by Sarah Morgan
Julia admired the roses. “I’m getting better, don’t you think?”
Flora added a couple more stems of foliage and trimmed one of the stems a little shorter. “You have an eye for it.” In fact Julia didn’t have much of an eye for it, but there was no way Flora would hurt her feelings by telling her that and she knew how badly her friend needed the job.
“I’ll never be as good as you, but I’m still learning and you’ve been doing this since you could walk.” Julia eyed the guy outside. “Do you think he hit her and he’s here to buy ‘sorry I bruised you’ flowers?”
“I hope not.”
“You should come over the next Sunday you’re free. Have lunch. My way of saying thank you.”
“I’d like that.” Flora loved having lunch at Julia’s even though the banter between her friend and her husband gave her the odd pang. No one knew her well enough to tease her.
“I’d invite you to stay over and have a night away from that apartment of yours, but you know we’re in very tight quarters. And trust me you do not want to share a bed with Kaitlin. Is your landlord still raising your rent?”
“Yes.” Flora felt a twinge of anxiety. She’d made a halfhearted attempt to look for somewhere else, but there was a depressing gap between what she’d like and what she could afford.
“And has he sorted out your cockroach?”
“Not yet. And I have more than one cockroach.”
Julia shuddered. “How can you be so relaxed?”
“I’m just pleased they have friends.”
“See that’s the difference between us. I think extermination, and you think cockroach dating service. Roach.com. Have you talked to him about it?”
“I sent him a strongly worded email.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing. He hasn’t replied.”
“And how long ago did you send it?”
“A month?”
“A month? Knowing you it said ‘Darling landlord, if it’s at all possible for you to sort out my damp apartment and the cockroach I’d be hugely grateful but don’t worry if it’s an inconvenience.’”
“I was firmer than that.” But not much firmer, and her words hadn’t had an impact.
“What about the damp? Has he found the cause?”
“He hasn’t looked. I’m worried because that suspicious damp stain on my ceiling is spreading.”
“Maybe your neighbor has died and his rotting corpse is slowly decomposing and leaking through into your apartment.”
“If he’s decomposing, he’s making a lot of noise about it. He was singing opera last night.” She glanced up and saw the man still standing there. He had to be freezing cold. Should she open the door? Offer him shelter? A hot drink? “Maybe it’s his mother’s birthday and he hasn’t had time to buy her a gift.” She saw it all the time, people who rushed in and grabbed one of their ready-made bouquets without expending thought or time on the selection process.
Flora didn’t judge. Instead she took pride in the fact that her hand-tied bouquets were a talking point in this little corner of Manhattan’s Flower District. Like her mother before her, she loved creating a bouquet to a specific brief, but was equally happy creating something that took the pain out of decision-making. Some people were nervous when buying flowers, dazed by choice, afraid of making a mistake.
Flowers, in Flora’s opinion, were never a mistake. Her mother had always insisted on fresh flowers. It wasn’t enough to be surrounded by them in the store where she worked, she’d insisted on filling her home with them. There would be a large arrangement in the entryway, welcoming guests with scent, another bunch in the living room and small posies in each of the bedrooms. Violet Donovan had considered flowers to be art, but essential art. If economy became necessary, then it would be made in other areas, like clothing or dining out. When reflecting on early childhood, most people remembered events. Flora’s earliest memories were all of fragrance and color.
That had lasted until she was eight years old and she’d gone to live with her aunt who didn’t share her sister’s obsession with flowers.
Why waste money on something that dies?
Flora, raw in her grief, had pointed out that everything dies and surely the important thing was to make the most of it while it was alive? Up until that point she’d skipped through life, but she’d soon learned to tiptoe, picking her way carefully through every situation. She’d learned quickly what made her aunt angry, and what simply made her scowl.
At that moment the man lifted his gaze from the flowers and stared straight at Flora. He couldn’t have known they’d been talking about him, but still she felt her face bloom peony pink with guilt.
Her smile was part welcome, part apology. It didn’t occur to her to pretend she hadn’t seen him.
“Whoa,” Julia muttered. “Do you see the way he’s looking at you? Geoff looked at me that way and a month later I was pregnant. You’re either going to be the love of his life, or his next victim depending on whether you’re the romance or thriller type. Maybe he’s going to use rose petals to bury your body. Or the body of his wife.”
“Stop it!”
“Maybe he’s staring at your dress. I wish I could get away with wearing that. You manage to look edgy and arty. I’d look a mess. I mean—red dress and purple tights. No one but you would think to put those colors together. Kaitlin would refuse to be seen with me, whereas she thinks you’re the coolest person on the planet. And where did you find those earrings?”
“In the market.”
“Whatever. You’re rocking that look. Although I wouldn’t want to look at you if I had a hangover.”
“I like clothes to be—”
“—happy. I know. You’re all about spreading a smile. Everyone else I know is moan, moan, moan, me included, but you’re like an oasis of sunshine in an otherwise dark and stormy life.”
“Your life will be stormier if you don’t finish that bouquet fast.”
