The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Flora nodded. So many beautiful stores—she could just imagine telling her best friend, Suse, about them. She pointed to the signs on the shops on the opposite side of the Promenade. “Maison, confection, chocolatier—don’t you think all the French is a little, well, affected?”

  “With all the French tourists, I’d call it good for business. But who knows if they’ll be back in the future?”

  “Mother, look, a florist!” Flora stopped short in front of the last shop in the row. The three large display windows were decorated with huge bouquets of roses set up in silver containers, and between the gold-framed windows themselves stood large pails, each with a fir tree. Everything looked very fine and exclusive.

  This shop had nothing in common with Mrs. Gruber’s nursery, where along the rows of flowers and vegetables one always found muddy shoeprints on the floor.

  “These colors . . . where do they find blooming roses in the middle of winter?” Flora’s voice had grown very quiet. Then she turned to her mother and asked vehemently, “Oh, Mother, can we go inside? Please? Just to look? Now that we’re here.”

  “Child, we have to get on to—”

  “Just for a minute? Look, there’s a woman going in. She’s so elegant.”

  “Maison Kuttner, hmm . . .” Hannah shook her head. “Certainly not one of our customers. They probably have their flowers delivered rather than grow them themselves.” She looked from Flora to the flower shop and up to the large clock on the church tower on the other side of the street.

  “All right, then. As long as you don’t drag your feet too much when we come out.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” After a quick kiss to Hannah’s cheek, Flora was already halfway through the door.

  The saleswoman’s eyes roamed from Hannah’s seed sack and shawl down to her heavy boots. Her expression tightened as if she were looking at something a dog had left behind. She pointed her finger toward the door.

  “The delivery entrance is around the back.”

  Her two colleagues behind the counter also eyed Flora and her mother with disdain.

  Flora was admiring the exotic flowers and plants in wide-eyed wonder and did not immediately realize the women behind the counter were addressing them. Passionflower, hollyhock, white myrtle . . .

  “We just want to look at your flowers.” Hannah’s reply, spoken flatly, jolted Flora out of her reverie. She turned in confusion to her mother, who went on, “But I’m afraid that roses in winter are not really to our taste. We prefer . . . natural things.” With her nose held higher than any of the women in the store, Hannah stalked out into the cold.

  Flora followed, her head held high.

  “What a bunch of sour old lemons,” Flora hissed the moment they were outside. “And did you see those ridiculous ruffled dresses they were wearing? They might be just the thing for a confectioner but not a florist.” With every word, a little white cloud puffed from Flora’s mouth and hovered momentarily in the cold air before dissipating.

  “And the roses! Forcing roses might be all the rage in Paris or Hamburg, but personally I find it terrible. Roses in winter is like Christmas in August!” Hannah scoffed. A horse passing by just then turned its head to them and whinnied enthusiastically.

  Both women laughed.

  Flora was surprised at how surely her mother navigated through the streets of the town. At the end of the Promenade they crossed a small square and reached Sophienstrasse, from where they had to keep their eyes open not to miss the turn into Stephanienstrasse.

  “Look there. Grand Duchess Stéphanie from France had it built as her summer palace,” said Hannah, pointing off to the right at a building that, despite its size and extensive lawns and garden beds, radiated nothing but charm. “I’m sure the street itself is also named after her. The gardener is also one of our customers.”

  Flora nodded, clearly impressed.

  The farther they went along the street, the more its character changed. Here, too, the facades of the buildings were painted white, but the houses were taller and not as wide. The elegant show windows were gone, and the wares the shops sold—brooms, baskets, barrels, and more—were displayed on the sidewalk. This was no place to buy clothes or hats, but they passed a smithy, a tobacconist, and a grocery store. Beside the grocery was a bookshop, with its front window stuffed to overflowing with old books.

  Flora frowned. “They could certainly make those lovely books look better than that.”

  Hannah gave her daughter a gentle nudge. “You and your attractive presentation. Come on.”

