When at last she finished, Mr. Tullier pulled out his glasses and examined the canvas first an inch from his eye, and then at arm’s length.
“Who taught you to paint?” he grunted, squinting at the canvas.
“Taught myself,” Floralie said shyly.
Mr. Tullier sighed like he was resigning himself to some inevitable truth. “You’ve got some talent.”
“Thank you,” said Floralie. There was a pause, and then Floralie looked up and said, “You will help me find my mother, won’t you? You will help decode the flowers?”
Mr. Tullier’s mouth twitched. “In time.”
When Floralie was little, she had a baby doll that Mama named Lilac. Floralie took Lilac everywhere, and every once in a while, she would stand her up on the floor and say, “Look! Look at her taking her first steps!” Firsts. Mothers get to see firsts. First word, first steps, first haircut, first recital, first day of school, first love, first good-bye. First time one holds a pencil. First time one opens a box of paints. First time one sits to create. Mothers see firsts. Mothers see firsts.
By the day’s end, Floralie had painted a dozen flowers. She had also discovered some miscellaneous objects in the paint box. Within it, Floralie found that Mr. Tullier knew a lot of dead people. The box was haunted by obituary clippings and funeral service booklets. Floralie remembered her father’s obituary. She had cried so much over it that the ink ran together, words colliding with one another like armies on a battlefield. The newspaper had nearly disintegrated from all the tears. Floralie had kept it anyway, even though it looked like it was a hundred-year-old handkerchief. But the curious thing about Mr. Tullier’s obituaries was that all of them were in perfect condition. Even the funeral booklets had nothing more than a hint of a thumb indention at the bottom. Floralie took this to mean one of two things: either Mr. Tullier didn’t feel sadness, or he didn’t like to show it.
One paper, Philomenos found. Or rather, attempted to steal. It was a scrap of paper littered with words at odd angles, sloping up and down like dandelions growing on a hill that doesn’t know where it’s going. They were names. Eglantine Victoire, Eglantine Adèle, Eglantine Clothilde, Eglantine Marie, Eglantine Lisette. And then in the corner, one name was circled and flecked with lines like sunrays. This one read: Eglantine Floralie. How strange, Floralie thought. She gently slipped the piece of paper in her bag.
Among the stranger things Floralie found in the bottom of the paint box were an ivory baby rattle, a tube of scarlet lipstick, and a tin of gray ashes. Dropped in the middle of them was a smooth white stone engraved with the words, JE T’AIME, MA FLEUR. 1902–1903. Floralie’s spine shivered, for she knew she held in her hands not only a tiny tin, not only a tiny tombstone, but tiny ashes. Human ashes.
Floralie ran down the corridor in hopes of finding Miss Clairoux, and more in hopes of Miss Clairoux having found some information about Nino’s whereabouts. Halfway down the corridor, she nearly rammed right into her.
“Have you found him yet? Anything, any clues?” exclaimed Floralie, skidding to a stop.
Miss Clairoux shook her head. “I’m sorry, ma chérie. Nothing.”
Floralie looked down to her shoes and bit her lip.
“Take heart, ma chérie, we will find him yet! Now, how did things go for you today?” said Miss Clairoux.
Floralie perked up a bit. “Mr. Tullier likes my flower paintings, and I get to paint with Claude Monet’s paint! It’s a lot of work, but I’m getting paid to paint. And the more I get to know him, the more I can find out about my mother.”
It occurred to her then that Floralie had nearly forgotten about Mama in the excitement of painting Mr. Tullier’s flowers. She had just about forgotten Tom, too, and Grandmama, and even Nino. It was as if the house had some enchantment over it that made time slip away. Sappho’s poem rang in Floralie’s mind:
And hours entwine in hours.
For the moon is slipping to ash
And I am slipping, too.
Floralie wondered if her mother’s hours were entwining in hours. If this very moment, Viscaria was slipping to ash. She wondered if time moved faster or slower in the hospital, and she wondered which was worse.
“That’s splendid you have a new job,” said Miss Clairoux. “But do press him . . . He is not easily persuaded.”
