The Art of Arranging Flowers

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The Art of Arranging Flowers Page 9

by Lynne Branard


  “Did I tell you he kissed me once?” I know this will pique her interest.

  I shake my head, remembering how he leaned in, smelling of mints and coffee, how I thought he was only going for a hug and how I leaned in as well, only to meet him lips to lips. I had known him for exactly one month.

  “He had his tongue down my throat before I even realized what was happening.”

  Clementine suddenly joins me, drops down at my side. She remembers that day because she had to hear about it for weeks. When she knows the story I’m telling, I figure she’ll get up again and walk away. Clementine hates to hear the same thing over and over. She doesn’t leave, however; she just closes her eyes and sighs.

  “I know you would have clocked him, but, well, I was just starting the business and he was giving me ninety days to pay instead of sixty and I needed the extra time, so I just pulled back and started trimming stems of aspidistra. You know me, I acted like nothing had happened even though I’m sure that he got the message loud and clear, and that’s the last time he’s tried anything with me.” I glance up at the sky. It’s getting dark and I count a few stars.

  “I’d clock him today, though.”

  I think about John Cash and consider telling Daisy about the new veterinarian and the special order he placed sometime during the day while I was away, the tiny spark I thought I felt between us. I study the headstone and change my mind. She’d want to hear every detail and I don’t even know them all to tell.

  “It turns out Frank Goodrich didn’t want any of his teddy bear arrangements. He ordered two bouquets of a dozen roses each again this year. One had red and the other had pink. I don’t know who got the pink ones, since he picked them up himself, but I delivered the red roses to Verna Johnston over at the clinic. I think she’s a little suspicious of Frank since she took a long time reading the card. I stood there a minute just to be polite, but when I got the feeling she might ask me questions about Frank and his flower orders, I headed out.”

  I remember how the young receptionist peeked over the card, her dark eyes casting a look of doubt, and how Jane Dryer, her coworker, walked over to the counter and stuck her face in the bouquet. “Someone must really love you,” was the last thing I heard before clearing out.

  There are things florists know that we must take to our graves. I glance up at where I’m sitting. “Or maybe to our sisters’ graves,” I say as a joke.

  “Jenny isn’t doing well.” I change the subject and lean forward, pulling my legs under me. “I heard from Louise that she goes back to the hospital next week for more treatments.”

  I am disappointed that the narcissus didn’t help with her insomnia. I recall Justin stopping by a few days ago saying she was still up every night after only a couple of hours of sleep. It worries me that none of the remedies I send are helping with her symptoms, alleviating none of her aches and pains. The only thing that seems to help any at all is the lavender. She seemed to like the little sachet I made for her to place under her pillow, and I send her sprigs in every bouquet Justin buys. I worry for them both that the cancer is more aggressive than they know.

  “Stan remembered to get something for Viola this year, and Henry seems to be smitten with the librarian.” I have a clear picture in my mind of the bouquet the barber bought and again find myself hopeful that Lou Ann is pleased by his affections.

  “I think you’re right about Jimmy and Nora,” I report, recalling how Daisy once told me about her AA sponsor, how she had an affair with the man for two years before he left town, cutting it off. She said they are reminded over and over in meetings that sex is not to be considered by two recovering alcoholics bound by the twelve steps, but sometimes addicted people just can’t help themselves. The shared stories of regret and disappointment, loss, and the day-in and day-out struggles create such intimacy between a pair that the only thing that keeps them from buying a bottle of booze is the wicked desire to be together.

  “It’s not supposed to happen,” she told me one night in the hospital after I caught her in bed with the older man who she said had been her arresting officer, a policeman who had been the speaker at the meeting she had attended earlier that week. “But sometimes it just does. The sex doesn’t last as long as a trip or a buzz, but it sure does take your mind off drugs for a minute or two.” She had laughed when she said it, and for whatever reason I had laughed too. Daisy could find the humor in anything.