  Flora pressed her nose to the windowpane. “The Language of Flowers—what’s that?” She pointed to the topmost book of a high pile.

  “If you think we’re going to spend time in this shop now, my dear, then you’re mistaken,” said Hannah emphatically. “Maybe we’ll find a little time in the next few days.”

  Flora’s annoyance at her mother did not last for long. So many different shops—were they the reason the coachman had called the street “Tausend-Seelen-Gass,” “Thousand Souls Alley”? Or was it because so many people lived and worked there? One could feel very much at home in this street, Flora thought. It brought together city style with the kind of cozy familiarity she knew from Gönningen.

  The end of the street—and with it, their guesthouse—was not much farther, Hannah informed her, and she grasped Flora’s arm firmly as they approached another flower shop. This one was much smaller than Maison Kuttner had been. There were also no pretty potted fir trees outside, just an old man doing his best with a worn-out broom to sweep the snow off the front steps.

  Flora gave the man a quick smile and glanced in the window as they went past. Apart from a vase of carnations and a few yellowing handbills, there was nothing to look at.

  Hannah tugged at her sleeve. “The Gilded Rose guesthouse is just up ahead. Finally, I—”

  Suddenly, they heard a dull thud followed by a cry of pain.

  “Good heavens!” Hannah dropped their traveling case.

  The old man was lying half on the sidewalk, half on the steps, the broom strangely wedged between his legs. Blood trickled from his nose and from the right side of his mouth. His tongue was protruding and looked as if it were starting to swell. Had he bitten it when he fell? He groaned.

  “Can you hear me? Can we carry you inside?” Hannah shook the injured man’s arm, looking over her shoulder for help, but the street was empty.

  Flora could only stand and gape at the blood that was dripping onto the snow.

  “Hello? Can you hear me?” Hannah repeated.

  With an effort, the man lifted his head one more time and groaned. Then he did not move anymore.

  Finally, Flora spoke. “He’s dying! Mother, for heaven’s sake, do something!”

  Chapter Three

  “And if you were thinking of something more modern, then may I suggest our beautiful zinnias?” Hannah opened a small linen sack and carefully shook a small pile of the seeds onto the table.

  A fire roared in the wood-burning stove in the workshop at Flumm’s Nursery. After the cold outside, the warmth was at first a welcome change, but both women soon began to sweat inside their woolen clothes. The earthy smell of the seeds—samples for the customers, with the delivery to take place later—mixed with the odors of sweating bodies and the dog that dozed in its basket by the door, its paws occasionally twitching.

  For a moment, Flora felt herself transported back to the packing room at home, which had a similar smell. Not that she had any desire to be back there . . . weighing seeds all day, packing them into little sacks, stamping or writing on the packets, and then tying all of it into parcels that had to be carted off to the train station—it was always the same work, over and over.

  Flora yawned. If only it weren’t so stuffy. She could not stop her thoughts from wandering out through the misted window and away. She wondered how the old man was after his fall. He had been so weak, and at the same time so agitated! He had been weepy for a moment,
too, for “causing so much trouble.” Hannah and Flora had been relieved when he came to his senses. Someone had sent word to his son—had he taken his father to the hospital, or at least called a doctor? Flora and her mother had left the two men alone before that had been decided.

  “Best quality, vigorous, and hardy.” As Hannah spoke, she opened her price list and pointed to the zinnia line. “And the price speaks for itself.”

  Droplets of sweat trickled between Flora’s breasts as she stood silently and watched her mother sell one type of flower after another to the grower. With every line that Hannah filled on the order sheet, her face relaxed more. But when it came to the zinnias, the man was undecided.

