It takes you holding out your arms for him to get with the program and hand you the lilies, which you notice right away are missing a vase. You will have to track one down, and that is frustrating. Also frustrating is the way that the deliveryman refuses to leave, his mouth gaped slightly as he stares at you like a rare wild animal in a zoo.
Irritated, you reach into your back pocket and pull out your wallet. You withdraw the first bill that your fingers find, which turns out to be a twenty.
“I appreciate your time,” you say. “Have a good day.”
He takes the money uncertainly, like you’re transmitting a communication from an outpost on Mars. The kid is still standing there moronically when you shut the door in his face, making triple-sure that you’ve turned the lock.
You are still fuming at your own stupidity as you stomp into the kitchen. If you were a vase, or any other receptacle that might conceivably hold flowers, you imagine that you would be in a kitchen. Already, you have doubts about the likelihood of Kai owning such a thing. What on earth would he use it for? Youset the tiger lilies down on the island and squat down to start rummaging through his cabinets.
Not five minutes later, you areagaindisrupted by another knock on the door. Luckily, the grocery delivery is no-contact, and the shopper leaves the bags in front of the door. You make sure to wait several long minutes until you are positive that she has left, watching through the peephole the entire time. Now, you are paranoid. You scan the hall anxiously when you open the door, making sure to pile all the bags over your arms in one trip to get safely back inside as quickly as possible.
In the quest to pick the perishables from the grocery order and get them stowed in the fridge and freezer—you are pretty convinced that Mrs. Reinhart simply ordered six of everything in the meat and produce sections—you temporarily forget about the flowers. It takes about half an hour to put the groceries away, during which time the trio of nurses comes back downstairs and says goodbye, taking the wheelchair with them. You have just consolidated all the shopping bags inside one another and bundled them up for recycling when Mrs. Reinhart comes into the kitchen.
“You got all the food? Good job,” she comments approvingly. “You know how to cook, Sterling?”
“Little bit. Probably not as good as you, though.”
That makes her roll her eyes. “That’s okay, baby. I had a talk with the folks who brought Kaius home, and he has a neurology check-in in two days. If everything looks good at that point, I’m going to trust you to take the reins and head back to Georgia.” She frowns a bit. “I don’t like doing it.”
“I know you don’t.”
“I’m trusting that I’m leaving him in good hands. You have a lot of help, don’t you?”
“Help?”
She makes a wide, sweeping gesture. “Help. Your security, your staff, your personal assistants…”
“Oh, yeah.” You nod. “I do have a lot of help.”
“I’m trusting that, if you get overwhelmed, you’ll deploy some of that help,” she tells you. “Anyway, I’ll be here bright and early tomorrow to get in that kitchen and do some meal-prep for you boys. If I plan it right and stay on task, I can probably get a week’s worth of food put up.”
“You really don’t have to do that,” you demur. “I’m really good at ordering delivery.”
She barks out a laugh.
“I’m sure you are, Sterling, but nothing compares to home-cooking.” Her attention falls to the lilies on the island. “Where did these come from?”
“Ugh,” you groan. “I got distracted. Those were delivered while you were upstairs.”
“Pretty,” she comments. “You have something to put them in?”
“I didn’t get that far,” you admit.
Of course, Mrs. Reinhart manages to procure a glass pitcher in no more than 90 seconds of looking. You feel like an idiot. It’s not a vase, but it’s perfect for the flowers. Deferring to her vastly-superior common sense and intellect, you fetch her a pair of scissors and let her get about trimming the stems and tidily arranging the flowers in the vessel.
“That’s real nice,” she declares in satisfaction. “Where do you think… oh, look, baby. The card fell.”
You completely forgot about the card. It’s wrapped in a small paper envelope embossed with the florist’s name, and it tumbled to the floor off its dinky plastic stem while Mrs. Reinhart was manipulating the flowers. Careful not to rip the envelope, you open the card and pull it out.
To our good friend the Train: wishing you God’s healing and blessings as you recover. May His light lead you to greater understanding and fulfillment. You are in our hearts, now and always.
Love,
GoGo and Gabi Heller
P.S. My jaw is feeling much better.
The room feels like it’s spinning. Your head feels hot, and your vision goes spotty. Dimly, you hear Mrs. Reinhart’s voice.
