The Art of Arranging Flowers

by Lynne Branard

  I don’t answer. I know that Nora wasn’t in the shop when the order was placed on February 14. Jimmy was running the counter. She had stepped out to get them lunch when Dr. Cash arrived, wanting flowers. She doesn’t really know what he liked or why he bought what he bought.

  The truth is that it doesn’t matter to me anyway; I actually feel a little relieved that Dr. Cash is involved with someone. I’m glad I don’t have to think about the kinds of things new lovers have to think about, and I’m especially glad I don’t have to think about that today. I’m trying to figure out what I can use on the tables in the fellowship hall at the Baptist church. I’ll need to come up with arrangements that fit in their budget but are still beautiful and celebratory of the work of the visiting missionaries. I have work to do. I pull out a few stems of orange and yellow alstroemeria from the bucket by the door, and when I turn around to head back to the design table I run into Nora.

  “Geez, you’re going to make me fall!” I tell her. “Look, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  She steps aside to let me pass, but she stays right on my heels. I feel her breath on my neck; she’s that close.

  “You need to talk about this. In fact, I think you need an intervention, Ruby Jewell.”

  I glance up and see Jimmy standing in the doorway. He’s holding the box of vases. He hears the conversation and he turns around to leave. I guess he doesn’t want to be a part of intervening with me.

  “Jimmy,” I say as he’s walking out. “It’s okay. I’m not listening to her anyway. Just bring me the box.”

  He turns around, comes back in the room, and places the box of vases on the design table. He turns to Nora, shakes his head, and makes another exit.

  “Jimmy, come back here and tell Ruby what happened when the veterinarian came and bought the flowers.”

  He has a defeated look on his face. It’s easy to see that he really doesn’t want to be involved. He sighs in resignation, however, because we all three know that he does whatever Nora tells him to do.

  “Nora had left to get us a bite of lunch,” he reports. “Dr. Cash came in and asked if you were here. I told him you were out making deliveries. He wanted to know what bouquets I had left and I pointed to the refrigerator. He looked through the door and pointed to the big one on the top shelf and he asked me if anybody had bought that one. I said no, that it was for purchase, and he said he would take it. I got the arrangement out, wiped off the vase on the bottom where some water had spilled, asked him if he wanted a card and he said no, and then he paid with a credit card, a Visa. The receipt should have been in the day’s stack.” Jimmy takes a breath.

  He’s obviously already gone over this with Nora.

  “Did he say who he was buying the flowers for?” Nora asks, and stares at me while Jimmy answers.

  “No.”

  She nods.

  “Did he say that the bouquet was romantic and filled with flowers that provoked feelings of passion within him?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t recall him saying anything like that either.”

  “And he asked if Ruby was here, yes?”

  Jimmy nods.

  I roll my eyes, place the flowers I had in my hands on the table, and start pulling out the vases that I want to use from the box.

  “See, he came by, he was searching for you, but he picked out some flowers for his mother or his aunt or some woman he’s related to and he bought them.”

  “Nora, he picked out the Graceful Heart Bouquet. It used all the roses I had left over. It had bear grass shaped like a heart. There was pittosporum in it; I even stuck in a little jasmine. Jasmine, Nora, jasmine.”

  “Jasmine is not just for increasing sexual desire. You told me yourself that it’s used for PMS. Did you think of that?” she asks. “Maybe he wanted the arrangement to help a friend suffering from cramps.” She seems satisfied with herself.

  Jimmy shifts his weight from side to side. He is waiting to be excused.

  “The vase was a ruby red cube. It was a romantic arrangement. Even someone clueless about flowers would know this is a gift of romance, a gift of passion.” I snip off the ends of the blooms I’ve chosen and start placing them in the vases. “And I told you that I don’t want to talk about this right now!” I say again, my voice raised and sharp.

  Clementine slides under the table, out of my way. Jimmy walks out of the room without permission. Nora is studying me.

