Despite my attempts to direct my attention to Jenny, Ellen would have her way. When we were all done they’d ordered a lackluster bouquet composed of black and white anemones with accents of, of all things, pussy willows and scabious seed heads (even the name should give people a hint) and with more filler than my high school paper on the French Revolution. For that I’d gotten a D. But I determined to make these flowers into something wonderful. I remembered Jenny sharing stories of her embarrassment at being stuffed into too-small bridesmaid’s dresses as all her thinner friends married before her. How exciting that the little wallflower would now be the blushing bride.
But Derek Rawling? The few occasions he deigned to speak with me, he’d impressed me as being what Grandma Mae used to call wanton—the prodigal son before his appointment with the swine.
Ellen would consider him a good catch, though. Looks. Old money. Even if he was considerably older than Jenny. Still, no one had been able to reel in the town’s resident playboy to date. I wondered what it was about the thinner, but still somewhat socially awkward, Jenny that had baited him.
• • •
The next morning as I sipped my instant coffee and added Jenny’s flowers to our upcoming orders, I grew more depressed. I had stewed over it the night before with Chester. Well, I stewed while he chased his well-chewed, neon green toy mouse and played hide-and-seek with my favorite pair of earrings. I’d yet to find one of them, but I had grown more optimistic about Ellen’s color scheme. I recalled a recent bouquet with similar colors—or lack thereof—and textures that made the cover of a major bridal magazine. I scavenged my apartment for the issue and saw that the writer had characterized the bouquet as “earthy, bold, and strikingly different.”
For a moment I tried to convince myself that sweet Jenny could pull off earthy, bold, and strikingly different.
But worse than that, the language of the flowers was all wrong. While many guides suggest that the anemone signifies expectation, the old-time Victorians declared it meant forsaken. And the dried accents Ellen had chosen? The scabious is the symbol of unfortunate love. And the pussy willows represent motherhood. Perhaps Ellen’s stamp of approval on this union? Then again, black, white, gray, brown . . . could just be another of Ellen’s failed color experiments. Not a great way to start off a life together. Perhaps Jenny and I could sit down and talk about it.
The alleyway door opened and Amber Lee bustled in, removing an old-fashioned hair bonnet and shaking the remains of our latest April shower into the utility tub. She spied my cup, glanced at the empty pot I’d spurned in favor of the quicker and easier instant, then rolled her eyes before preparing a fresh pot of real coffee.
I couldn’t blame her. Both of us found the seven a.m. shift difficult. Amber Lee had kept schoolteacher’s hours until two years before. She’d confided in me that she’d expected retirement to be like the summer vacations she’d long enjoyed. But by October, she was climbing the walls. She checked if the school district needed substitutes, but they talked about more budget cuts. Her love of flowers drew her to us, and we gave her an audition during one of our busy periods. She took to the job like she was born in a garden, and we’d been expanding her duties ever since.
She poured some of her high-test into my empty mug, and only then did we talk. She pointed at the paperwork. “I see Ellen and Jenny did come in yesterday after all. Did they say why they were late?” She hid a smirk behind her coffee cup.
I could sense a story coming on. “Why? What did you hear?”
“One of my former students is now a secretary down at the church. And she saw Ellen there raising a ruckus with Pastor Seymour.”
I couldn’t imagine anyone drawing ire from the kindhearted, elderly minister. “What in the world about?”
“Well, it seems Ellen presented him with her order of service for the wedding—in fifty-two easy-to-remember steps. I guess they’d gotten to number fifteen when he fell asleep. To my way of thinking, at eighty-three, you’ve earned the right to nod off now and then. Let’s just say Ellen was not amused. She stayed right there until he promised to study up on her list.”
“Poor Pastor Seymour . . . and poor Jenny.”
“I can’t help thinking the kid is getting the short end of this deal.” Amber Lee wagged a finger for emphasis. “And from what I heard, it is a deal. The word is, Ellen and old man Rawling were more involved in making this happen than Jenny and Derek.”
