La Fleur de Blanc

by Sean Platt

  “Night, Dusty.”

  Lily unlocked the door, noting the way, judging by the sounds behind her, that Dusty took a few seconds too long to turn back and head into the house. Her heartbeat was in her upper chest, in her throat. What the hell was going on that she felt so stirred? There was no clear reason, no obvious root to her emotions. Even Len wasn’t the bang, but merely the trigger. He’d simply uncorked what was already brewing inside, building pressure from long weeks of focusing on things she couldn’t control, that shuttled and bounced Lily around like a bobber on the surface of a roiling ocean.

  She headed into the bathroom, turned on the tub spigot, and let the basin fill with water that was hotter than normal. Her shoulder muscles were bunched; her neck was tight. Even her facial muscles, from forehead to tongue, were wound up. Perhaps the heat would help her relax.

  Her clothes came off piece by piece as if repugnant to the touch. She threw them hither and yon like a teenager, not even making an attempt to hit the hamper. Her blouse covered the lampshade; her bra knocked over the alarm clock. Lily’s shoes managed to stay on the floor, but her skirt simply fell into a puddle, and her panties somehow ended up on the sink faucet like a ringer in a game of horseshoes. She didn’t return to herself and see it until she was sliding into the tub, the water halfway up, her backside warm and her front contrastingly cool.

  Her situation at the Palms was unsustainable. That was the problem. She was in over her head and until now hadn’t let herself see it. She’d charged blindly and stupidly ahead like a silly little girl with a fantasy, entering into a business she barely knew (Sure, she knew petunias from daisies, but did she know how to buy and how to budget? Not a chance), not so much as considering that one person couldn’t keep a 60-plus-hour shop schedule without help. Because it wasn’t just the time her door was open to consider. It was setup and cleanup before and after; it was shopping; it was arranging for special events; it was business and bill-paying and paper-signing. She needed a Paul, because Paul at least let Len run to the bathroom or get lunch.

  Lily didn’t have that, and couldn’t have that, because she wasn’t making enough money.

  And she couldn’t make more money, because she didn’t have enough hands to expand the business into weddings, corporate events, mysterious photo shoots like Dylan and Claudette Young’s, whatever those were.

  And she was already exhausted, already worn thin. Already battling bitchy foes. Already taking 100 percent of the stress on herself, with her exorbitant rent and her slim client roster and her dwindling bank account. Maybe, if she stuck with it long enough and sanely enough, Lily could eke ahead and become profitable. Barely. But even then she couldn’t hire staff. She’d bought herself a double-time job, because she hadn’t been smart enough to plan it all out. What had she been thinking?

  Lily’s hands were on her belly. She willed her shoulders to relax, working them. The motion made her hands shift, moving down. Threatening to scratch an itch she hadn’t fully realized was there. Oh, she’d felt it during dinner, when Len spoke softly with his fine accent, intermittently touching her hand, his deep eyes finding hers. But she’d shoved it aside, feeling the need to bolt control with both of her hands. She had a situation to face, and needed a solution. She didn’t need flights of fancy. She was stronger than that. And she was a businesswoman, not a horny, helpless damsel.

  Antonia’s voice in her head: I’ve seen the way the men look at you.

  Did they? Lily allowed herself, in the privacy of her own bath, to consider it. She could go back to being strong and plotting her strategy in a minute. She might as well take the detour her mind seemed determined for her to take; she wasn’t going to get any sleep feeling this way.

  Just a few minutes.

  Lily’s hands crept downward. Her legs gently parted, her knees stirring small whirlpools in the rising water. She moved her hands to the insides of her thighs, now closing her eyes and imaging them to be Len’s. It felt a little wrong; what they’d just had wasn’t a date, and she couldn’t afford the time to become involved with him or anybody.

  Anybody.

  Right, anybody. She had no allegiance to Len, even inside her mind. They could be Matt Vitale’s hands on the insides of her thighs. They could even be his hands turned the other way, fingers pointing up toward her rather than down, as her own fingers were. Because he was between her legs, those incredibly, incredibly blue eyes rolled up toward her, his breath as warm as the swirl of hot water, his lips brushing her farther up, his tongue …

  Lily turned off the water with her foot.