  I feel her watching and watching. I blow out a long breath. “What?” I ask.

  “When did you start getting so snippety?”

  I put down the flowers and I wipe my hands on my apron. “I am not trying to be snippety,” I say, lowering my voice. “I just have to finish these arrangements and take them over to the church,” I add.

  She’s still watching me, waiting for something more.

  I pinch off a few leaves so that the flowers arrange more easily.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “He hasn’t come by since then,” I tell her, and when I look up, the silence not being quite what I expected, I can see she is surprised.

  “I haven’t seen him since before Valentine’s Day,” I add. I figure I might as well lay it all out there.

  Now she looks like she feels sorry for me. I hate that.

  “Then that is all the more reason for you to drop by with a primrose or a bromeliad.” She cannot let this go.

  “Nora, I’m not chasing John Cash. I haven’t chased a boy since I was in sixth grade and Tommy Locklear stole my homework. I chased him from homeroom to the playground and then behind the cafeteria and I promised myself I would never do that again.”

  She turns away from me.

  “Nora . . .”

  She won’t look at me.

  “I’m happy,” I tell her, taking her by the arms. “I don’t need a boyfriend. I have you and Jimmy and Clementine and Will. I have this shop to think about, and all the people I try to help. I have a date with an astronaut in two weeks. John Cash is a nice man and I’m sure he is lovely to the animals he treats, and to their owners, and I hope he will be successful and happy in Creekside. I don’t want a boyfriend,” I say again. “I don’t need an intervention or a special potion. I’m good, okay?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  I tug on her arms a little. “Okay?”

  She nods reluctantly.

  “Okay,” I say, dropping my grip on her and turning back to the table and my work.

  “I just don’t see why it is that you assist everyone else’s love life but don’t do a thing for your own.”

  “Nora . . .” I shake my head.

  She makes a kind of humming noise and goes over to pick up the broom. She starts sweeping up.

  “So I’m right,” she says with a kind of smirk. “It is a date with Captain Miller.”

  I just have to laugh.

  •TWENTY-TWO•

  I WANT to ask her to m-m-marry me.” Henry Phillips has waited until everyone has left the shop before walking across the street to talk.

  He finally told me last week who he was buying the yellow bouquets for, even though Will let me in on that secret the first time I met the boy. Henry has bought daffodils and freesia, daisies and blazing stars every Thursday for more than a month now. I’m not sure how long he’s been checking out stacks of books in the process of falling for the librarian, but it seems a little early for a marriage proposal. Still, I am not one to squelch love.

  “That’s wonderful, Henry,” I reply. “How do you plan to ask her?”

  “Well . . . well, that’s why I’m he-here.”

  “You want to give her flowers?” I ask, knowing that I have just the bouquet in mind. I used it with Dennis Duncan from Valley when he proposed to Clara, and I also sold it to James Harvey and Bill Durham for their special occasions. “I have a beautiful one with white flowers.”

  I call it the You’re the One Bouquet and it includes crème and white roses, white gladioli, white miniature carnations, white lisian
thus, and delicate white waxflower with just a touch of variegated pittosporum. I am already running inventory in my mind before he answers. I have everything but the lisianthus. I’ll need to tell Nora to add that to my order.

  He turns away. I guess he has something else in mind.

  “I-I think sh-she really likes the yel-yellow ones.”

  I nod. I guess You’re the One won’t work for Henry and Lou. Still, I can do a nice proposal bouquet with the blazing stars and snapdragons. I can make the same bouquet I’ve made every week for Henry to give to his beloved, only I’ll add a few tulips and yellow roses to make it special.

  “I-I don’t know if sh-sh-she’ll say yes.”

  I smile and reach under the counter and pull out my order forms. I figure he’ll tell me what he wants and I’ll just make the list.

  “I guess no man asking the woman he loves to marry him knows her answer for sure,” I respond. I take out my daisy pen and write his name at the top of the form. “I suppose a big proposal like that bears a certain amount of risk. Have you been out together a lot? Do you have a favorite place you’ll go to pop the question?”

