by Sean Platt
She looked at the cart then at her food. Shrugging, she tossed the gone-cold pasta into a trashcan and reentered La Fleur, propping the door back open.
Her heart hammered as she walked the small aisle, sweeping the floor of cut stems and tracked-in dirt. She was frightened and defiant. A pleasant blend that made her feel thoroughly alive. Perhaps Allison had been right: maybe she really did care too much what other people thought of her. Maybe she really did give too much to others and rarely to herself. She owned a shop filled with gorgeous flowers, and she’d let the fact that she no longer had a man to buy them keep her from taking precious stems home for herself.
This was Lily’s shop. Lily’s life. Lily’s attitude. Perhaps she was inviting problems from the Palms Couture’s Big Bad Wolf by not removing the display, but after this morning’s embarrassment inside nouveau house, she was done feeling beaten. Lily was done lying down, simply accepting whatever Kerry Barrett Kirby or any of the other uptight assholes wanted to do to her, same as she’d been done lying down for Jason’s pleasure (and his pleasure alone) a few years back. She’d been with only one man since — a family friend she’d bedded following her father’s death. She’d needed comfort that day, and had taken it. It’d been entirely different than with Jason, because she’d gone in as her aggressive, adventurous, not-always-proper self. She’d come that time, boy howdy. Over and over again.
The thought made her blush, and Lily could feel it creeping to places she had to admit Allison had been right about needing attention. It really did feel great to think of herself for a change, and to look across the courtyard and know that even if Queen Quiff took her down at least she’d fall swinging.
Lily was in that state of defiant expectation — both fearful of the hammer falling and eager for the fight — when Len Farrell entered La Fleur. Her body surprised her by reacting in advance of her words. He’s come for you, it said.
She snapped back into shopgirl mode — a woman content to be another pale flower amid the display, to smile and feel grateful for her dream, however long it might last.
“Len!” The exclamation point left without her permission, delighted to see him without even meaning to be. Lily’s rumination on bitches and rules and politics had polarized her into seeing everything in terms of foes and allies. Len, Allison, Cameron, Silas, Antonia, and a few others were allies. Kerry and all who stood behind her were foes. And while her gut remained conflicted, seeing an ally in her shop was welcome indeed.
“Hello, Lily.”
She felt giddy, as if her emotions were up and couldn’t go down. They could only change forms, like science class had taught her about energy. She blurted an almost manic response, feeling like an idiot.
“Aren’t you supposed to say ‘g’day’?”
“That’s more of an outback thing.”
“I thought Australia was all outback.”
“Nah. I’m from Perth. And I don’t drink Foster’s, either.”
She watched him with churning emotions. Was she angry? Was she strong and defiant? Was she happy or feeling victorious? Could she be turned on? It wasn’t the sort of thing she indulged much, having been raised with the subtle implication that desire was a tiny bit dirty.
Len was really cute. Had he always been this cute?
“Are you back to buy flowers?” Lily thought of the single rose she’d given him the previous week. It should still be alive and full, not wilted and falling apart like a grocery store rose that came pursed into a teardrop like a Hershey’s kiss. That was the double-edged sword of selling quality — you had to trust people to keep returning regularly for more of the best, even though the best lasted around three times as long.
“Nah, I’m here because of … ” He looked around for something he seemed unable to find. “Hell.”
“What?”
“I was going to dramatically point to the pesto Trapanese you just bought from Paul.”
Oh. Yes. The bowl of pasta. “I bought it from you.”
“No, you bought it from Paul, at my cart. I was out back, and—”
“You said ‘outback.’” Again Lily giggled, and again she felt stupid. She needed to calm down. She was embarrassing herself.
“I’m sorry.”
“No worries. But it is a new dish, and I wanted to see what you thought of it. But I guess you finished it already.” Len was still looking around.
“I did,” she lied.
“And?”
“It was good.”
“Just good.”
“It was the best pesto I’ve ever had.”
“Ah. Well. I roasted the almonds and used raw tomatoes. And the cheese was Parmesan instead of pecorino because that tightens the sauce. Any thoughts on the basil cheese balance?”
“It was perfectly balanced.”
“Ah.” Len repeated. He paused, his mouth working. “Look, I actually had another reason for coming here. Besides your culinary insights.”
“Really? That’s mainly what people come to me for.” Realizing that she’d reached out and touched his hand, Lily pulled it back, ordering her high alert to stand down.
“Yes. See, that dish? It was the first in a new batch of recipes I’m tinkering with. I don’t know if you realize this, but I’ve not been here much longer than you. Just a few weeks myself. It’s been a bit of a bumpy ride, because I brought my original recipes with me only to realize that people here were a little too good for them.”
“Fried kangaroo?”
“Wallaby. They’re easier to catch and don’t kick as hard.”
“You’re kidding.”
“‘Course I’m kidding.” A kind smile, reminding Lily that Len, with his steely eyes and charming accent, was an ally in a world filled with foes. “But point is, I’ve been on and off, trying to juggle Hit N’ Run and my helper, Paul, while still fussing with the lease and … well, fighting off some rather snappy little bothers about stupid things, like when I’ll get a visit from the lease police because there are too many bees around the nearest trash can. As if I can control the bees. But someone will say something, then I need to deal with it, and sometimes it’ll knock me totally off kilter and … ”
Lily was smiling.