Julia snipped the rest of the stems and then glanced up again. “Still there. The man is going to get frostbite soon. Look at his eyes. Full of secrets.”
Flora didn’t answer. She had secrets, too. Secrets she’d never shared. That wasn’t the saddest part. The saddest part was that no one had ever been remotely interested in digging deep enough to find them. No one had wanted to know her that well.
“Maybe he simply doesn’t know which flowers to choose.”
“Well if anyone is going to find out the truth about him, it’s you.” Julia added foliage, and tied the stems so that that recipient would have to do nothing but put them in a vase. “People tell you everything, probably because you’re too polite to tell them to shut up.” She blew her hair out of her eyes. “You care.”
Flora did care. Like flowers, people came in all colors, shapes and sizes and she appreciated them all. Her mother had been the same. People would walk into the store for flowers, and stay for coffee and a chat. As a child, Flora had sat quietly among the blooms, bathed in the warmth and the scent and the soothing hum of adult conversation.
Finally, the door opened and he stepped into the shop, bringing with him a flurry of cold air and a sense of anticipation. Heads turned. There was a lull in the conversation as people studied him, and then returned to whatever they’d been doing before he’d made his entrance.
“Okay I have to admit he’s hot. I bet whatever it is he does, he’s the best,” Julia said. “I can almost understand why someone would have an affair with him. He’s all yours, but if he asks you out, don’t invite him back to your place. Unless he works for pest control.” She disappeared into the back of the shop where they stored more flowers.
Flora felt a rush of exasperation.
He wasn’t hers, and he wasn’t going to ask her out. He was ordering flowers, that was all.
“How may I help you?” She pushed her conversation with Julia to the back of her mind. If he was having an affair, it wasn’t her business. Human beings were flawed, she knew t
hat. Life was messy. Flowers brightened life’s mess.
“I need to buy a gift. For a young woman.” His eyes were ice blue and a startling contrast to the jet-black of his hair. “A special woman.”
Maybe Julia was right. Maybe it was an affair.
You saw the whole spectrum of life working in a flower shop, from celebration to commiseration. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but still she was disappointed.
“Is there an occasion? Anniversary? Apology?”
His brows knitted together. “Apology?”
Had she said that aloud? Silently she cursed Julia for infecting her with cynicism. “If you tell me the occasion, I can recommend the perfect flower to convey your message.”
“I doubt that.”
“Try me. I love a challenge. What is it you want the flowers to say?”
He studied her. “I want them to say sorry for all the times I’ve screwed up over the last few months. All the times I’ve said the wrong thing, or done the wrong thing; stepped into her room when she wanted privacy, or left her alone when she wanted company. I want them to say that I love her, and I will always love her, even though maybe I don’t show it in the right way. I want them to say that I’m sorry she lost her mother, and that I wish I could bring her back, or make the pain go away. I especially wish her mother were here now, because she would have known what to buy our daughter for her seventeenth birthday and I don’t.” He paused, conscious that he’d perhaps said too much. There was a faint flush of color across his cheekbones. “And if you can find a way to say that in flowers, then you’re smarter than I am.”
Flora felt pressure in her chest and a thickening in her throat. His pain had spilled over and covered her, too. The silence from the back of the store told her that Julia was listening.
Dead wife.
“It’s your daughter’s seventeenth birthday.” And he was marking the day without the love of his life. His daughter’s mother. His partner. Flora wanted to gather him up and hug him. And she wanted to gather up his daughter, too. She knew loss, and understood the great tearing hole it left in a life. You were left to try to stick together pieces that no longer fit. Your life became a patchwork, with a few holes.
“Becca—my wife—would have known exactly what to buy her. She always chose the perfect gift no matter what the occasion. She probably would have thrown a party of some sort, with all the right people—but I’m not my wife and sadly she didn’t leave notes. Her death was sudden. I’m winging this.”
Flora breathed slowly. He didn’t need her crying for him. He needed her to solve his problem. And gifts were always difficult. She tried hard to buy the right gift for people, but she knew she wasn’t perfect. Becca, apparently, had been perfect. She imagined a cool blonde who carried a notebook and scribbled ideas for gifts the moment someone mentioned something in passing.
Buy Tasha a silk scarf in a peach shade for Christmas.
On Christmas Day Tasha would open her gift and gasp, unable to believe that someone had chosen so well.
No one would ever return a gift bought by Becca.
No one would ever look at it and think I already have three of those.
No wonder he missed his wife. And he did miss his wife, she could see that.
He had a powerful physical presence, and yet he seemed a little lost and dazed. Flora hadn’t known it was possible for someone to look so strong, and solid and yet totally vulnerable.
“Flowers are a perfect idea.” She felt a sudden urge to lighten his load. People-pleasing wasn’t always about being cowardly. Sometimes it was just about wanting to help someone. “Great choice.”
He glanced at the bouquet Julia had just finished. “Roses?”
“There are better choices for a seventeenth birthday. Tell me a little about her. What does she like?”