  One hand strayed to her breast. Her eyes closed. The other hand (Len’s hand, Matt’s hand, maybe even Cameron’s hand) tickled closer to her center. She felt the last week’s pressure now, low in her stomach, her nerves pushing all that pent-up stress into her pelvis where it idled like a bomb.

  The women of Cielo del Mar were amazingly beautiful. But apparently Lily had something they didn’t have. Apparently Lily was the rare white flower in a field of stunning red. Those men wanted her.

  They wanted to unwrap her like a present.

  I’ve been watching you, said Matt’s voice. And I’ve been wanting you.

  She pushed him away, playfully, but his fingers were against her now, moving, sliding inside.

  What would he look like, once naked? Lily realized she’d considered it. She didn’t think she liked Matthew Vitale very much, but right now it didn’t exactly matter. He looked strong and broad in his kitchen whites, in the off-duty shirts that stretched taut across his chest. How would he look, once that shirt was off?

  One hand rubbed her nipple. The other hand’s single finger slid in, then out, now teasing. It moved up, beginning to lightly strum her clit. Her mouth opened slightly, venting a breath. She sighed, imagining his face down below, looking up, his tongue on her. She didn’t like him much, but she had to admit he gave good head.

  Lily felt the pressure swell and build. All that stress. All that worry. All those stirred emotions. All the things she’d denied because she had to hold onto her control in the face of so much she couldn’t control. All the feelings she’d pressed down because she could do that, she could stay at the surface and be the flower girl, the good girl, the brave girl. She hadn’t had time for the vulnerable girl, the needy girl, the girl dirty enough to touch herself while thinking about a self-centered asshole just because he was beautiful. She was better than that, wasn’t she? And yet Lily pressed into her moving fingers, and as her hips rose she simply couldn’t care.

  You care too much what other people think about you.

  Everything tensed. All that concern. All those petty struggles. All that war inside. It all came down to this moment, ready for relief by a few more light movements from a pair of fingers.

  Lily came with an audible sigh, not sure whether she’d left her windows open, not sure if anyone outside would be able to hear her if they were up late and listening closely. It was nobody’s business but hers. Lily could do what she wanted; she could think whatever she wanted, she could be with anyone she wanted within the privacy of her mind if the need arose.

  Her worries vanished. All the things she’d pent up inside. All those concerns about being good versus bad. Right versus wrong. Those decisions were hers alone.

  She washed briefly, dried off, then, realizing how warm she still was, decided to slip between the covers nude.

  You care too much what other people think about you, said Allison in her head.

  Not anymore.

  Lily wasn’t going to sit back and accept what happened. She was going to take control, for a change.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  REPEATED VIOLATIONS

  Lily entered La Fleur’s back door the following morning to discover that her flower cart, which she’d wheeled just inside the door for nighttime storage, was gone. There was a slip of paper on the front counter, but it wasn’t a note from the burglar. It was a very formal pink flimsy torn from a triplicate form bearing
the address of the Palms Couture leasing office. Above the address was the simple phrase TENANT GRIEVANCE APPLICATION. Below were lines containing Lily’s information and a description of her infraction, blandly denoted by a checkmark: Repeated lease terms violations.

  Lily scanned the form, finding the scrawled note in the comments section toward the bottom. She found some small measure of comfort from seeing it hadn’t been written in Evelyn Pierce’s handwriting, but less comfort from what it said: Lessor property confiscated pending review.

  Lessor property?

  Lily’s heart beat hard in her chest. Just thirty seconds earlier, she’d been floating on an optimistic cloud, her spirits higher than they had been since moving to California. She wasn’t sure what exactly she’d do to address her chronic problems (probably turn the other cheek; it wasn’t what Len had suggested, but he hadn’t reckoned on just how cheerfully she could turn a cheek), but Lily wasn’t tired despite her lack of sleep and the early run to Market. She’d come in finally neutral: just an ordinary, plucky entrepreneur opening her average, everyday shop. And now this.

