The trading floor was a mob scene as always, despite the fact that the sun had yet to rise. Working early hours was part of life as a professional florist. The market opened at five and stayed active until mid-afternoon, but any self-respecting florist knew that the freshest and rarest stems would be gone within the first hour. Usually I enjoyed strolling through row after row of clementines, dahlias, and California figs. The fragrant scent of jasmine and the constant sound of vendors bartering were like home to me, but today I was on a mission. I squeezed past a florist I recognized who worked for one of the big national chains and made a beeline for the back of the humming warehouse. When I spotted the sign for Abundant Gardens, I nearly broke into a sprint.
“Morning, Britta,” the owner greeted me with a smile, tucking a pair of sheers into his overalls. “You look like you’re in a hurry.”
I felt a blush creep up my neck. My skin is naturally pale, which means that the slightest hint of color makes my cheeks look like two ripe cherry tomatoes. Elin had always told me that my porcelain skin was a gift. She also had been a fierce proponent of using sunscreen.
“Britta, our Scandinavian skin is like an orchid. We must treat it gently and shield it from too much sun,” she had cautioned. It was wise advice, especially in our line of work, where visiting local farms and outdoor growers’ markets came with the territory.
“Sorry,” I said to the owner of Abundant Gardens. “I’m on the hunt for Shasta daisies. Desperate bride.”
He gave me a knowing nod. “That’s why I prefer working in the field and on this side of the business. Don’t have to deal with any crazy brides. Or worse, their mothers.” He winked.
“Oh, I could tell you some stories.”
“I bet you could.” He pointed behind him to a black plastic tub with bunches of white daises. “And, you’re in luck. How many do you need?”
“Can I have all of them?”
“Consider it done. You want me to wrap them up?”
While he bundled the Shasta daisies, I mentally reviewed my day. First, I would head to Blomma and assemble the bridal bouquets and our recurring corporate orders before we opened for walk-in customers. Typically, Elin hosts custom workshops in the cottage attached to Blomma, but we had put those on hold for a week until we were finished with the float. She would oversee volunteers at the float barn this morning, and then we would swap places in the afternoon. With only three days to go before the big event, the organizers were allowing designers and volunteers to work late every night. We would grab a quick bite of dinner and spend the rest of the evening twisting grape vines and stringing evergreen branches into tight bundles. The float prep-work had to be completed by Friday. That’s when the real fun would begin. The actual flowers would be the very last thing to go on each float. No floral designer wanted a droopy tulip or wilting rose on their float. The Friday before the parade would be a mad dash to the finish as everyone raced against the clock and the elements to cover their structure with fresh flowers. Elin and I had decided we wanted to create a test garland of violets tonight. Just so that we could put together step-by-step directions for the volunteers who would help with the finishing touches.
I thanked my friend for the daisies and headed for Riverplace Village. It was a short drive from the flower market. The village was located on the west side of the Willamette River with cobblestone streets, charming shops, and an elegant, yet laid-back vibe. The small community of business owners in Riverplace Village were a tight-knit group. Most of the shops and the world-class Riverplace Inn had been operated by the same owners for decades.
Blomma sat at the corner of the village with welcoming brick-red, windowed garage doors that could be rolled up in the spring and summer months. In honor of Rose Festival, we had draped the front windows and door with strings of pink lights and filled the front display cases with pastel bouquets of roses in soft peach, creamy whites, yellows, and pale pink. As I pulled the car into a parking space in front of the shop, I wanted to pinch myself. I couldn’t believe I was so lucky.
Of course, when I first made the decision to return home to Portland, I hadn’t considered it luck. Quite the opposite. I had discovered that my deadbeat husband, Chad, had been having an affair instead of working on the next great American novel, as he promised. It turned out that his late-night trips to the library didn’t involve writing. That is unless you counted terribly cheesy poetry “writing.” At first, I’d been hurt and embarrassed, but after the shock wore off I recognized that his infidelity was actually a blessing in disguise. I’d been miserable for years. And, as much as I hated to admit it, part of that blame was on me.
After attending the Floral Institute, I had imagined myself opening a shop much like Blomma where I could leave my flower mark on the world, but instead I’d ended up in Minnesota working for a lifeless wholesaler. Chad couldn’t take a traditional job because he claimed it would interfere with his creative process. That left me as our sole provider. Every time I suggested that Chad find a part-time job to help ease our financial burdens, he would have a burst of energy and swear that he was days away from finishing the book. Shocker. That never happened. Leaving Chad and the Midwest had been the best decision I had made in a long time.
I shook myself from my thoughts and turned off the car. Then I removed the bunches of daises from the back and went to open Blomma’s front door. Immediately I was greeted by the scent of honeysuckle and sweet roses. I flipped on the lights, but kept the sign on the door turned to CLOSED. The chandeliers overhead cast a warm glow on Blomma’s hardwood floors. Cozy furniture had been arranged in the front of the shop. Perfect for customers to take a break and breathe in the scent of flowers after a busy afternoon shopping in the village, and for casual meetings with potential clients. There were tins of fresh-cut stems and succulents displayed on tables. The back of the space housed a concrete workstation and sink, a display case with pre-arranged bouquets, and a wine bar, complete with a wall of Northwest wine available to purchase by the glass or bottle. Elin had learned early on that flowers and wine were an excellent pairing. Our customers often came in looking for a gift and wound up lingering over a glass of Oregon pinot noir at the bar while waiting for us to create a gorgeous arrangement.
The cottage was attached to the main building through two sliding barn doors next to the wine bar. It reminded me of a childhood fairy tale with its exposed timber beams and stone walls. Whenever we hosted classes and workshops in the cottage, clients gushed about the space, saying it felt as if they were stepping into a rustic European castle. This morning, I left the barn doors shut and focused on our rush bridal order.
Before I even began gathering supplies to create the bouquets, I quickly filled a bucket with warm water and mixture of “love juice” to process the daises I had bought at the market. It’s critical when working with fresh flowers to trim their stems and douse them in a healthy bath of water, sugar, bleach, and vinegar. This preserves the life of the flower and ensures a long-lasting bloom. Once I had the vibrant, white daises soaking, I removed a pair of shears, wire, scissors, and a silky forest green ribbon from the workstation. For the bridal party, I wanted every bouquet to be symmetrical with a tight weave and exposed stems. Once I wound the bouquets with wire and wrapped them with the ribbon, I would finish them with a small bow and drape the ribbon on both sides to give the inexpensive flowers an elegant look.
Soon I was immersed in the creative process. Any worry about the Grand Floral Parade and our float faded away as I trimmed stems and plucked off any imperfections in the daisy’s petals. Flowers were art and an expression of the soul. It was my job as a floral artist to infuse love and joy into every arrangement. I had found my true purpose, my calling. This was exactly where I wanted to be, and nothing could change that.
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Natural Thorn Killer Page 24