“What?” said Len.
“I guess we have a lot in common.”
“I suppose you’re also from Perth?”
“No, but I do like shrimp on the barbie.”
Len made a face. “Nobody actually says that.”
“G’day, mate.”
“Holy fuck, you people,” said Len, rolling his eyes. “It’s like seeing myself in a funhouse mirror.”
“I just meant that I know how you feel. I just got a visit about my cart.” She pointed.
“What about your cart?”
“It’s against the terms of my lease.”
Len stared at Lily’s cart.
“What?”
“It’s just that the offending cart is still there. Almost as if you ignored the complaint.”
Lily shrugged.
“I have much to learn.” Len made a small bow. “So look, that’s just what I meant. Spot on, actually. I was wondering if you’d let me pick your brain about Palms protocol.”
“‘Protocol’?”
“The lay of the land,” Len explained. “I need to get the feel of this place. What I should try and what I shouldn’t bother with. Who not to piss off. How to be able to leave my flower cart out front instead of immediately dragging it back in.”
“To be fair, it’s possible they’ll come right back and terminate my lease.”
“Naw. I caught a look in your eyes from all the way across the fountain the other day. They wouldn’t dare.”
The thought was laughable. Lily smiled. “I think they’d dare.”
“No way.” Len shook his head. “You don’t even know it, do you? The look you have.”
“What look do I have?”
“Like nobody’d better mess with you. You have a don’t mess with me face.”
“I do?”
“Don’t get me wrong.” Len held up his hands, backtracking. “It’s not a bad thing. It’s something I can tell you wear, apparently without even knowing you are. And even your ‘don’t mess with me’ face is pretty.”
Lily felt a very genuine, almost vulnerable smile form on her lips. “It is?”
“Well, sure. It’s strong. Strong women are … oh, hell, you know what I mean.” Now he was blushing. Lily wasn’t sure she’d ever genuinely seen a man blush, but here it was, right in front of her.
“No, please. Continue embarrassing yourself.”
“Hell.”
“I’m just kidding,” Lily said, again touching his hand. “I know what you mean.” But she didn’t. A don’t mess with me face? She’d never heard such a thing. She was either sweet as sugar or stepped upon as the dishrag Lily B. The idea that anyone was thinking twice about defying her when she got her dander up was strangely heartening, but also foreign.
“Look,” Len said. “I just want to talk it out. If you have the time.”
“I’m the wrong person to ask. Seriously. I’ve been here less time than you have.”
“But your cart is still outside.”
“As is anything nouveau house tries to pull off.”
Len made a face, looking through the window.
“Or Buns. Buns too. Do you know Antonia?”
“Red-haired woman.”
“Right.”
“Sure,” said Len. “Not well, but I know who she is.”
“You want to talk shop, she’s the one to ask. Not me. I’m new and not exactly making a killing. My first week and a half have been break even at best.”
“Better than losing your ass.” For some reason, Lily felt sure he’d say something more about her ass, but he didn’t.
“Break even is just for supplies and rent and all that. I’m basically working for free.”
“Working for free living your dream, though, right?”
“What makes you think this is my dream?”
“I just assumed.”
“Because I’m a woman and I own a flower shop, it must be my dream? What, did I want to be a princess, too?”
“I just meant … ”
For the third time, she touched his hand. “Kidding, Len.”
“Oh.”
“But seriously: Antonia Peck. Go talk to her about the Palms. She’s been here forever. She knows everyone.”
“Look,” Len said. “I know you. I’d rather talk to you. Antonia doesn’t have a don’t mess with me face, so far as I’ve seen.”
“Because she doesn’t need one.” Lily found herself thinking of what Antonia had said about Kerry not being the only one around the Palms who swung a big bat. In parallel to her conversation with Len, a different part of her mind began to gather an idea.
“All the same,” said Len.
Lily sighed. Why not? The store — and the plaza as a whole — was in a lull anyway.
“Fine. Ask your questions. But just be sure to take my answers with a grain of salt.”
“Oh, not now,” said Len.
“When?”
“Dinner. Let me take you to dinner.”
“As in a date?”
Lily wasn’t sure if she liked that idea or not. On one hand, Len was nice and charming and attractive. But on the other, she was new to the state, new to the snobby little city, and new to the Plaza and her own business. The idea of amour had sounded good while hypothetical, but she frankly didn’t have the energy. Lily wasn’t even sure, with all that was on her plate, that she had the interest. Maybe six months from now, when things had calmed down. Maybe a year. She needed time to reacquaint herself with herself, after all. She’d just reclaimed assertive Lily A and had discovered her don’t mess with me face. If there was anyone she should be dating, it was herself.
“Just dinner.”
“That’s a date, Len.”
Len didn’t blush anew, but did become adorably awkward for a few seconds, looking down and around, tripping over his own mostly stationary feet. “No, not necessarily. Just one neighbor talking to another. One helping another out.”
