The Art of Arranging Flowers

by Lynne Branard

  “Do you want me to try to call him again?” Nora asks. She is sweeping up the leaves and stems from the floor. She is clearly aware of how many times I have looked at the clock.

  I shake my head. “I still have other things to do,” I answer. “He’s always late for Valentine’s,” I remind both of us. “He’ll get here before five.”

  She walks over to the front window and glances up at the sky. She turns back to me and doesn’t say what I know she is thinking. The weatherman is calling for snow later tonight, and that can mean real trouble for florists trying to make deliveries. Jimmy is still employed at the shop, printing out the tiny gift cards and pinning them to the ribbons, keeping the storage room clean and the van tidy, carving out bricks of green foam. He’s in the back room now, washing and cleaning out the vases; there are plenty of chores to be done, but without a license, he can’t make deliveries. Nora doesn’t drive so well in snow, so that means if we wake up in the morning to more than a couple of inches, I’ll have to make the runs.

  I prefer to stay in the shop on Valentine’s Day because I’m usually swamped from morning to evening creating all those last-minute bouquets. It doesn’t matter how many Hallmark commercials there are or how early in the month retail owners hang their red holiday banners, there are always four or five frantic customers running in wanting something beautiful to take home to their sweethearts. Without Jimmy to make deliveries and with Nora uneasy about winter driving, I know I’ll be out for most of tomorrow, so I need to make some extra arrangements to stick in the fridge before I leave today.

  Since I’ve already used all the red roses I had, those last-minute shoppers are going to have to do with the white ones left over from Kathy’s anniversary bouquets and the pink spray roses I always have on hand. I walk back to the cooler to see what else I can use. And when I return about fifteen minutes later, my arms full of freesia and bells of Ireland, daffodils and the flamingo mini gerberas, John Cash is standing at the counter. Nora, I can easily see, is charmed by the new veterinarian, as is Clementine, who has been roused from her sleep and is standing by his side.

  “Oh,” I say, wishing I had checked myself in the mirror, wishing I had not put on the old green smock I was wearing that was covered in spots and stains, and wondering why I was suddenly wishing for things I never remember wishing for before.

  He smiles. Clementine turns to me but then quickly looks back up at Cash, presses her nose against his leg. She is so transparent.

  “Dr. Cash bought a house,” Nora announces.

  “Oh,” I say again. Maybe we could opt for another word, I think. I glance around, trying to find a place for all the flowers I have in my arms, since the table is stacked with Nora’s work.

  “You were right. The place on Flowery Trail is perfect.”

  I feel the “oh” about to surface again and I tighten my lips around it, and instead I simply nod.

  “Looks like you got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.” He eyes the overflowing design table, the bud vases, the bunch of blooms in my embrace. “I always wondered how florists manage to get all those orders filled for Valentine’s Day. I never imagined enlisting the help of an army of bears.”

  I follow his glance ahead of him, behind Nora, and I understand his reference. The stuffed bears are standing at attention, ordered in a perfectly straight line. They are soldiers armed and ready for duty.

  Suddenly, Nora laughs. It is way too exaggerated and John catches my eye. I smile and shrug and Nora stops, realizing she’s the only one laughing. She clears her throat.

  “I’m just going to go to the back and see if Jimmy needs any help.” She peers over her glasses and gives me a wink. It’s as big a gesture as her laughter and it embarrasses me. I see that John has glanced away. He is scratching Clementine, which is, at the moment, greatly appreciated by us both.

  I lay the flowers on the edge of the counter and wipe away the tiny leaves clinging to my smock. “So, the house is good?” I should probably move over and stand across from him, but I feel more comfortable with a little distance between us. I prefer a bit more space than apparently does my dog. I glance down and see how she is leaning into his legs.

  He rises and I realize I had forgotten the blue of his eyes.

  “It’s just like you said,” he replies. “I love the little creek, and the great room is, well, great. And even though I must say the tree house is inviting, I’m not quite sure it was built for someone my size.”

  I smile.

  “I made an offer last night and it was accepted this morning.”

  “Well, congratulations,” I say. “Sounds like you’re happy, and I know the Chathams are glad to have a buyer, and I’m sure Kathy is pleased to have made the sale.”

  “Truthfully, I’m not so sure about the real estate agent. I think she was holding out to the last minute with the hope that I might change my mind and take the Buckley house.”

  I had forgotten that she was counting on selling that property and suddenly wonder if she knows it was my suggestion that he see the other house.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” he quickly adds, apparently reading my expression. “I never asked specifically about the place. She doesn’t know you gave me the idea. I just described my ideal home, which happens to have a creek and a tree house, and she took me right to the address. She’s beating herself up, actually, because she thinks it was entirely her idea.”

  I nod with relief. I don’t really want to lose Kathy’s business. Her parents’ anniversary party helped pay for some necessary repairs on the van. She’s a good customer, not to mention the only yoga instructor in Creekside. If I make her mad I’ll be back doing my fitness routine in my living room using borrowed videotapes from the library. And I know my posture would suffer. I suddenly feel myself straighten at the thought of Kathy’s Saturday morning class.

