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“I’m trying to find a way to cheer my client up and he strikes me as an outdoors kind of guy.”
“So you think flowers will help?” she asked.
“His father and him planted and cultivated an entire backyard garden as his parent’s home when his father was still alive. They had daffodils lining the outside and the area around a hot tub they installed and carnations are what lines the walkways that weave throughout the structure they landscaped.”
“Wow. Okay. Sure. How many arrangements and how often?”
“Two arrangements every other day,” I said.
“You know daffodils and carnations will last longer than that.”
“I do. I want to slowly fill some spaces he enjoys sitting at more than most with the flowers, then change them out as you deliver them once they begin to wilt.”
“Creative, to say the least. How do you want to pay?”
“I’ve got my card you can charge. Heaven knows they’re paying me enough for this job. Might as well put that money to work for me,” I said.
“Perfect. When do you want the first delivery to be?”
“Can you make it tomorrow? Or is that too soon?”
“If it means I get to see you again tomorrow, then it’s not too soon at all.”
“Thank you so much, Emilia. Really.”
“Don’t have to thank me. Thank that cranky patient of yours. He’s bringing me in all sorts of business,” she said with a grin.
Then I paid for the arrangements, put the recurring order on file, and left.
I wasn’t sure if my plan was going to work, but it was worth a shot. If he didn’t enjoy it or the flowers kicked up some sort of reaction, then I’d simply toss them out, clean the place down, and stop the orders. But I was desperate to bring some light into his world so he would cheer up and help himself when it came to his recuperation.
Because with the mental state he was in, his hip surgery was going to be
torture on all of us.
Especially him.
Chapter Nine
Grace
I grew tired of watching him mope. Of watching him slowly debase himself into this sad sack of skin. The flowers were being delivered like I had scheduled, but he still wasn’t saying anything. The distance had gotten rough. He was locking his door so I couldn’t get in to help him and the only interaction we had was the drawing of his blood and physical therapy. He was cold. He was angry. And he was closed off.
“He still not coming out?” Emilia asked.
“I don’t know what to do anymore,” I said. “I’m hardly his nurse. I interact with him twice a day for maybe an hour, and then the rest of the time I can’t get to him.”
“Where do you want these flowers?” she asked.
“There’s a bouquet wilting in the kitchen. We can replace that one,” I said.
“So if he isn’t coming out to see the flowers, why are you still having them delivered?”
“Complaining about business? That’s not like you,” I said with a grin.
“I’m just saying. What’s your end goal here?”
“To get him on a proper mental health track.”