“He will be,” said Floralie. “I’ve got a good feeling about this. Once he gets to know me, he’ll come around.”
All week, Floralie worked in the garden. All week Miss Clairoux searched Giverny and the surrounding villages, always coming back with nothing but a bouquet of adonis flowers. All week Floralie probed Mr. Tullier about Mama and the floriography, but all week, he simply replied, “In time.” Most days, Mr. Tullier sat in silence beside her, furiously scrawling notes into a leather book or making his rounds of watering the plants. Friday, Mr. Tullier was rather late, and when he did finally show up, his eyebrows were furrowed and his teeth clenched. He caught Floralie on her shoulder, causing Floralie to spill her turpentine all over a patch of violets.
“Who—oh, it’s you, Mr. Tu—”
“Thief!” hissed Mr. Tullier. “You’ve stolen it, haven’t you, girl! Where’ve you taken it? Go on, spit it out.”
“Taken? I haven’t taken anything.” But as Mr. Tullier yanked up Floralie’s bag, the braille book clunked against the flower box.
“Oh yes, you did! You were the only one using Monet’s box of paints, and now it’s gone. My paper is gone!”
So this wasn’t about the braille book. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she shouted, snatching back her bag and taking a breath to calm herself. “And if you would be so kind, please take your hand off my shoulder this instant. Why would I even want one of your papers?”
And then she remembered—the list of names. But what would be so important about that?
“I keep track of this paper, girl, and if you lost it, you’d better—”
But Floralie never did find out what she had better do, because just then, Philomenos went skittering across the puddle of turpentine, crumpled paper between his teeth.
Mr. Tullier’s eyes widened. He let Floralie’s shoulder loose, glanced from the mouse to Floralie, then back to the mouse. And then he lunged.
“Wait!” called Floralie, leaping to her feet and speeding after Mr. Tullier. “Don’t hurt him; he’s Nino’s!”
“Don’t care who he belongs to,” and Mr. Tullier chased after Philomenos as Floralie chased after Mr. Tullier. The two tumbled over boulders and ducked under branches. They ran in circles until Floralie’s foot caught on a tree root, and she stumbled headfirst into the violet patch. When she looked up, she saw Mr. Tullier sprawled on the dirt, too, arm outstretched, and something wriggling at the end of his fingertips.
Mr. Tullier straightened up, holding the mouse by the tail at arm’s length. Floralie brushed the dirt off her hands and stood. She felt a bruise forming on her chin, and her left knee throbbed. Mr. Tullier glared so intently at Floralie, she thought for a moment he might strangle her.
But no. Instead, he approached Floralie, took the paper from the mouse’s mouth, and then dropped Philomenos into Floralie’s palms.
Philomenos squeaked, and Floralie smiled weakly. Mr. Tullier and Floralie knelt down, both panting, and Mr. Tullier’s knees creaking.
“S-sorry about Philomenos,” said Floralie, placing the mouse in the violet patch beside her.
Mr. Tullier cleared his throat and then murmured, “Sorry for—er—accusing you of—you know—thievery. Et cetera.”
“I’m scared of you sometimes,” said Floralie. “Why are you so angry?”
Mr. Tullier’s face twisted into a scowl.
“I just want to understand,” said Floralie. “But for now, we’ll call it all even. No hard feelings,” and she held out her hand for Mr. Tullier.
Mr. Tullier eyed it carefully.
“I won’t start calling you ‘Grandpa’ or anything,” said Floralie. “I just want to be friends.”
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br /> Slowly, Mr. Tullier shook Floralie’s hand. His hand was more callused than Floralie had expected, as if the wrinkles were set in stone from all his years of gardening.
“You’re not so bad, kid,” said Mr. Tullier, sighing.
“Thanks,” said Floralie.
He leaned in close and added to Floralie’s immense surprise, “I promise to keep you safe. You haven’t got much, but you’ve got me. I promise you’ve got me.”
And after that exchange, somewhere between the mouse and the paints and the flowers, Floralie Laurel and Sylvestre Tullier became the oddest of friends. There was something enchanting about living with flowers that made it impossible not to bloom or wither along with them. Indeed, if there was one thing Floralie had come to understand, it was that nothing stayed the same in gardens. Not flowers, not trees, not soil. Not even people.
