by Cindy Kirk
George came every Monday at ten fifteen on the dime to purchase a bouquet for his wife, Sylvia. They’d been married for sixty-four years and he still bought her flowers. I didn’t care what Hollywood said, that white-haired, age-spotted, arthritic old man was the epitome of romance. I secured a ribbon around the stems of the bouquet I was finishing. “Good morning, George.”
His cane tapped a slow rhythm as he slipped off his hat and made his way to the counter. According to George, that’s what a man was supposed to do when talking to a lady—take off his hat. “Good morning, Miss Amelia. That’s a fine-looking bouquet you have there.”
I held it up. “You like?”
“It’s awfully pretty. Awfully pretty indeed.”
“Wayne Sawyer ordered it for his wife’s birthday.” I set it off to the side. “What’ll it be for you today, George?”
He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “How about something yellow?”
“I have the perfect thing!” I brought Wayne’s bouquet back to the cooler and pulled out a small collection of gerbera daisies, daisy poms, and some of the alstroemeria I splurged on earlier, and brought them out to the front to arrange them.
“Those are nice,” George said, waving his finger at the alstroemeria. “Yellow is Sylvia’s favorite color, you know.”
“I think you may have told me once or twice.”
“When we first got married, we lived in this teeny tiny garage of a home up in Rhinelander. And do you know what my Sylvia did?”
I did, actually, but I didn’t mind hearing the story again. “What’d she do, George?”
“She painted all of our walls yellow. Every single room.”
I looked up from my artwork. “Every single room?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were you upset?”
“How could I be? Our house looked like the sunshine. It looked like my Sylvia.”
I put the finishing touches on the bouquet and handed it over. “Well then, this ought to make her extremely happy.”
“Yes, it ought.”
I rang George up, wished him a wonderful week, and helped him out the door as he recapped his head and hobbled toward his car with his bright yellow bouquet in hand. Unlike my other customers, who were local residents, George was a bit of a mystery. He didn’t live in Mayfair. Most likely he came from somewhere close by, one of the nearby towns without a flower shop of its own.
The phone rang just as George pulled away from the curb in his Lincoln Navigator. I waved one last time, then hurried inside to answer it. It was my delivery guy calling to say he was sick and getting sicker. I ordered him to rest up and get well soon, then called Astrid back, hoping it wasn’t too late for her to come in after all. We had two bouquets that needed delivering, along with the arrangements for the book club. But Astrid didn’t answer. I drummed my fingers on the countertop for a few minutes.
Normally I’d call up Rachel and she’d make the deliveries without any questions. But Rachel was currently out of commission. I twisted my lips to the side. My brother was working. One of my stepsisters worked as a lawyer in Milwaukee. The other, however, lived in Green Bay, not more than twenty minutes north of Mayfair. She stayed at home with her two young boys. Maybe she’d do me a favor and deliver the flowers for me. I let out a sigh and dialed her up.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Hi, Crystal. It’s Amelia.”
“Amelia? Well this is unusual, hearing from you on a Monday morning.”
“I’m in a bit of a bind at the shop.”
“Oh?”
“My delivery guy called in sick, and I can’t get ahold of my other employee. I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if there was any way you could make some deliveries for me.”
“Deliveries?”
“I’ll pay you back the gas money. It shouldn’t take more than an hour, tops.”
There was a pause on the other end. “Oh, I wish I could, but Milo and Henry have to nap.”
“All day?”
“No, not all day. All afternoon. Plus, Candace is coming in tonight. I want to make sure the house is spic and span for her. You know how weird she is about cleanliness. And right now we’re at the park. The boys have been asking all weekend to go to the park. We can’t leave.”
She was going to be at the park all morning long with Milo and Henry—ages one and two?
“Hey, random question. Did you drive by Matt’s wedding on Saturday?”
“Matt’s wedding?” My face exploded with warmth. So much that I could have heated a small village in Siberia.