  “Look at these colors! From pale pink to the deepest purple.” Hannah closed her eyes for a moment with an enraptured expression. Then she snapped up a second book, leafed rapidly through its pages, and tapped on an illustration of zinnias in every conceivable color, painted in such detail that one could well imagine holding the velvety blooms in one’s hand and breathing in their heady fragrance. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

  “All right, then,” said Siegfried Flumm. “In the last few years, there hasn’t been much demand for them. Everyone wants elegance these days, but who knows?” He shrugged. “Maybe rustic will be the order of the day again.”

  Hannah nodded eagerly. “I would absolutely recommend some of the more elegant varieties, too—our lovely larkspur, for instance. Would you like to look through our sample book for yourself?”

  With an appreciative nod, the grower leafed through the book. He selected love-in-a-mist, garden cosmos, and China aster. Hannah quickly noted the details of the order.

  The book had been the idea of Flora’s aunt, Seraphine. Seeds by themselves, of course, were not particularly attractive, and colorful pictures would certainly help sales, Seraphine had argued. With her artistic talents, she had produced the first sample book many years earlier. Since then, she had completed a similar book for every member of the Kerner family who went out on the road to sell seeds. And Flora, too, could expect to get a copy for herself one day—Seraphine was already hard at work on the pictures.

  Flora sighed softly. Everyone in the family seemed to have found their place in the seed trade, and they were happy with it. Everyone except her. No one could explain why that was so, least of all Flora herself.

  “I want to be a florist. That’s all, nothing else!” she had complained for so long that her parents had finally relented and allowed her to go to the nursery in Reutlingen the year before. They didn’t consent out of any conviction that Flora had made the right choice, but because they had finally run out of arguments against her wish or her love of flowers.

  Even as a small child, Flora had found nothing more interesting than spending hours wandering through the fields around town, picking flowers. Without any of the adults explaining it to her, she always knew exactly where and in which season she could find the different flowering plants. On the edge of the woods, she gathered willow herbs. Close to the cornfield she plucked daisies, poppies, and cornflowers, and along the creek she picked cowslips and cuckooflowers. She loved the delicate pale-purple cuckooflowers most of all.

  Her time at the nursery in Reutlingen had been a letdown. They rarely did any flower arranging; instead, Flora spent most of the time planting seeds and looking after seedlings.

  Of course, later half the village knew that Flora’s apprenticeship had been a dismal failure.

  “Always thought she was too good for the seeds, she did.”

  “All she has in her head is her own pleasure. She doesn’t care one bit about how her parents are supposed to manage.”

  What the people had whispered when Flora slunk back to Gönningen like a whipped dog had hurt. Her brothers had laughed out loud; her parents had been half annoyed, half at a loss. And Seraphine had said something like “I once had dreams myself . . . The best you can do is to bury them as quickly as possible.” Blast it, Flora was trying to do that, but—

  “He fell? Good God! Old Sonnenschein has been suffering for quite a while. He’s always down with a cold or dizzy spell or some other ailment. Not that he’d give you a word of complaint. He’s always trying to convince the rest of the world he’s on top of everything. His son, Friedrich, helps him out wherever he can, but he doesn’t have much time to spare. He works at the Trinkhalle, but don’t ask me exactly what he does there. There’s hardly a true Baden-Badener who ever sets foot in the place; that’s only for our esteemed guests.” Flumm’s tone was heavy with irony.

  “Are you talking about the man from the flower shop?” Flora’s question came so abruptly that Hannah and Mr. Flumm jumped. It was almost as if they had forgotten she was there.

  Hannah glanced disapprovingly at her daughter. “I’m glad to see you haven’t fallen asleep yet,” she hissed.

  “Kuno Sonnenschein used to be one of my best customers,” said the nurseryman with a sigh. “But it seems money is in short supply in the Sonnenschein house these days. He only buys the cheapest varieties now.”

  “I suppose he is also a widower?” asked Hannah sympathetically.

  “Oh, no. The good Mrs. Sonnenschein is as alive as you or I, but, well, how should I put it? She’s of no use to her husband. She even has help in the house, like some sort of hoity-toity lady. Just let my Else try that with me!” Flumm let out a laugh.