The fireflies were alight. The twilight seeped into Floralie’s palms, soft, like crushed velvet.
“Come look, Flory. I’ve found a fairy,” said Mama from across the garden.
Floralie came running, but as soon as she got close, Mama snapped her fingers and said, “It got away.”
Floralie sighed in disappointment, but Mama brushed a buttercup under Floralie’s chin. “Don’t be glum,” she said. “There are wings on all our backs. We just can’t look back enough to see them.”
The next day, Mr. Tullier asked Floralie to send a letter for him. Strangely enough, a thick ribbon covered the address, but Floralie thought little of it and exchanged Philomenos for the letter. He was looking a bit ill, and Floralie thought he should be watched by someone.
Floralie took the letter into the village, breathing in the roses and tulips and lavender. When she passed the library, Madame Favreau was setting up a FOR SALE sign in front and piling books outside. Floralie approached slowly, sadness dropping into her stomach.
“You’re selling it?” said Floralie to the little librarian.
“Oui,” said Madame Favreau. “We just cannot keep up with ze money.”
“Oh,” said Floralie, “I’m sorry.”
She picked up the nearest book from a precariously high-piled stack. It was Peter Pan, and Floralie flipped through the pages until she reached the end, where she read the words, “Never say good-bye, because saying good-bye means going away, and going away means forgetting.”
Floralie hoped she was not forgotten. She hoped Mama had not forgotten her, and perhaps even more so she hoped Nino wouldn’t forget her. But Nino hadn’t said good-bye, and neither had Mama, and that let the hope hang, if only by a thread, to Floralie’s fraying heart.
“Are you selling all your books?” asked Floralie.
“Non, just giving zem away. No space for zem anymore,” replied Miss Favreau, unpacking a new box of books.
“Is it possible for . . . Could I take A History of Dreamlands?”
“Is zat ze odd book? Ze collection of thoughts book?” said Madame Favreau.
Floralie nodded.
“How funny—a boy was looking at zat exact book not a day ago. Raggedy thing, ’e was.”
Floralie dropped the Peter Pan book. “A boy? Raggedy? Did he say anything—I mean—not say anything—did he write to you?”
“Write to me? Why of course not! ’E was standing not two paces off from where you are right now. But, now zat I think of it, ’e didn’t say a word ze entire time. ’E spent a good ’alf hour pouring over zat book zere.” She gestured to a pile a few paces away, on top of which was, indeed, A History of Dreamlands.
Floralie picked up the book and let her fingers curl over the spine and ruffle through the pages. There was something about the tattered pages that reminded Floralie of Nino’s shirtsleeves, and the grimy cover that reminded her of his fingernails. It was like holding his hand.
It all seemed so impossible. Finding Nino’s book like that. It all seemed too unlikely, too tangled, too messy, too . . . perfect. But a voice rang in Floralie’s mind, and strangely enough, the thought had the lilt of Miss Clairoux’s voice, dreamlike. It said, “Perhaps that would be the angels.”
“I felt sorry for ’im, really, ’ow skinny ’e looked,” piped Madame Favreau. “Told ’im ’e could take ze book if ’e liked, but ’e didn’t.”
“He didn’t? Why not?”
Madame Favreau shrugged. “Pas d’idée. ’E carried it all ze way to ze archway over zere, but just as ’e was about to leave, ’e spotted a different book—something about botany and drawing, if I remember quite right. ’E took zat one instead, and zen ’e left. Peculiar garçon.”
As Madame Favreau was speaking, something caught Floralie’s eye: a bright purple feather. It bobbed over the bustle of people striding by. Floralie’s heart thundered and her hands quaked.
“Merci, Madame Favreau,” said Floralie hurriedly. “Er—would you mind terribly if I took that book?”
“I don’t see why not; ze rubbish bin is not going to find more use for it zan you, now is it?”
“Right—thanks,” said Floralie, and she dashed down the street, book in hand.
“Floralie!”
No, pleaded Floralie in her mind. She ran.