  He doesn’t answer and I glance up, waiting. He shifts his weight from side to side. He clears his throat.

  “We have-haven’t been ou-out at all.”

  I am surprised. I know I seem surprised. “But all the bouquets? Doesn’t she know how you feel with all the bouquets you’ve given her?”

  He shakes his head. His face is bright red.

  “You didn’t tell her that the flowers are from you?” I understand the blush now.

  He shakes his head again.

  “Well, Henry, who does she think they’re from?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “And you want to ask her to marry you?” Oh my, this is not sounding good.

  He nods.

  Okay. I try to think of how to respond with delicacy, being truthful but gentle. I put down my pen and slide the order form back under the counter. I look him in the eye. “I don’t know, Henry. I mean, I’m not a relationship expert, but I think you need to go out together a few times before you rush into marriage.”

  “I-I love her and I-I think sh-she loves me.”

  “But you’ve never been out.”

  He drops his head, nodding.

  “Do you talk to her?”

  He shrugs.

  “Have you ever spoken to Lou?”

  “Sh-she knows I like bi-biographies of pr-pr-presidents. She f-finds me ones I-I haven’t read and h-h-holds them for me at the d-desk.”

  “And when you pick these up, do you talk?”

  He nods. “I-I say thank you.”

  I am at a loss here. I don’t want Henry to get his heart broken, and if in his first conversation with her, he asks Lou Ann Peterson to marry him, he’s definitely on his way to heartbreak. I think of what flower or herb might help here, but I’m not sure exactly what I’m dealing with. Is it a need for confidence or a desire to express strong feelings positively? I could go with paperwhites or something from the passion variety, but I’m not really convinced flowers are the answer here.

  “Okay, let’s pause for just a second.” I’m trying to organize my thoughts. “Why don’t you start by giving her another bouquet and this time adding a card, letting her know it’s you sending the flowers?”

  He bites his bottom lip, thinking, thinking.

  “Then, after a day or so, you could see her and ask her out for a date.”

  “C-c-could I write that o-on the c-c-card?”

  “The request for a date?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “I guess.” I think about it. “You could say something along the lines of, ‘I hope you have liked the flowers I have sent and now I’m wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me?’ And sign your name. Then you show up and ask her.”

  “What if I-I write s-something like, ‘Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins and in this way only.’”

  I am stunned. Henry didn’t stutter at all saying those two sentences. “That’s beautiful, Henry. Is that Shakespeare?”

  “It . . . it’s from the play Les Misèrables.”

  “I think that should definitely go on the card.”

  He smiles.

  “So, you want me to make the arrangement now?”

  He nods. “I-is it o-okay if I wait?”

  “Sure,” I answer. “Why don’t you have a seat around here on the stool?” I motion him around the counter and he complies. Clementine stands up and goes over to welcome him into our private space. I watch him give her a pat on the head. She drops down at his side. She and Henry have been friends a long time.

  “You want it all yellow, right?”

  “Sh-she likes ye-yellow.”

  “Then yellow she shall have.”

  I go back to the cooler and take stems of all the yellow flowers I have. There are the usuals that I keep on hand: daisies, daffodils, alstroemeria, blazing stars. And I also take a couple of stems of yellow roses, two new tulips. I walk back into the main room of the shop and place them on the table. Henry watches.

  “You know, yellow stimulates the nervous system. It helps balance emotions.” I search on the shelves for the right vessel. “How about a nice clear vase?”

  “I-I don’t carry th-these in t-t-tissue paper?”

  I shake my head. “No, not this time,” I answer. “This time, with that quote and this revelation, you have to put these flowers in a vase. With all that sentiment and disclosure, they need to be contained.”

  He nods as if he understands.