  How the hell was it lessor property? Maybe — technically — the cart was, but wasn’t she paying on her lease, and didn’t that make the cart hers for the time being? But what about the flowers? She’d paid for them; they were hers; she needed them to—

  She stepped out from behind the counter, and froze in her tracks. Whoever had taken the cart (unlocking the gate and door while she was away to steal it, like cowards) hadn’t taken the flowers after all. They were right there on the floor, where the cart used to be. They didn’t appear broken, and the pile was only slightly untidy and shoved off, but none of the stems were in water. They were all lying there, and surely had been all night. The leasing office didn’t open until 10, so she doubted that this cart eviction had occurred just an hour or so ago. It had been ten hours or more, and now the best she could do with her reclaimed property — reclaimed from what someone seemed to think was their property — would be to let them dry out the rest of the way and make potpourri.

  Lily’s skin boiled, her hair almost wanting to stand on end. She felt offended for the flowers, offended on behalf of her earlier cheery mood, guilty about the time she’d spent with Len or her own diddling fingers while this had been happening. They’d come into her shop and discarded her property. Yes, the Palms owned the building and the space, and yes, it was technically within their rights to enter using their keys pretty much whenever they wanted. But the same was true of her arrangement at Dusty’s, and yet the idea of Dusty entering her rented apartment was so inconceivable as to be absurd.

  She stared across the courtyard. Kerry Barrett Kirby was sitting in one of the chairs in her own outdoors display, drinking something with an umbrella in it. Lily must’ve caught her eye as she slid close to the window, because Kerry turned her face toward La Fleur and raised a hand, waving. The hand came down, and she wagged a finger side to side, her plastic lips forming a sarcastic pout.

  Lily looked at her flower-scattered floor, then back up at Kerry. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry. They would be tears of rage rather than desperation, but still she clenched them inside. Kerry would never see her if she cried, but somehow doing it, in any form, was giving in.

  I won’t cry.

  Despite the shouting she now heard from Len, Allison, and Antonia’s mental voices, Lily couldn’t cross the courtyard and confront Kerry yet, either. It was one thing to feel strength when alone, but another thing entirely to consider bursting through the door and stalking past the fountain like a mad bull. She could almost see herself doing it, but once she arrived Lily couldn’t imagine what she’d say. Kerry had wanted her to be angry; that much was obvious. She’d perched on that stupid chair that probably cost two thousand dollars with a stupid little umbrella drink as if setting up a scene. She’d be prepared; if Lily walked over, Kerry would already have planned out exactly what to say.

  Feeling like she was betraying herself and everyone who’d supported her, Lily scooped up the flowers, walked out the back door, and tossed them into the trash can behind the plaza. The careless actions of the leasing agent — with, she suddenly felt sure, Kerry in tow, so that she could watch — had probably cost her at least five hundred dollars, but there was no point in trying to save what was lost. Best to sweep the floor and move on.

  Lily opened the door with too much force, trying to calm herself. Everything felt like a chess match right now, with Lily losing. She’d considered waiting until Kerry went inside to open the door so that the awful woman wouldn’t see her again (and, probably, wave with a smile full of bright white Chicklet teeth), but opening La Fleur even a minute late would likely be taken by Kerry as a sign of weakness. So she did open the door, and Kerry did definitely see her, though Lily assiduously looked away to save some dignity. But even that felt like surrendering her rook, because she was sure Kerry could see how her shoulders had rounded, how her head was down. She’d see Lily’s anger, her newfound and rather unexpected posture of defeat. But it was the least of evils. The best she could do.

  Lily shoved the triplicate flimsy into a cubby under the counter then stood like a sentinel, stewing. Kerry still hadn’t moved, and Lily wouldn’t look over to see if she was leaning forward, elbows on knees as if watching a sporting event. She probably was. That self-righteous …

  That self-righteous cunt.

  That was what Antonia had called her. Allison too. It was as if Kerry had an unofficial nickname, though it wasn’t a word Lily would normally have used even in her own thoughts. Kerry probably knew all about it and didn’t care. It was better to be feared than loved, she imagined Kerry thinking. As long as Kerry held the wheel.