  Hannah cleared her throat, then said in her sweetest voice, “Believe it or not, I have a maid. My husband seems to think I’m much more useful helping with the business.”

  The nurseryman puffed his cheeks, nonplussed. “Well, if you look at it like that . . .”

  “Aren’t there any daughters in the family?” Flora asked. “I mean, if my parents ran a flower shop, it would be the most natural thing in the world for me to work there.”

  “There is one daughter, actually, but she’s gone off to a nunnery,” Mr. Flumm said.

  Hannah took a deep breath. “Well, not everyone is as fortunate as you in having a thriving business where everyone lends a hand. Maybe we should complete this order form now,” she said, lifting her pencil.

  Chapter Four

  When they returned to The Gilded Rose that evening, Hannah and Flora were tired and chilled to the bone, but they also had three sizable orders to celebrate. Besides Flumm’s, they had visited two other nurseries on the edge of town, and all had placed generous orders. The following day was earmarked for their customers in town—hotel gardeners and the owners of private gardens, as well as the gardeners who worked for the town itself, the ones in charge of the extensive gardens around Baden-Baden’s Kurhaus—with its casino, guest rooms, ballrooms, and more—and other local sites. Hannah was looking forward to doing good business with them.

  Dinner would be on the table in fifteen minutes, their hostess promised when Hannah and Flora walked through the door. And she had already put hot water bottles in both their beds, she added with a kind smile.

  A bed that was already warm! Flora hummed with pleasant anticipation as they ascended the narrow staircase. If the room was not too chilly, she could strip down to her underdress, curl up under the sheets—

  “Don’t think you’re going to sneak off to bed too soon, child,” Hannah said, as if she could read minds. “First, we celebrate the sales we’ve made today. That’s as much part of this business as anything else. Just wait, I’ll make you enjoy the seed trade yet!”

  A decent meal, perhaps washed down with a pitcher of beer or glass of wine, then that warm bed—that was how Flora imagined the evening would be. She had not counted on her mother leading the entire tavern in a song.

  A tailor went a-wandering

  One Monday in the morning

  And, lo, he met the devil

  With neither shoe nor stocking.

  Ho there, Mr. Tailor Man

  You’ll come with me to hell

  And dress us wicked devils

  Which is just as well.

  “Sing with me, child!
” Hannah encouraged her daughter as she had earlier, but Flora shook her head. Holding the handbag with the money they had earned that day firmly in her lap, she sat and listened as Hannah launched into the second verse of the travelers’ song. The men who had joined them at their table sang along.

  Hannah and Flora had not quite finished their meal—a hearty goulash made with vegetables and big chunks of meat—when the first of the other guests in the restaurant had asked if he might join them. It hadn’t been long before more came along.

  The newcomers quickly fell to trading stories, and Flora was amazed at how wholeheartedly Hannah joined in. After a day spent talking about seeds and sales, it would not have surprised Flora if her mother had been a little uncommunicative. Even for Flora, the men’s tales bordered on being too much.

  All but one of the men—who introduced himself as a trader in corsets and undergarments, which sent the others at the table into fits of laughter—bought a round of beer, schnapps, or wine. And when Hannah launched into the first song of the night, Flora was the only one who didn’t sing along. She was surprised that every single one of the men knew the words.

  At home, Hannah was always the first to get up to dance at the village festivals. It was a side of her personality that did not meet with everyone’s approval. Dancing was decadent, or at least more than one old Gönninger thought it was—a point of view that neither Flora nor any of her friends shared. But sometimes even Flora found her mother’s exuberance a little mortifying.

  And now Hannah was singing and dancing around the restaurant to the rhythm of the song.

  Once he’d done a-beating them

  He took his scissors honed

  And docked the devils’ tails so short

  It made them yowl and moan.

  Ho there, Mr. Tailor Man

  Get out of our hell.

  We don’t need our tails snipped off