He pulled into a visitor parking space in front of the building and picked up the final arrangement.
As soon as he walked into the main entrance, a couple of elderly women who had been leaving what looked like a recreation room made a beeline for him.
“Ooh, flowers. Who are they for?” one of them asked, her eyes a vibrant blue behind thick glasses.
Was that info confidential? He couldn’t think of a good reason why it might be.
“Um, Birdie Lovell,” he said, looking at the careful note Holly had written for him.
Her companion, a tall, striking woman with warm dark eyes, beamed. “Oh good. Birdie has been so under the weather thisweek, poor thing,” she said. “Some gorgeous flowers will be just the ticket to brighten her day, especially since you have roses and gardenias there that will smell delicious. Birdie can’t see so well.”
He had no real answer to that so he only smiled politely.
“Can you tell me where to find Birdie?”
“Her apartment is down the hall. I’m sure she’s there, as she’s been staying mostly to herself so she doesn’t spread her crud. We can show you, can’t we, Florence?”
“Sure can, Arlene. Follow us.”
He had the apartment number clearly written on the extremely organized list Holly had given him but he had the feeling if he told these women he didn’t need their help, they wouldn’t listen to him anyway.
On the short walk down the hall, they asked his name, if he was new in town and his connection to the floral shop.
“Holly is a friend,” he explained, a little surprised to realize that somehow that had become true since he had arrived in town.
He liked Holly far more than he probably should.
“She was in a bind this afternoon,” he explained, “so I offered to help with some of her deliveries.”
“Oh, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” Florence said, giving him a frank, admiring look that made him squirm.
“I don’t know about that. I’m glad for the chance to help out.”
“That girl deserves a nice guy like you to help her out,” Arlene said.
“Especially one who looks like he should be a Navy SEAL,” Florence said.
“Not a SEAL, but I am in the navy. Lieutenant Commander Ryan Caldwell. I’m a helicopter pilot.”
Florence chuckled. “Even better. My husband, James, used to fly helicopters in the army. One of the few Black pilots back in the day. He flew in Vietnam.”
“Really? He was one of the six hundred MOL?” he asked, using the term the relatively small number of Black pilots who fought in Vietnam used to refer to themselves. He knew it stood for the six hundredmen on the line, men whose extraordinary bravery was even more significant given the prejudice they often faced from their own side.
“He was indeed,” she said, giving him an appraising look. “I’m surprised you know that term.”
“I’ve studied the history of pilots in all branches of the military. A few months back I read a great book about the six hundred.”
“Oh, you definitely need to chat with James then. He’ll talk your leg off.”
“I would enjoy that,” he said truthfully, making a mental note to come back and find Florence’s husband at some point during his stay here in town.
A moment later, they reached an apartment door that was decorated with a festive garland and wreath.
“Here you go,” Arlene said.
He rang the doorbell and he and his newly acquired posse waited until an elderly woman wearing a bright pink sweater with a pompom candy cane on it opened the door. At her side was a large yellow Labrador retriever.
“Hello?” she said, looking so clearly at them that it took him a moment to remember her friends had said she had low vision.