  “I came by to get the bamboo.”

  I’m not sure what he means. “Oh.” There, I said it again. I shake my head and I realize he means the plant that I used at the Buckley house. I suppose he wants to buy it.

  “I’m hoping that it will look just as good in this house as it did in the other.”

  “I can’t think of a reason that it shouldn’t work just as well.”

  “And it does bring luck, right?”

  “Peace, actually,” I answer. “It’s called a good-luck bamboo, but it’s really considered lucky because of its peaceful vitality and sturdiness.” Suddenly, I’m sounding like an encyclopedia. Clementine glances in my direction; she notices the same thing.

  “Well, one certainly can’t go wrong with that growing in a corner of his house.”

  I’m just about to respond when I hear the back door swing open and Cooper’s loud and booming voice. I smile at John, and I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed that my Valentine shipment has finally arrived.

  •SIXTEEN•

  WELL, we survived another year,” I announce to Clementine as I lock the front door and flip the sign from Open to Closed.

  She has risen from her resting spot under the table and is watching me. When she sees me grab the stool and put it by the counter, she heads back to where she was, realizing we’re not leaving at our usual time. I walk over to the cash register and blow out a big breath, glad the busiest day of the year is done.

  Jimmy and Nora just left and even though I’m tired, I still want to tally the orders and check the cooler before heading out. I know I can do this tomorrow, but I haven’t added the numbers and I’m curious about the day’s total sales. I’m pretty sure the shop was successful but I can’t help myself, I want some confirmation that we did in fact have a good day.

  I glance around. All of the teddy bears and boxes of candy are gone. I used most of the roses that Cooper delivered and from what I can see, there are only two arrangements left in the refrigerator. The ribbon rolls are empty and I’m running low on green tissue.

  I’m happy to see that my inventory is pretty much wiped out. And even tho
ugh that could be dangerous for other types of businesses, for a florist, emptying the shop of supplies is actually the sign of a very good day. Luckily, I shouldn’t need any red ribbon for a while; there are plenty of rolls of other colors, and even though I have used every one I had in stock, I don’t usually get orders requiring bud vases during February and March, and with a few weeks before Easter I should have a little break before having to order another large shipment from Cooper. I am confident that there are still enough flowers left for the Sunday church services and birthday bouquets for the weekend, and I never run out of potted plants. I am not worried. I should be fine until next week.

  I sit down on the stool and open up the accordion file by the cash register and pull out the tickets. First, I decide that I’ll go through the early orders, some of them made weeks ago, making sure once more that I didn’t forget or misplace one. I went through this process twice already, but I just need to be confident that I filled all the orders and made all the deliveries.

  I am happy to report that after twenty years in this profession, I have never missed a delivery. From the very beginning of running this business I have understood that a florist forgetting to fill an order for Valentine’s Day or any special occasion can never really be forgiven.

  Most folks are gracious when mistakes are made. They’ll overlook pricing problems or misspelled names; they’ll not make too much fuss if you forget to add flowers that were suggested for a bouquet. But losing an order and missing the important delivery date, well, that’s just a mistake that cannot be forgiven. There is no room in the florist profession for those glaring errors.

  I look over the names and recall the reactions I received when I made the deliveries earlier: plenty of smiles, a few rounds of applause, pure delight and pleasure. I discovered I didn’t mind so much having to leave the shop and make the deliveries after all. I know now why Jimmy likes this job so much better than driving a bus. Bringing flowers to people is a whole lot more fun than picking up children and dropping them off at school.

  I think about the places I walked in with bouquets today, and one thing was the same everywhere I went. High school girls, blue-collar workers, and professionals: the jobs and titles don’t matter, women do love their flowers.

  I glance through the messages from their husbands and lovers, their fathers and sons. With all my love. You are my everything. Please be mine. You’re the best. Every note is personal and prized, and as I read these short notes of adoration, I feel the tears gather in my eyes. It doesn’t matter how long I do this work or how exhausted I get, every year I have the same reaction. I’m just a sucker for Valentine’s Day.

  Relieved that I didn’t miss a preorder, I straighten the stack of papers and bind them together with a rubber band. Then I place them back in the folder so that Nora can log them on the computer later and then add them to the year’s file box that we keep in the rear of the shop. I tally up those numbers. We definitely exceeded our sales from previous years. The teddy bear special worked out nicely.

  Finally, I reach in and pull out the orders that came in today, the ones that were given and picked up while I was out making the deliveries. Nora writes down the names of the customers so I can make sure the purchases are added to their lists. She understands that I always like to know who stopped by or phoned in and what they bought.

  Henry Phillips had come in sometime during the day and bought the large arrangement that I put together yesterday afternoon, the one I named Charmed and Romanced, created with light yellow roses, pink Asiatic lilies, yellow alstroemeria, and white waxflower, accented with leatherleaf fern. I suppose he was taking them to the library and hand-delivering them to Lou Ann. I wonder about their romance and if the flowers are helping it along.

  Justin Dexter stopped by. I thought of him yesterday morning and figured with all that he’s been doing to take care of Jenny, the day would just sneak up on him, and I had been right. I was glad to see that Nora had given him the arrangement I had made with them in mind.