  I find a round glass vase, a tall one with a sculpted ring design wrapped around it. It’s pretty but not too showy. I never want the vase to outdo the bouquet. I take it off the shelf, go over to the sink and pour just a little warm water in it, set it beside me, pick up my scissors and start clipping off leaves and cutting ends of stems. I place the flowers in the vase, one by one.

  “How d-did you l-learn about flowers?” he asks.

  I continue my work. “I took some classes,” I answer.

  “E-every . . . body th-thinks y-you make m-magic. Th-that you a-ar-range more than just flowers here.”

  I turn to Henry. “Do they?” I ask. I hadn’t really heard this before.

  “Th-they th-think you a-range h-hearts.”

  “You mean like heal broken hearts?”

  I can see out of the corner of my eye that he is shaking his head. “L-like m-make h-hearts f -f-feel a cer-cer-certain way. F-f-fix them.”

  “Fix, like fixing a bet or a race to make it go the way I want it to?” I had never thought about my arrangements being used in that way.

  He nods.

  “Do you think I can do that with Lou Ann?” I ask. I stop my work and turn to Henry. I don’t want to be a part of something false, something unattainable for him.

  He waits and then he shakes his head again. “I-I th-think you bl-bl-blossom what is al-already there. I-I d-don’t th-think you ca-can make s-somebody feel s-something th-they d-d-don’t.”

  I go back to the arrangement. “Well, that’s the truth.”

  “S-so, h-how d-do you do it?”

  “I believe in the power of love, Henry. And I believe it’s always present,” I say, tucking in the snapdragons and the stems of greenery. I snip the ends of the tulips and place them in the center of the arrangement and then I spin the vase around, checking it from every angle. “But I do believe that beauty somehow opens us to it,” I add. Suddenly I am remembering the brilliant blue of the hydrangea bush outside my window the day I finally left my bed weeks after Daisy died, the tiniest pink crocus, brazen, rising from the frozen earth, the narrow escape I found.

  I add the last of the daffodils to the vase, the yellow rosebud, and a narrow stem of statice, and then I go to my shelf of herbs and take down a jar of Job’s tears. When I get back to the design table, I add three see
ds to the bouquet for luck. I figure Henry can use all that he can get. I find the yellow chiffon ribbon, wrap it around the glass vase, loop and tie a broad bow. I give it a good final examination, approve, and then walk the arrangement over to Henry. He holds out his hands and I give it to him. I then go over to my box of cards near the cash register and pick out a yellow one, plain except for a tiny hand-painted daisy centered at the bottom. I bought these from Molly Lipton, a high school student who happens to be a very talented artist.

  “Do you want me to write it or you?” I ask, thinking he will need to repeat the quote, because I don’t remember the exact wording.

  “I-I will d-do it,” he replies.

  I smile, put the card in its matching envelope, find a small plastic bag to place it in, and then hang the bag on his finger, which he sticks out beside the vase.

  “I will add this arrangement to your bill,” I explain. “You can pay me at the end of the month.”

  Henry stands up from the stool and Clementine joins him.

  “I-I th-think this is just right,” he says. “I-I will w-wait to pr-propose until after we g-g-go out.”

  I place my hand on his as he cradles the vase of flowers. “Come back and tell me how it went,” I say with a squeeze.

  He nods, turns, then walks around the counter and out the door.

  Clementine sits and then lifts a paw to brush against my leg.

  “I know,” I tell her, watching Henry cross the street. “It’s not up to us now; we can only hope for the best.”

  •TWENTY-THREE•

  I AM to meet Captain Miller at the small airport that is located just behind the sixteenth green at the public golf course. Both of these facilities were built at the top of the hill, straight up Sand Crane Drive. It’s a beautiful part of town up there, mostly homes of retired people, mostly golfers and pilots. I guess Captain Miller is all three.

  Nora helped me dress. She arrived just before noon even though I wasn’t leaving the house until three. She claimed there was much more to the ritual of preparation than just yanking the dress off the rack and throwing it on. And she spent two hours proving she was right.