Cal shifts again, and now he’s the one staring at the rose bouquet. Silent. Contemplating.
“Maybe good to tell him, then,” I prompt, stroking the edge of his shoulder.
A petal drops from one of the roses.
Sooner rather than later,I add silently.
ELEVEN
CALLAHAN
The glass doorsof the florist refrigerator reflect myself back at me.
I have no idea what I’m doing.
The roads cleared up a little, and I didn’t have any afternoon classes, so I took the Volvo down into Sarrasford. I knew there was a flower shop in town, but I’d never actuallybeenthere—never actually been to any flower shop, actually—and now that I’m here, I’m kind of overwhelmed. For one thing, it’s hot, like actually humid in here, the windows fogged up against the cold and everything, so as soon as I step inside in all my winter gear I’m sweating.
For another thing, there’s just…a ton of flowers. Ofplants,really, ones in three-foot pots with big heavy green leaves like a rainforest, smaller fuzzy mossy ones on the shelves leading to the part of the store with all the cards and gifts, a few skinny-stemmed things I recognize as orchids.
The display I’m looking at seemed simplest. Bouquets arranged by occasion. Puffy pink and white blossoms in a vasethat says IT’S A GIRL. A bunch of yellow, orange, and blue with a GET WELL SOON card tagged to the outside.
Easy. Except that whatever occasion I’m shopping for probably isn’t in here.
“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asks. She’s short, a lot shorter than me, with gray hair held back in a clip, her sleeves rolled up, and a canvas apron on. She could be my mom. Hell, she’s probably the same age as my mom.
As my mom was, I mean. Would be.
I look from her to the flower refrigerator. Sweating.
“Um…”
A knowing look comes over the shopkeeper’s face. “What’s her name?”
I swallow. Am I that obvious? “Gwenna,” I answer.
She smiles and gives a little nod, like she’s proud of herself for guessing correctly. “Uh-huh. And do you know what kind of flowers Gwenna prefers?”
“Um,” I say again. “I know she had some roses she liked. Red.”
I’m not trying to outdo Lanz or anything. Even if I am basically copying off of his paper. If I’d seen him recently I would have invited him to come along.
But he’s not…
“Ah, of course.” The shopkeeper nods again. “Classic. Very romantic.” Except then she pauses, and I feel like there’s abutcoming.
“But?” I offer.
“Well…” She wrinkles her nose. “Forgive me for saying it, but they’re bit cliché. Don’t get me wrong—no girldoesn’tlike getting red roses. And if I stopped selling them, I’d be out of business. But…” She looks me up and down. “You strike me as someone more unconventional.”
Unconventional? What’s that supposed to mean? If anything, I’ve only thought of myself as conventional. But I guess I can’t really claim that’s the case anymore, not truthfully. Self-conscious, I shove my hands in my coat pockets.“I guess so.”
“Here.” She beckons me away from the refrigerator a little, to where some flowers are sitting in pots wrapped with colorful foil, and points to one with burgundy-colored blossoms on thin stems. “Lenten rose. Not a cut bouquet, but it’ll last longer. Bit of a spin on your usual rose, and they grow well in winter, which…” She shrugs in the direction of the gloomy street. “Very nice, overall.”
I study the pot. Five deep red petals around a warm yellow center, like little stars.
I like it.
“Great.” I nod. “I’ll take it.”