  I study the ticket and confirm that he bought the Yellow Spring Delight arrangement with stems of white freesia, fresh yellow tulips and calla lilies, white ones, mixed with stalks of green viburnum and graceful tendrils of ivy. The yellow would be good for Jenny, better than red, I had decided, so I’m glad he was happy with my choice, and I hope she felt well enough to enjoy his gift.

  It appears as though the orchid did its magic for Conrad because it was Vivian who stopped by the shop after lunch. According to Nora’s note, she bought the small but tightly arranged bouquet of hydrangeas, green and pink ones, lavender roses, tulips and green myrtle. It was a more feminine arrangement but still clearly a romantic one. I smile and think Conrad will be pleased.

  There’s a ticket for Will. I read over the order and it appears as if he came in the shop after school, walked Clementine, and bought flowers. The little boy must have spent all the money he made working last week to buy a small vase of belladonnas, vibrant blue delphiniums surrounding one red rose, and I assume the purchase was for his grandmother, Juanita. I see Nora didn’t charge him the full price and I’m glad she knew to discount the boy’s order.

  I can see Will in my mind’s eye sorting through the flowers in the storage room and picking the blue ones. Nora must have put the bouquet together and I’m sure she added a few sprigs of gypsophila, the tiny white buttons that accentuate the darker colors in arrangements. Juanita must have been pleased and surprised to receive her grandson’s gift, and I feel the tears well again, thinking about a young boy’s gift to his mother’s mother, thinking of the tender ways children love.

  With this second round of weepiness and knowing I still have one stop before going home, I decide I’m too tired to keep reading tickets. I’m stacking them together, putting them back in the file, confident I’ll hear about the day’s orders from Nora in the morning, when one slip of paper falls out of the stack and onto the floor. As I bend down to pick it up, I read the name and I suddenly feel an unfamiliar emotion. The tenderness is gone. This feeling is something akin to disappointment or envy; I can’t say for sure. All I know is that when I see the line marked Customer and read the name J. Cash, I don’t feel quite so in love with the day.

  I stop to study the order. The veterinarian had also made a purchase today. He had obviously come by the shop, but not to see me, as I had imagined was the reason for his visit yesterday, but rather to buy flowers, to buy flowers for someone else. I feel a sudden twinge of that emotion again, or maybe it’s more of a pang. I can’t say, since everything about this feeling, this reaction, is new for me. But I read the ticket and know right away that he had someone special in mind when he placed the order. I glance over at Clementine.

  “Did you know about this?” I ask.

  She slides a bit farther under the table so that she doesn’t meet my eyes.

  He bought the Graceful Heart Bouquet, the last arrangement I made before going home last night, the one that used all the remaining roses, the one I put together so carefully, so deliberately, the one I created without knowing for sure who would buy or receive it. Bear grass pulled into the shape of a heart, tied with purple waxflower blossoms, velvety red roses with pittosporum, and all delicately placed in a ruby-red cube vase, the only one I had, the one Cooper gave me as a gift, the one I studied before filling it with blooms.

  Dr. John Cash picked this arrangement to give to someone on Valentine’s Day, and even though I am very clear I have absolutely no hold on the man, no ties to him—I barely know him, after all—the thought of him giving my delicate creation to another woman pinches a bit more than I think it should. And although I had not really given it any consideration, “pinched” is not at all the way I wanted to be feeling at the end of this day.

  •SEVENTEEN•

  SORRY I’m late,” I say, brushing off the snow from the headstone and placing the tall gray cement vase back in its holder at the bottom of the stone. “I had to deliver today,” I add, confident that my sist
er understands what that means.

  “It’ll be more than a couple of months before Jimmy gets his license back, and I can’t afford another driver and he can’t afford to lose this job.” I reach around for the plastic stadium seat I had dropped and slide it closer, plopping down on it. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and pull my wool cap down over my ears. Clementine is sniffing something at the base of the tree in front of us. She glances over at me and I nod, signaling that I see her and that she is fine.

  “I ran out of the hot pink ones,” I note, reaching up and clipping off a drooping leaf from the gerbera. “Hope you don’t mind orange.” I sit back and study the bouquet I made for Daisy. “All the red ones were spoken for.”

  Like most of the arrangements I keep at the cemetery, this one is filled with the brightest colors I could find. Today that means orange and yellow and bright gold. Daisy liked her flowers to pop.

  “Cooper was late again and I was starting to think I would have to drive down to Spokane and pick up a couple of buckets of roses from the wholesale grower off Champion Street, but he finally showed up at two o’clock in the afternoon. That only left me four hours to get all the orders filled.” I lean back on my elbows.

  “Crazy guy. He claims it was traffic that made him late, but I know he was hitting on every florist from here to Moscow. He always thinks Valentine’s Day is going to be his lucky day, even though every year I remind him that we are all too tired after this holiday to think about romance for ourselves. The last thing a florist wants on February fourteenth is for some horny salesman to try to get her in bed.” I can hear my sister laugh. I figure she’s heard this story before, but she always humors me by not interrupting.