And then Grandmama screeched, “Police!” again and again, running after Floralie. Grandmama’s high heels click-clacked on the cobblestones, drawing ever nearer.
Floralie slipped into an alleyway, then zigzagged down a series of back roads until she was thoroughly lost. Grandmama’s footsteps faded in the distance.
“She was just here!” came a wisp of Grandmama’s voice.
The voices filtered away after that, as Floralie’s heart pounded in her ears. She saw me, thought Floralie. Grandmama saw me.
Grandmama came for a visit to France at Christmastime, bringing copious amounts of gifts and chocolates and marzipan with her. Mama would dance as the sugar plum fairy in The Nutcracker at that time, and gather scarlet geraniums from the audience every night.
Grandmama would scoff at the theatrics of it all. “Such whimsy, it makes my stomach turn.” She whispered it to Papa, but was loud enough for everyone around her to hear. But the word “whimsy” sounded beautiful to Floralie. “Whimsy, whimsy, whimsy.” Floralie wanted to melt into that word. Crawl inside it and make a home with soft walls and magic stairs and Mama’s geraniums scattered everywhere.
Floralie sat crouched against the back side of a small café, breathing in the smell of coffee and croissants for at least half an hour until she was positive Grandmama had given up. When at last Floralie returned to Rue Claude Monet, she slunk toward the letterbox, which was but one hyacinth archway and two storybook houses away from the library. A rusted, vandalized thing it was, nailed to a crumbling brick post office. Floralie felt wary the letter would arrive safely, if at all. It would seem a miracle if it even left the letterbox.
Floralie turned from the letterbox and pushed open the front door. A bell tinkled above her as she slunk inside. Well, she supposed, at least they were open. The only light inside came from a green glass lamp atop a wooden counter. Behind the counter sat a large, whiskery man inscribing numbers into a thick logbook. Paranoia flittered in Floralie’s chest—what if the whole town was searching for her?
But Floralie was lucky. The man dropped his pen, let loose a long sigh, and grunted in French, “The letterbox is outside, young lady.”
Floralie fingered the lace at her sleeve. “Oh,” she said. “Right, yes, I know. I just wasn’t sure if it was still operating, that’s all.”
“Course it is,” said the man. “I run the best post office in all of Giverny.”
By that, Floralie supposed he meant the only post office.
“Everybody comes here,” added the man. “Where’re you sending to?”
Floralie nudged Mr. Tullier’s ribbon off the envelope, then squinted down to the letter’s address:
Monsieur John-Paul Laurel
22 Rue Lachance
Giverny
France
Floralie’s heart stuttered. She heard her ow
n voice as if from the other side of a mountain: “Actually—actually, never mind. Have to go—bye,” and she was halfway down the street at the jingle of the bell.
Floralie whizzed down Rue Lachance and, sweating and panting, arrived at a house with a mailbox labeled 22. Poetry itched at Floralie’s fingers.
The door was painted poppy red,
Flower beds like library books left unread.
Six windows wide and two windows tall,
No one dared live in a dollhouse so dead.
No one had bought the house. “Haunted,” the entire village had called it. They would, Floralie supposed, be right to some extent.
Floralie unlatched the iron lock of the weathered picket fence and crept into the skeleton of a garden. Weeds strangled the stone pathway and ivy gobbled up the front steps. Scabs of rust coated the doorknob. Surely, it would be locked, but—
Floralie caught her breath.
The key was already in the lock.
Every once in a while, when he was least expecting it, Mama would take Papa by surprise, and swing him into a dance. She would hand Papa a red rose and tell Tom to put the song “I Found a Rose in the Devil’s Garden” by William Raskin and Fred Fisher on the record player, and, oh, how Mama and Papa would dance. So often this happened that the song carved its words into Floralie’s heart. It went like this:
Lost in a city that has no pity I found a rose,
Little lonesome rose;
Where smiling faces, hide broken hearts,
In happy places, where sorrow starts:
Some body’s sister, whose folks have missed her,
A mother dear,
She’s a lonesome tear;
For little baby, who went away,
She’s kneeling maybe, just now to pray:
The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel Page 13