  I see the longing in both Nora and Jimmy. I just don’t know what it’s for. Maybe redemption. Maybe to be connected to someone. Maybe it’s just the desire to be lost in or to something other than addiction, other than despair. I don’t know what the two of them do or even where they go when they leave the shop together, Nora driving them out past Main Street, heading north on Highway 311, the opposite direction from where both of them live. Since Jimmy’s been back, I figured it was to an AA meeting in Colville or the evening one held at the nondenominational church in Valley, but I’ve never asked and they never tell. But I can’t help but see how deeply they care for each other, how deeply they want for each other not to be broken.

  I study the headstone in front of me, the vase of flowers, freezing now in the evening cold, and I think how we are all broken over one thing or another, how we all limp about, dragging our sorrows and troubles, our failures and disappointments, our perfect loneliness, and how it is when we suddenly open our eyes and see someone next to us dragging their own smashed bones. It seems only natural that we would want to crawl in their direction holding out our hands.

  Daisy was an alcoholic and a heroin addict, but she always knew how to meet others, how to reach them, connect with them. I may not drink until I pass out or crave being high, but that certainly doesn’t make me better than her because I could never do what my sister could do. People think I’m the smart one, the fortunate one, the unbroken member of the Jewell family, but they’re wrong. Even Mama knew how to take a lover and squeeze life out of a roll in the hay. Daisy had so many friends that after she died they lined the walls of the funeral home, poured out the front door and stood under the windows. They all made sure they told me what Daisy meant to them. It was a little overwhelming.

  Me? My heart can open to blooms and stalks, delicate petals and green leafy plants; I can love these creatures of beauty. But what I know of intimacy is wrapped too tightly in loss and misery and I cannot risk an unfolding. It is enough to fan the flames of adoration for others, sweeten the romance for someone else. It is enough to caress my flowers and cherish my dog. And without saying a word to my sister, I shake the thoughts of John Cash and a Graceful Heart betrayal out of my head. Daisy is bound to know I’m not telling her everything about Valentine’s Day this year, but lucky for me, she can’t force me to say anything more than what I have already said.

  “I love you, Sis,” I say as I place my hand on the headstone, spreading my fingers cold across her name. “It was a good day. I can pay the mortgage.” And I stand up to leave.

  I am almost by the gate when I catch a glimpse of the blue flowers as I’m throwing the beam from my flashlight from side to side. I recognize the bouquet right away from the description I read on the order slip, and I suddenly realize that I am not the only one who visited a grave that day. I walk over and read the name on the newest monument on the west side of the cemetery.

  “Diane Norris,” I say out loud, and quietly note the dates of her birth and death. “Beloved daughter and mother.” The small delphinium blooms, blue stars, now wilted and drooped in the clear vase, were not given to Juanita after all. The bouquet that I imagined was lighting up a dinner table or a small bedroom desk, a grandson’s token of love, had been bought and left at a grave.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I say to Will’s mother. And I sense Clementine near me. I reach around, feel her warm breath on my hand, and turn to head home.

  •EIGHTEEN•

  DO you have a dress?”

  I have finally told Nora about my invitation from Captain Mill
er. She keeps calling it a date. I keep calling it an outing. Nora will look after Clementine while I’m gone.

  “I have the one I wear to the weddings.”

  We are delivering flowers to the country club together. It’s a retirement party for the golf pro and the order was for twelve arrangements of mums, footballs, yellow and white. The club manager placed the order and I didn’t offer any alternative suggestions. He sounded quite confident about his choice.

  If it had been Carl Wyatt, the catering manager, the arrangements would have been a little more creative and a lot more colorful. He has great taste and I always love planning events with him. Joe Maddox, the manager, has never ordered flowers from me before. I didn’t even recognize his name when he made the call. His secretary, Nancy Beadle, usually orders flowers for his wife on her birthday.

  “The pink one?” Nora asks. “The one from 1988?”