“At the moment? I’m not even sure. She doesn’t open up to me.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and then waved his hand apologetically. “You probably think I’m a terrible father.”
“You’re here, trying to find the perfect gift for your daughter, that makes you a thoughtful father. Grief is always difficult.”
“You speak from experience?”
She did. She was sure she knew everything he was feeling, and everything his daughter was feeling although Flora had been younger, of course. Was there a good age to lose a loved one? Flora didn’t think so. Even now, so many years later, she would catch the scent of a flower and miss her mother. “What does your daughter like to do in her spare time?”
“When she’s not at school, she helps take care of her sister. Molly is seven. When I get home and once Molly is in bed, she mostly shuts herself in her room and stares at her phone. Do you have flowers that say ‘maybe you should spend less time on social media’? It’s a thorny subject, so maybe those roses would be more appropriate than you think. Or perhaps a cactus.”
So there was a sense of humor there. Buried, possibly mostly forgotten, but definitely there.
“We can do better than a cactus.” Flora stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward the buckets that held an array of blooms. She’d been at the Flower District on West Twenty-Eighth Street before the sun was up, powered by caffeine as she foraged for nuggets of perfection and dodged trucks that were unloading crates. Only flowers could tempt her to leave her bed at that hour of the morning. So many growers focused on shelf life at the expense of color and scent, but Celia relied on her to choose quality and Flora would never contemplate anything less. Her mother had taught her the importance of seasons and now, at the tail end of winter she’d selected alstroemeria and amaryllis, carnation and chrysanthemum. She’d scooped up great bundles of foliage, tallow berries and seeded eucalyptus and stashed them on the metal shelves provided for that purpose. She could never walk past narcissus without adding them to her growing pile. Everywhere she went, she touched and smelled, burying her face deep into flowers and inhaling scent and freshness. She treated flowers as someone else might treat wine, as something to be sampled and savored and for Flora the early morning trip was a sociable event, not only because she knew so many people, but also because so many people had known her mother. It was familiar, a connection to the past that she treasured.
Finally, when she’d finished, she helped Carlos load up the van they used for deliveries and together they transported their precious cargo to the store. Once there her selection was sorted, trimmed of leaves and thorns, and the stems cut. Then her day shifted to customers and she handled walk-ins, internet orders and regulars. Her legs ached but she was so used to it that these days she barely noticed.
Her gaze drifted past the hydrangeas and lilacs, and lingered on the alstroemeria before moving on.
She thought back to her own teenage years, and then stooped and hand-selected a bunch of gerberas in sunshine yellow and deep orange. “These should be the main focus.”
He inclined his head. “Pretty.”
“The Celts believed that gerberas relieved sorrow.”
“Let’s hope they were right.”
She could feel him watching her as she selected tulips and roses and then assembled the bouquet. She took her time, trimming the stems and adding foliage. She stripped leaves, removed thorns from the roses, angled the stems and checked the balance and position of the flowers, aware the whole time that he was watching her.
“You’re good at that.”
She identified the binding point and tied the bouquet. “It’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at yours.”
“I am. And I enjoy it. I should probably feel guilty about that.”
“Why?” She wrapped the flowers carefully, added water to the pouch and tied them. “It’s not wrong to enjoy what you spend your day doing. I’d say it’s obligatory.” She wondered what he did.
Despite the fact that he was floundering with his daughter, there was a quiet confidence about him that suggested he didn’t doubt himself in other areas of life. Underneath the black coat his clothing was ca
sual, so probably not a lawyer or a banker.
Advertising? Possibly, but she didn’t think so. Something in tech, maybe?
No doubt Julia would be full of ideas and wouldn’t hold back from expressing them.
Serial killer.
Bank robber.
“I feel guilty because sometimes when I’m at work, I forget.”
“That’s something to feel grateful for, not guilty. Work can often be a distraction, and that’s good. Not every pain can be fixed. Sometimes it’s about finding a way to make each moment better. These flowers should stay fresh for more than a week. Add flower food. Change the water every day. Strip off any leaves that are under the water. It will help to keep the flowers looking good.” She handed them over. “Oh, and remove the guard petals from the roses.”
“Guard petals?”
“This,” she pointed with her finger to the curled, wrinkled edge of a petal. “They look damaged, but they’re there to protect the rose. Once you get them home, peel them away and the flower will be perfect. I hope she loves them.”
“Me, too.” He produced his credit card. “Given that you may be saving my life, I should probably know your name.”
“Flora.” She ran the card through the machine. “Flora Donovan.” She glanced at the name as she handed it back.
Jack Parker. It suited him.
“Flora. Appropriate name. You have a gift for what you do and I’m the grateful recipient.”
Flora wondered if Becca had been good at arranging flowers.
“Are you having a party for your daughter?”
“She said she didn’t want one. That it wouldn’t be the same without her mother there. I took her at her word.” He slid the card back into his pocket. “Was that a mistake?”
It must be so hard for him trying to get under the skin of a teenage girl.
“Maybe a party wouldn’t be right. You could do something different. Something she wouldn’t have done with her mother.”