  Lily should go to Antonia. She would know what to do. More: Antonia would flat-out do it, or help Lily do it. But she couldn’t — not with Kerry watching on the edge of her seat like a fan in the fourth quarter. Kerry would know exactly where she was going and why. It wouldn’t matter if Lily somehow turned her visit to Antonia into a victory, because she’d have achieved it by running to tattle. Even that would be a win for Kerry in the grand scheme of things. And besides, she’d just opened her shop. What if customers came while she was away? What if Kerry came while she was gone?

  Oh yes. She was now quite positive that Kerry had come in with the leasing agent last night — that she had, in all probability, dragged the leasing agent here by force. This is my shop, Lily imagined Kerry saying. Open it the fuck up, and give me what’s mine.

  She stepped away from the window, trusting the glare to hide her from the outside, and stared at Kerry’s reclining form, as if on vacation, sunning with a drink in her hand.

  A sense of boiling indignation churned in Lily’s gut, now changing forms. Kerry wasn’t just a bully; she was a passive bully. She let others do her bullying while she sat back like the queen of Sheeba and watched. The first complaint about the cart had obviously come from Kerry, and what Lily had said to Evelyn held true: If Kerry had come in to face Lily, Lily would have had a chance to hold her own. But no; she’d done it from afar, using Evelyn (who Lily otherwise liked) as a puppet. And now she’d taken the cart in the middle of the night like a thief. There was nothing worse than a liar or a cheat, and Kerry was both. She could have come to discuss — or, hell, even confiscate — the cart before La Fleur closed. Or this morning after it opened. Lily would have at least had the dignity of facing her attacker, and a (admittedly secondary) chance to salvage her stock. But no. Kerry had to come while she was away, to deepen the cut and make it clear exactly what she could get the powers that be to do in her name.

  Kerry rose from the chair, and looked for a moment like she might cross the courtyard and enter La Fleur after all. If she did, Lily suspected Kerry had a 50/50 chance of being punched in the face. Not slapped — punched. Lily didn’t need a fistful of keys to defend herself. Growing up rural taught a girl a few things that growing up rich didn’t, and inflicting pain, when necessary, was one of them. The
ability to accept pain, also when necessary, was another.

  But Kerry didn’t cross the fountain, and Lily found herself recalling Antonia’s words: All bullies are cowards. Instead, she took a long sip to finish her drink, then waved again at La Fleur’s front window. There was no way she saw Lily in the shadows, but she’d know the farm girl would be looking. Because just as bullies were predictable, so were victims.

  “Bitch,” Lily said aloud.

  The next half hour was painful. Customers entered La Fleur, but Lily’s brusque replies to their questions — so very unParisian — turned several away. Dean Moreno came in to buy flowers for a woman named Terri Terri (yes, two Terris) and, seeing Lily’s mood, began asking if she was on her period. When Lily didn’t laugh or crack a smile, Dean failed to take a hint and began joking rather than backing off. She gritted her teeth until he’d left, pricey bouquet in hand.

  Lily was still holding onto lingering tendrils of anger — diminished for certain but definitely present — when Allison entered, sensed Lily’s mood, and asked, “Who psychically farted in here?”

  It was too much. Too bizarre. Dean’s stupid jokes had made her want to kick him in the jimmies, but Allison’s dumb barb had the unraveling force of an orgasm. Lily felt the last of her anger vanish, and vented with a hard laugh.

  “Allison,” she said. “My sister.”

  “Well. Someone got friendly all of a sudden.”

  “I haven’t been friendly?”

  Alison made herself comfortable on Lily’s stool behind the counter. They’d met four or five times at most (counting seemed about as difficult lately as keeping days straight), but each time Allison had slid a bit further into Lily’s world without asking. It was like they’d been matched up as roommates, but nobody had bothered to tell Lily while her assigned chum had been moving in and making a home.

  “Yeah, you’re a real champ. But now I’m your sister? Slow this train, baby. I’m not ready for a serious commitment yet.” She began pulling Hershey’s Kisses from a bowl inside one of the drawers behind the counter, unwrapping and eating them. They must have been from the prior tenant, because Lily hadn’t even known they were there.