  I have to stop for a minute to remember what we were talking about. Oh right, my dress. “It was from the early nineties, but yes,” I reply. “That’s the one.”

  “Oh no, Ruby, you cannot wear that thing to meet the president. You shouldn’t even be wearing it to the weddings anymore. It’s old. It’s too big for you. And there’s a yellow stain on the right side, down at the hem. And if I know Captain Miller, he’ll be in a tuxedo, a classic one, with a black silk bow tie and a perfectly creased cummerbund. His shoes will be polished to a mirror shine and he will be wearing a new pair of socks. No, no, no . . .” She shakes her head. “The pink dress will not be making an appearance on this date.”

  “It’s not a date. And how do you know there’s a yellow stain on the right side of my dress? And how come you never told me?”

  “Darling Ruby, I know how little you care about what you wear, and when you’re slogging baskets of flowers across a church sanctuary the age and fit of your dress doesn’t really matter. To answer your question, I noticed the stain a year ago. I hoped you would discover it and get it cleaned. The fact that you haven’t is even more of a reason you cannot be trusted with wardrobe details for your date with the astronaut.”

  We pull into the country club parking lot and I stop the van by the front door. I put the engine in park and turn to Nora. “When do I have time to go shopping?”

  I realize I sound a little defensive. But now I have to wonder, does Nora talk to other people about what I wear to the weddings I attend? Has anyone complained about how I look? Does it matter what the florist wears?

  I don’t even want to know. I shut off the engine and pull out the key. We both get out of the van and I walk around to open the back door. I glance down at what I’m wearing. It’s my favorite pair of army green Dockers. I have on hiking boots and a red flannel shirt, one I bought at a yard sale last year. I look over at Nora and she pretends she doesn’t notice what I’m thinking.

  “What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” she asks.

  I hand her two arrangements.

  “I’m working on my taxes,” I answer, pulling out two more and moving toward the front door.

  “Well, you can work on them until noon. Then we’re going to Nordstrom’s.” Together we head in the direction of the dining room and then she walks around me, leading the way.

  We’ve both done numerous events at the country club. Nora and I know exactly where the dinner will be.

  “Nordstrom’s? Nora, I can’t shop at Nordstrom’s. The last time I went in there the only thing I could afford was a pair of panty hose, and they cost more than the shoes I was wearing them with.”

  She stops and turns around. We have just entered the main dining room. The tables are not yet set.

  “You are going to a dinner with an astronaut. The man walked on the moon. You will be in the company of the president of the United States. We are going to Nordstrom’s and we are buying you a suitable dress for the occasion and if I have to open up an account and pay for this dress for the rest of my life, we are making the purchase tomorrow.”

  “Yellow football mums?” Carl has joined us at the head table. He is clearly unhappy with the flower order.

  “I know, Carl,” I say sympathetically. “I tried to tell him you make great floral decisions, but he had his mind set on the mums.”

  “It’s going to look like a high school booster club meeting,” he responds, taking the arrangements from Nora. He moves around the table and we follow him as he places one of the bouquets at the center. He stands back and shakes his head.

  “I have some yellow cushions, pink buttons,” I tell him, naming the other flowers I have in stock that would go with the large mums. “But your boss seemed to think these would add the perfect touch.”

  “Oh please, Ruby, my boss thinks carnations are exotics. He hasn’t a clue about the perfect touch.” He spins the large vase around, searching for the best angle, which I can see is the one he just had.

  “I knew leaving on vacation without going over the calendar with him was a mistake. His wife and I both know not to leave him in charge of decorative details.” He spins the arrangement back around.

  “Do you mind?” He faces me. “Maybe just a couple of medium to tall vases of the white cushions and green buttons?” He turns back to the football mums. “And how about asters, do you have any bunches of yellow and pink?”

  I smile.

  “I believe I do,” I answer. I glance over at Nora and she’s adding up the cost of the new bouquets in her head. I can tell that she’s already figuring out how we’ll pay for our shopping adventure.