My next sip of coffee turned bitter in my mouth. “The rumor mill doesn’t always have it right, you know. Like the time everyone in town insisted Clara Kettering was dying from a large tumor and—”
“And it turned out to be triplets. I hear you. But this would explain a few things. Like why Jenny is all glum but Ellen is beaming from ear to ear. Consider who stands to benefit from this match.”
I pulled on my black florist’s apron and glanced at the next orders to be prepared. “But why would Jenny go along with that—and why would Derek?”
Amber Lee pulled out a step stool and retrieved a box of vases from an upper shelf. “Some are saying Jenny planned the whole thing to get her hands on Derek’s money.”
“That sounds like mean-spirited jealousy.”
“I knew you would defend her, even after she dumped you.”
I reached up to grab the box from Amber Lee. “She didn’t dump me. We just . . . grew apart.”
“Uh-huh. If that’s the way you want it. But I agree with you,” Amber Lee said. “I’ll wager some old flame of Derek’s started that bit. Derek has enough brokenhearted old girlfriends to string from here to Richmond. And I don’t see Jenny playing the role of money-grubbing manipulator, either—at least not without a big push from mommy dearest.”
“But that doesn’t explain Derek’s thoughts turning to orange blossoms.” I sighed. I wished they’d ordered orange blossoms.
“That’s where old man Rawling comes in, so I hear. He’s been wanting good ol’ Derek to settle down for quite some time now, and he has his hopes set on Jenny as the one to do it.” Amber Lee set the step stool back into place.
“For Jenny’s sake, I hope it works.”
Amber Lee slit open the box with a utility knife. “Mark my words, Audrey. That kind only settles down when he’s good and ready. Or dead.”
Chapter 3
“Audrey, I loved the article about you in the paper.” Pastor Seymour pumped my hand at the back of the church after the Sunday morning service. The octogenarian sported a full head of snowy white hair, greased back, as was the style decades earlier, likely when he bought the suit he was wearing. He banged his cane for emphasis. “I only wish all the couples I married had stayed together.”
“In all fairness, Pastor, you’ve been at it a lot longer than I have. I’m afraid the article made it sound like I’d found some magic formula. The Botanical Dr. Dolittle, indeed.”
Eric stepped forward in the queue and put his arm around Liv. “Whether it was the flowers by Audrey or the vows by Pastor Seymour, it sure worked wonders for us.”
We exited the historic stone church to bright spring sunlight dappling through the opening leaves. Vibrant tulips and daffodils lined the cement walkway, the ancient lilacs at the corners of the old church were preparing to bloom, and cherry blossoms were already in the air.
“Audrey, we were thinking about a picnic today,” Liv said. “Maybe grabbing some fried chicken and heading to Ramble Falls. We can celebrate the article. I have a feeling it’s going to be great for business.”
Eric wagged his head and wrapped his arms around Liv. “Only if you stop thinking about business for one day.” He planted a kiss on the tip of her nose.
I looked at the couple and remembered their stroll down the same pathway just two years earlier—except then I was throwing rice. Well, not really rice, but the latest environmentally approved substitute. “No, you two go ahead. Enjoy your day off toge
ther.”
Liv put her hand on my arm. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I have a couple of things I wanted to do today. But if there’s any fried chicken the ants don’t eat, save me a drumstick.”
As Liv and Eric walked hand in hand to the parking lot, I stooped to pluck a dandelion half-hidden behind a tulip.
“Audrey!”
I popped up with a smile. How genuine the smile was is up for interpretation. “Hi, Carolyn.” Leave it to our mayor’s daughter to catch me hunched over with my hands in the dirt.
“Do dandelions have meaning, too?”
I glanced at the cheerful yellow weed in my hand. In a way, Carolyn resembled the dandelion, with her wispy, platinum blond hair but heavier makeup, as if she were trying too hard to prove herself a flower instead of a weed. “It depends on whom you ask. The older books say coquetry. The newer ones suggest they represent happiness and faithfulness.”