“Candace and I could have sworn we saw you outside the church. Your car too.”
“No, of course not.” More heat. Waves upon waves of it. I cleared my throat, told Crystal I had to get back to work, then hung up the phone like it was a hot potato. Before I could relive the mortifying memory for too long, the front bell chimed and in stepped my brother. Shaggy red hair, my pointy chin, Mom’s infectious smile. Her brown eyes too.
“Well, this is a nice surprise.” William was a rare customer at my flower shop. Not because he didn’t like flowers, but because he worked during store hours. He graduated from Cross Point last spring and had moved to Mayfair afterward to work as a CPA for a local accounting firm. I loved having him so near.
He headed toward me with that smile still in place, set his elbows on the counter, and flipped open a small velvet box in the palm of his hand—one with a diamond ring inside. It took me a bit to process what it meant. A diamond ring in a velvet box? I looked from the piece of jewelry up to him. “Are you—is this . . .?”
“I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
“Bridget?”
“Of course Bridget, who else?”
I blinked. Several times. Stammered a bit. Then did what adoring big sisters should do when they hear such news from their baby brother. I beat my worry into submission, came around the counter, and wrapped him in a hug. “Wow, Will. Congratulations!”
“I’m going to pop the question tonight.”
“Wow.” I tucked my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, trying to relax the muscles in my face. Will and Bridget were so young, and they’d only started dating at the end of May.
He tipped his chin down and gave me that look. “Amelia . . .”
“What?”
“I love her. Madly. I’m telling you, she’s the one.”
“That’s great.”
He tipped his chin down farther. “Please don’t worry about this.”
“I won’t. I’m not. Seriously, Will, I’m thrilled for you.” My baby brother was getting married. To a woman I barely knew. Could he really blame me if a heavy dose of unease was mixed in with that thrill?
“I was hoping you could make up a bouquet for me to give her tonight?” He shut the small box and slipped it into his pocket.
“Of course! Any particular flower in mind?”
“Red roses symbolize love, don’t they?”
“A dozen red roses, coming up.”
His smile returned, bigger than before. “Let’s make that two dozen.”
William delivered my before-noon bouquet on the remainder of his lunch break. I closed the shop early so I could deliver the before-six arrangements myself. Not a big deal, since I’d had a sum total of four customers walk through the door, and that sum total included my brother. Such was the nature of the floral business. Seasonal fluctuations. My crazy time came between Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day. Unless a lot of brides decided to have fall weddings, the fall months tended to be slower ones.
I stowed the arrangements in the backseat of my Honda Accord, plugged the addresses into my GPS, turned on my Lorie Line Pandora station, and began the final part of my day. Maybe when I finished I could grab a hamburger to go from Patty’s House of Pancakes, curl up on my couch at home with my tabby cat, Baxter, and watch something romantic. Get my mind off of my brother’s impending proposal. He didn’t want me to worry, but that was easier
said than done. To me William would always be my scrapes-on-his-knobby-knees, dirt-on-his-nose, shoes-on-the-wrong-feet, attached-at-the-hip little brother. He wasn’t old enough to get married. And how could he know Bridget was “the one” when they’d only been dating three and a half months?
I delivered the first bouquet quickly, then headed toward Apple Creek—a town fifteen minutes south of Mayfair—distracting myself with a mental list of possible movies I could watch when I finished. Pride and Prejudice was always an option, the BBC version, of course. That moment when Mr. Darcy walked out of the lake never failed to make me sigh. Or I could go with something a little older, like The Philadelphia Story or The Shop around the Corner. Definitely not Brief Encounter. I smiled as I thought about Nate Gallagher’s e-mail. I could always pop in Cinderella.
The early evening sun sank lower in the blue sky. The faint scent of burning leaves swirled through the open window of my car as I drove past the sign for Apple Creek. I turned up Orchard Lane, parked in front of the library, and brought in one arrangement at a time to the librarian, a broad-shouldered woman with a long face.