  “How many more of these did he order?” Carl asks.

  “There’s ten others just like these,” Nora replies before I can.

  “Oh, my.” Carl hasn’t stopped shaking his head since he’s seen the flowers. “Well, just bring those in and I’ll figure something out. Bring me four of the new arrangements. Ruby, you know what I like.”

  He reaches out and grabs me by the arms, and I lean down and put the bouquets I’m still holding on the table.

  “Just charge the club whatever the cost,” he continues. “Joe will never notice. Even if he does, I will talk to Velma. She will totally understand and make him pay for this disaster. She would be mortified if she finds out we hosted a party for members of the club with yellow and white football mums.”

  “You know, Carl, Ruby should charge you extra,” Nora chimes in with her two cents. “She’s been working all day.”

  Carl turns to Nora and then back to me. “A surcharge. I totally agree. I do the same thing if a customer changes his mind within twenty-four hours of an event. And believe me, it happens more times than I care to talk about.” He raises an eyebrow. “Add ten percent to the bill.” He turns to Nora, who is frowning.

  “Ruby needs a new dress,” my assistant responds. “She’s got a date with an astronaut and the president.”

  I feel my face flush.

  “Then make it twenty-five,” Carl replies, clearly impressed. He touches his chest delicately. He has such a flair for conversation. “And for heaven’s sake, let’s go to Nordstrom’s.”

  Nora looks at me and winks.

  I can see there’s no way out of this shopping trip now.

  •NINETEEN•

  THE van is full. Jimmy put the seats back in so that the floral delivery vehicle is now transporting six people and one canine to Spokane to buy me a dress. This is not at all what I had in mind for my Sunday afternoon. Nora is riding up front with me. She told Jimmy about the shopping trip and he said he wanted to come and make amends for whatever happened at the bar when he was arrested. I have no idea how he’s working that out except that he plans to spend his afternoon in the park across the street from the mall while we’re shopping.

  Carl decided Nora and I couldn’t be trusted to pick out a special-occasion dress by ourselves, so he’s in the seat behind us with his mother, Lucy Wyatt, who is visiting from Seattle and wanted to return a blouse. Will is the sixth person in the van. He’s sitting in the back with Clementine. He came by the shop as w
e were getting ready to leave and asked if he could come along. His grandmother agreed, so he’s the official dog walker, planning to stay in the park with Jimmy while the rest of us sort through racks of dresses and pants, shirts and jackets, sales and seasonal. I’d rather be in the park with Jimmy and Will and Clementine.

  “So, Ruby, when did you start dating an astronaut?” It’s Lucy Wyatt asking.

  We’ve finally gotten everyone in the van and are heading south.

  “I’m not dating Captain Miller,” I answer, eyeing her in the rearview mirror. “It’s just a special event that he invited me to attend with him.”

  “Well, when I was young, that was what we called a date,” she replies.

  Nora turns to me, her eyebrows lifted in a way to tell me she’s not the only one who thinks what she thinks, her own unique way of saying I told you so. I’ve seen that look before.

  “Will you be staying the night together?” she asks.

  I can tell that everyone is waiting for my answer.

  “Well, of course not,” I say, trying not to sound offended even though I do feel a little affronted.

  “You know, Mother, Captain Miller is the best-dressed man in Creekside,” Carl chimes in, trying to change the subject, I presume.

  “He is a sharp dresser,” Nora adds.

  “And he’s not gay?” Lucy asks.

  “Unfortunately, no,” her son answers. “But he does order his shirts from Brooks Brothers and his silk ties from a designer in Paris. He has his suits made in San Francisco, where he goes twice a year to visit his brother. His shoes are custom made in Italy with a slightly padded footbed and a square toe. Oh, and his cuff links are created by a Cuban jeweler living in Miami.”

  The van is silent. We’re all staring at Carl.

 

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