“So we’d go dutch.”
“If you insist. But I’d rather pay if I’m the one getting the benefit.”
Lily thought. She didn’t really want to lead Len on, but needed practice taking for herself rather than always giving. If he wanted her thoughts on the Palms (immature and ungrounded as they may be), then she had every right to receive a free meal in return. But that assumed she should go at all, which she really shouldn’t. Dates came with expectations. Like second dates and conversations she had no time for and didn’t want to manage. Dating was complicated. It claimed too much mental real estate, and Lily needed all she had for her business, her exhausting schedule, and the skirmishes she expected in the coming weeks and months. Adding Len to her life felt like a burden, as tempting as the notion felt to her most neglected parts.
“Please?” Comically, Len clasped his hands in a parody of pleading.
“Fine, fine,” said Lily, exasperated.
“Super.” He beamed.
They made plans to meet the next night, then Len left with a wave. Lily wondered how many more boxes she could open before finding herself empty.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE PALMS PUPPETEER
The day dragged on forever. Afternoon and evening weren’t bad at all (quite the contrary; she’d established another recurring office order and already felt that she’d earned a decent shot at landing a lesbian wedding), but as feared, she’d unraveled too many mental strings. They dangled in front of her face as she arranged and sold and swept the floors, as she restocked the cooler and made a list of what she’d need to pick up at Market the following morning.
There was her cart display to consider. She’d thought several times about bringing it inside (because enough was enough and she’d proven her point; she could put it back out tomorrow if she had the guts), but ended up keeping it where it was out of a sense that moving it, even now, would be stepping into defeat. She kept seeing it from the corner of her eye as she worked, and the sight of the thing was like a flashing warning, or like a troublesome throb in a tooth that’s overdue for a dentist’s attention. Every second the cart stayed in front of the store, Lily could imagine her foes staring as they hatched their evil schemes.
There was Kerry to consider, because there seemed no question that she was the anonymous complainer. There had been many petty snipes since she’d been at the Palms, but the biggest were always from Kerry. And going to the leasing office — tattling to the teacher, really — seemed like a very Kerry move to make. The way Antonia had spoken, Kerry wanted to be the Palms puppeteer. She wanted to shuffle the pieces behind the scenes, setting people against one another rather than striking overt blows herself. Complaining to the office rather than facing Lily directly did the same thing that being fake-nice to Lily that first day instead of being cruel had done: killed two birds with one stone. Both moves gave Kerry control, but neither showed her hand. She could be both the benevolent unofficial leader of the Palms at the same time as she was playing Machiavelli.
There was her store’s business to think about. Silas, the tall, dark, and beautiful owner of the undercover art gallery, had ordered a dozen small arrangements to be picked up tomorrow, and she’d tallied up the recurring office order, the lesbian wedding lead, and a smattering of walk-in business. A man and a woman, both bleached blond and with an unbelievably beautiful woman in tow between them like a pet on a leash, had come in inquiring whether or not she did “set work,” whatever that meant — but they hadn’t concluded their business because the mute woman between them had grown suddenly animated, yammering on in a language that nobody in the store (her keepers included) seemed to understand. Lily had ended the encounter puzzled, but with another new lead. So things were looking up, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the only way to keep the ball rolling was to get up earlier, plan
better, and push even harder.
And now there was Len to think about. Lily had tied herself to him whether she thought he was cute and engaging or not, and that wasn’t a good thing where her mental bandwidth was concerned. Before today, she’d been able to see him and say nothing, or see him and nod. Now there would be the expectation of conversation every time, for a new and evolved level of acknowledgement. Now they’d need to chat. He might feel the need to court her somehow, despite her making it clear that their coming dinner wasn’t a date. And then there was the non-date itself. She’d agreed to close La Fleur an hour early, which she didn’t feel was entirely wise. And of course she’d need to run home and shower, dress up, and put on new makeup. Because even when you weren’t on a date with the handsome man who owned the food kiosk in the courtyard, you still had to be presentable at dinner.
Lily looked outside as she cleared the rest of the day’s business, sighing. It was all too much for one girl to handle alone.
But maybe … maybe … she wasn’t totally alone.
When the cleaning was done, Lily threw her next day’s shopping list into her Camry, locked the back door, and headed for Buns at an all-out sprint.
Antonia turned out to be closing a half hour after La Fleur and was in no hurry to leave. It didn’t surprise Lily at all. The baker struck her as a woman who loved her craft, product, and business. Lily was exhausted by her own shop, but Antonia had been at it for several decades. Her business had matured and seasoned into something more settled and stable, softer around the edges.
“Well,” she said. “There’s my girl.”
“Are you closed?” Lily was still panting from her sprint. She’d been afraid of missing Antonia, and it had seemed pressing — more and more as the long day slowly faded — that she speak with her tonight.
“Turn around.” Antonia was behind the counter, wiping a rag along the top of her display case.
Lily turned.
“Press that button there.”
Lily pressed. A gate began to rattle down outside the glass. She turned back to face Antonia.
“Yes. Now we’re closed.” Antonia reached down and slid open the display case from the back. “What can I get you?”