptist church, red and white and blue carnations, the American flag made out of flowers, a special for the veterans; a birthday bouquet of pink and yellow gerberas for Nancy Wilkerson to be delivered this afternoon just before she leaves from work at the hardware store; and a dieffenbachia with three tiny butterfly ornaments and two helium balloons to be picked up after three for a housewarming gift for a friend of Maude Peters in Colville. I certainly had enough to keep me busy, but on the day before Valentine’s I needed my red roses as early as possible.