“Oh, these are lovely!” she said, leading me through the library into a back room with four large round tables. She placed one arrangement in the center of each table. “Do you like to read?”
“Yes, I do.” In fact, Rachel believed I read too much. “It’s part of the problem,” she liked to say. I, on the other hand, saw absolutely nothing wrong with getting lost in a great story.
“Then you should join us! It’s a wonderful evening. We talk about our favorite books from the year and put the ones we want to read this next year on the calendar. There are several women your age. We’re a fun bunch.”
“It sounds fun, but I already have plans tonight.” I could practically hear Rachel sighing in my ear. “A date with the television and your cat does not count as plans, Amelia.”
“Well that’s too bad,” the librarian said. “Maybe next time.”
“Yes, next time.”
She thanked me for the beautiful flowers. I thanked her for the business, then headed outside, toward my car, eager to start my date with the television. I could change into my pajamas and pop some popcorn. Maybe even start a fire. The delectable thought put a hop in my step. I was about to open my car door when something nabbed my attention.
It was Bridget, my brother’s girlfriend. In Apple Creek. Strolling up the street. Arm in arm with a man who was not William.
I ducked behind my car, heart pounding inside my chest, and peeked over the roof, positive I’d seen wrong. But there was no mistaking it. Unless Bridget had an identical twin sister, that was definitely her. And unless William dyed his hair brown and grew a few inches, the tall, lanky man whose waist she had her arm around was not my brother. A heavy knot of dread sank through my stomach as the man opened a door to a bar-and-grill eatery and Bridget stepped inside.
I was a pretty nonconfrontational person. But at the moment, I wanted to push up my sleeves and march in after her. In fact, I crouched there for a while imagining the scene. Brave Amelia storming inside the restaurant, giving this woman who was toying with my brother’s heart a serious piece of my mind. The knot of dread pulled tighter. Had she already rejected William’s proposal and moved on to another man? Or worse, had she accepted his proposal while carrying on a clandestine affair? The thought made me sick and at a loss for what to do. Because as much as I wanted to, I wasn’t brave enough to go inside that restaurant.
I needed Rachel’s advice in a desperate way.
I climbed into my car, wishing I could call her. Her last e-mail stated that she didn’t have a cell phone yet. Even if she had one now, I didn’t know her phone number. I squished up my face, trying to figure out her time zone. Seventeen hours ahead. She checked her e-mail in the evening, after her work was finished, which meant hopefully I’d get a phone call by morning. I opened up the e-mail app on my phone and shot her a quick note with trembling fingers.
Subject: SOS, RESPONSE NEEDED ASAP
I need your advice. Is there any way you can call me? Do you get reception where you are? I don’t care if it’s in the middle of the night my time. Please tell me you have a phone.
—A
When I arrived home, I checked my e-mail on the off chance Rachel had already responded. No such luck. But there was another e-mail sitting in my inbox, sent earlier in the day.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Mon, Sep 14, 2015 12:06 p.m.
Subject: Re: Brief Encounter
Dear Amelia,
As much as I would love to make you feel better, I have to refuse. I cannot let your insurance bill go up astronomically on account of a small scratch on my bumper. That would most definitely not make you feel better. So in consideration of your future happiness and financial stability, I can’t give you the information you’re asking for. No means no, Amelia. You’re just going to have to accept it.
In response to your postscript question. Yes, I have seen the movie. Several times, in fact. I’m impressed you know it. Not many people watch the old movies anymore. My sister thinks the film is terribly romantic. I think her idea of romance is a little warped. Two married people in post–WWII England falling into a doomed love affair? I can definitely see your point. Perhaps I should have come up with a different subject line.
Now, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. There’s a classic movie I can get behind. And before you ask. No, I have no problem forfeiting my man card with that particular admission. It’s a great flick. Audrey Hepburn is adorable.
