“Fantastic.” The lady picks up the pot and brings it across to the counter for me. “Will that be all?”
“Actually…”
I drift back to the refrigerator, to theGet Well Soonbouquet. Not that. But maybe something like that.
Something to show him I’m thinking about him.
“No,” I finish. “I’m getting two, actually.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Perfect. Same recipient, or--"
“No.” My face gets very hot. “It’s, um.” I swallow again,againagain. "I need..."
"Something less feminine, maybe?" she supplies. “But equally thoughtful?”
Is this lady clocking me? My stomach clenches, and I glance around the shop—a few other browsers looking at gifts and cards in the main store area. No one looking over here.
“They’re for me,” I say quickly. “Just to…have around.”
She nods smartly. “Well, I think that’s lovely. You know what they say: the first time most men get flowers, it’s at their funeral.”
They say that? God, that’s bleak. “Oh.”
“Did you have anything particular in mind?”
I really don’t. “Just something nice.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Here.” Sliding the door back open, she leans in over the canisters, pushing things around until she emerges again with some long, spindly branches of something, some dotted with little white flowers and some with red berries.
"Hawthorn,” she explains. “Usually won’t bloom until spring, but I had a winter wedding who wanted the blossoms, so I forced them under grow lights. Then they decided to elope." She shrugs. “Her loss. Very striking, the red and the white.” She eyes me. “Protects the heart, too, or so they say.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She thinks I’m buying these flowers for myself. Maybe she’s trying to look out for me, like in case Gwenna doesn’t like what I got her and dumps me, I’ll take it less hard if I have whatever this is protecting me. Hawthorn.
We head to the counter and she rings me up, and I’m just thumbing the bills out of my wallet when I hear my own name behind me.
“Callahan O’Brian?”
I turn, frowning, to see one of the other customers who’d been poking around.
“I thought that was you.” The man smiles, his creased cheeks pushing up his glasses. “Father Mendez. From St. Ann’s.”
“No, of course.” I duck my head, take his hand and shake it when he offers. “It’s good to see you.” Damn. I haven’t seen Father Mendez since graduation, maybe? I can’t even remember. Ever since I moved into Camlann House, joined the team, I don’t really go back much.
I haven’t been back at all, actually.
“Eighty-five dollars and thirty-six cents,” comes the shopkeeper’s voice, pulling me back in the other direction.
Is that how much flowers cost?I think. Not that I wouldn’t spend it. Of course I would.
“Right. Thank you.” I quickly count out five twenties and hand them to her, then turn back to Father Mendez. “What brings you out here?” I ask, trying to be polite.
“Spring retreat for the parish,” he replies. “We were awarded a grant,” he adds, like he’s proud of himself, “specifically to come out here from the city and do some development work, design some new social outreach programs.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “Um, you’re enjoying it out here?”
“Well.” Father Mendez heaves a sigh. “We were meant to get some hiking and fishing in, but…” He points a mittened thumb at the gray sky and frozen Main Street just outside the shop window. “God had other plans.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I don’t really like the idea of God having plans, if I’m being honest. If God has everything planned out, then what does it mean when bad things happen anyway? Bad weather. Or bad anything.