“Happiness and faithfulness . . . Maybe we should sneak a dandelion into my bouquet, too.” And then she laughed. An odd, tittering laugh I hoped her groom found endearing. If I didn’t want to spoil my record, it had better be a good bouquet.
“Is everything set for the wedding?” she asked.
“All the flowers have been ordered. I think we’ve cornered the market on peach roses. Come Saturday, this little church is going to be a garden. It’s our only big job right now, so we’ll have no trouble getting it all set.”
“Audrey, I’m so glad we went with you and not that cheap online florist my mother wanted to use. Although it might have been fun to assemble our own bouquets. But what would we do if they didn’t turn out just right?”
I patted Carolyn’s hand and reassured her that when she marched down the aisle, her flowers would be waiting for her.
I strolled past the parking lot to the street, where the Honda CR-V I shared with the business waited. Rolling down the window, I cruised past the Rockwellian landscape that is Ramble, the two-story brick and stone Main Street, complete with awnings, pots of annuals, and a park bench outside the barbershop where men gather, even when it’s closed.
The conversation with Carolyn spurred the thought that maybe, business permitting, we could offer an emergency service to fix some of those untidy homemade bouquets.
And perhaps we could offer a bridesmaids’ workshop, where the bridal party could come in and assemble their own bouquets under expert direction. The brides would expect to save money, but we’d probably have to charge more just to replace flowers ruined in the process. Maybe Liv could crunch the numbers.
Apparently my cousin wasn’t the only one who had trouble letting go of business on her day off. It was this kind of entrepreneurial thinking that made the Rose in Bloom a success, while Liv and I subsisted just above the poverty level. After five years, the business was paying off—if only with more money to invest back into the business.
I drove by the flower shop, with its cheerful display of Easter arrangements in the two large bay windows and the flats and pots of flowering plants sitting unprotected in front of the closed shop. In five years, we’d had just one apparent instance of theft. Except, when we opened up shop, we found the twenty-dollar bill someone had slid under the door.
On an impulse, I made a U-turn and headed back toward Old Hill Road. As I wound my way up that familiar narrow road lined with alternating white and stone fences and hanging signs announcing the various names of local farms and riding stables, memories came flooding back. For the most part, they had ceased to be painful ones. Both Liv and I treasured our recollections of Grandma Mae. But I, more than Liv, also missed the little cottage where we’d spent so many happy summers. Perhaps because Liv contented herself with her own gardens now.
I pulled to the side of the road in front of Grandma Mae’s tiny cottage and sighed. As I suspected, little had been done since the last time I’d passed it. The rotting porch had been removed, leaving the front door positioned a good two feet above the yard. A shattered kitchen windowpane exposed the inside to the elements, and pine needles had collected on the bowing roofline and overflowed the gutters.
I pushed open the car door and braved the jungle that used to be the lawn. Our childhood gardens were nothing more than mounds of tall grass and weeds, with an occasional hardy perennial rearing its stubborn head and demanding its share of sunshine and spring rain. I gathered a handful of lily of the valley, snipped some rhododendron blossoms, and lifted them to my nose, enjoying the heady fragrance of nostalgia more than the scent of the flowers.
Suddenly Liv and I were young again, dancing among the dandelions on the hillside, shoving buttercups under each other’s chins. We’d tear across the fields then dare each other to jump the creek. Sometimes we even made it across. Then we’d run in for some of Grandma’s lemonade, and she’d clean us up and gather both of us into a hug. “My Mae flowers,” she’d call us in an accent all her own, as she spoiled us with cookies and homemade fudge. She’d moved from the deep South when she married, adding a faint mountain twang of Appalachia to her Southern drawl in a charming mixture everyone around her seemed to love.