Best,
Nate
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
—C. S. Lewis
That night I popped popcorn, started a fire in my fireplace, and watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Twice. Nate was right. Audrey Hepburn was adorable. Considering the circumstances, she did a great job of cheering me up. Baxter seemed to enjoy it too. He raised his tail three times.
I unlocked the front door of Forget-Me-Not with not nearly as much pep in my step or warmth in my heart as yesterday. No phone call from Rachel. No e-mail either. I hadn’t heard from William. I had no idea if he’d proposed and, if so, what happened. Or how to handle the fact that I’d caught his possible fiancée with another man. And whether I was ready for it or not, I would see him tonight, at Crystal and Candace’s surprise thirtieth birthday party.
If only pictures could talk. I could have a conversation with my mother right then and there. She’d know what to do. Sighing, I set my coffee and Wally’s muffin on the counter and pressed the blinking light on the store’s answering machine, expecting an after-hours order from a customer.
“Hey, Amelia, it’s . . . well, it’s Nate.”
I pulled my chin back. Nate, as in Nate Gallagher? The guy who liked Audrey Hepburn and refused to give me his insurance information?
“I just got your e-mail. I’d call you on your home phone or your cell phone, but all I have is this number on the flowery business card you gave me. To answer your questions, yes. I do have reception. I know Yooperland must feel very north to you Wisconsinites, but we do get cell phone service in the Upper Peninsula and I do own a phone.” His tone was friendly, teasing. His voice, deeper and smoother than I remembered. “I’m not sure if the e-mail was meant for me or not, but I must admit, I’m highly intrigued. Is everything okay? If you want to call me, my number is 906-224-0505. I’ll be around.”
The answering machine beeped.
I blinked several times, confusion scrunching inside my head. Cell phone reception? My e-mail? But I never e-mailed him last . . .
Oh no.
I pulled out my cell phone from my purse and opened up my e-mail app. I tapped on the Sent folder and waited for the e-mails to load. A couple seconds later, there it was. SOS, RESPONSE NEEDED ASAP. Only, instead of sending it to [email protected], I’d somehow sent it to [email protected]. The g-a-l must hav
e brought up his e-mail address instead of Rachel’s, and I’d been so panicked about the entire incident that I didn’t notice the blunder.
I buried my face in my hands and let out a loud groan. First, I hit him with my car and fled the scene like a crazy woman. Then I sent him a cryptic, slightly hysterical e-mail to call me as soon as possible, in the middle of the night if necessary. He probably thought there was something wrong with me. Like maybe I’d been dropped as a baby a time or two. Seriously.
Shaking my head, I hit Compose and tried to explain.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Tue, Sep 15, 2015 8:32 a.m.
Subject: so very sorry for the mix-up
Dear Nate,
Once again, I am incredibly embarrassed and horribly sorry. In my previous e-mail to you, I promised that I wasn’t typically so scattered and frantic, and yet I’m not doing a very good job of convincing you of that, am I?
The e-mail you received yesterday was sent by mistake. It was meant for my best friend, Rachel Galvison, whose e-mail address (unfortunately for you) starts with the same three letters as yours. You might be wondering why I didn’t just call or text Rachel if it was such an emergency. The answer to that is simple. Last month Rachel moved to Fiji. It sounds pretty spectacular, but it’s not really. She joined the Peace Corps and is working in some remote village, teaching children English while she learns crazy-sounding languages like Chuukese and Kosraean. Last we e-mailed, she didn’t have a phone.
I was a bit (that’s a lie—I was a lot) panicked about something and needed her advice, so I sent the rushed e-mail off without double-checking who I sent it to. I’m really very sorry for bothering you.
I’m afraid you are getting the wrong impression. I’m not prone to drama. My life is actually pretty mellow. That’s what I call it, anyway. Rachel likes to say “boring.” I am very sorry, and I promise not to let the mistake happen again.