I glanced down at the lily of the valley and considered its meaning. Happiness restored. Seven years had elapsed since Grandma Mae’s passing, and five since Liv and I moved to Ramble and started the flower shop using the small inheritance and the proceeds from selling the cottage. Happiness was restored. Except it still saddened me to see Grandma’s cottage and our gardens in such a state. That reporter was right—sad what had become of it. I couldn’t rescue it, restore it to its original glory, but I might be able to prop something in that window to prevent further damage.
I trudged through the weeds and briars to the kitchen window and peered in. Recent rains had left the countertop drenched with water and the sink filled with shards of broken glass. If the window wasn’t covered soon, there would be more damage to the vintage kitchen, by weather or by wild animals. I hoped a family of raccoons hadn’t already taken up residence.
I looked around the yard and spotted the battered sign: “Professionally managed by Rawling Properties.” Yeah, right. While Derek’s property management skills failed to impress me, his sign just might be the thing to block the broken window. I returned to the CR-V, laid my gathered flowers on the passenger seat, riffled the vehicle for my little tool kit, including a small hammer and some tacks, then yanked the sign out of the yard.
The corrugated plastic rectangle fit the window as if it were designed for it. I tacked the bottom corners then looked for something to stand on to reach the top corners. I heaved myself onto the jutting threshold of the front door. I couldn’t quite reach the top far corner, so I hammered a tack into the middle. I was still suspended against the house when a car rumbled up the road. Brakes slammed. I craned my neck to see who was coming, but the vehicle was obscured by a cloud of dust and cinders.
“Audrey, what do you think you’re doing?” Derek Rawling banged shut the door of his fancy sports car and braved the foliage as he headed toward me. “This place doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
“I know that.” I hopped back to the ground. “But someone has to fix the broken window. Just being a good neighbor and doing you a favor.”
Derek set his jaw. “Fine, but let me.” He reached up and yanked down the sign, rolling his eyes at me as he turned it right side up. Oops.
He held out a palm, and I handed him both the hammer and a tack. While he worked at affixing the sign over the broken window, I wondered what about Derek had attracted Jenny.
Sure, he was handsome, although, in his forties, considerably older than Jenny. Still, he had that tanned skin and well-groomed salt-and-pepper hair that many women find distinguished. The salt-and-pepper continued down long sideburns and into a stubbly but well-chiseled chin. His pale blue eyes would be more attractive if they weren’t bloodshot. And yes, he had money and that great car. But I couldn’t hel
p but be sad.
“Take care of her,” I mumbled.
“What?” Derek asked as he hammered in the last tack.
“I said that should take care of it.”
Derek stood back and examined his work, then turned to me. “Audrey, I know this place must hold a lot of memories for you, but you can’t hang out here. It’s abandoned. It could be dangerous being out here all alone.”
“But I just—”
“No buts. I’m not trying to be mean, but if I catch you here, I’ll have to report you to Chief Bixby as a trespasser. Understand?”
“Understood.” I snatched back my hammer and carefully made my way out of the neglected yard without looking back. Why Derek Rawling hadn’t renovated or sold the cottage to some enterprising flipper instead of letting it go to seed like this, I had no idea.
“Gone to seed?” I rolled my eyes at my inadvertent joke as I steered back down the hill and into town. Maybe the bubble bursting in the real estate market when it did had something to do with the cottage’s vacancy. Now if only property values and interest rates would stay low until I saved enough for a down payment.
When I entered my apartment, Chester was nowhere to be seen. Probably sleeping on my clean laundry—if I had any—or tearing my curtains to shreds.
I arranged my purloined flowers in a small bud vase, then centered them on my kitchen table. At least a few of Grandma Mae’s perennials had survived.
Chester sauntered out of the bedroom, hopped onto the table, and gave the flowers a cautious sniff. I rubbed his head, then relented to his loud request for food. I haven’t eaten in weeks, he seemed to say. Chester lies a lot.
Finally, I poured myself a bowl of cereal and settled on the sofa for a quiet afternoon of carbs and an old musical on television. My Fair Lady for the umpteenth time. One of my favorites. After all, in her own way, Eliza Doolittle was a florist.
• • •
Bloom and Doom Page 3