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“Maybe he simply doesn’t know which flowers to choose.”
“Well if anyone is going to find out the truth about him, it’s you.” Julia added foliage, and tied the stems so that that recipient would have to do nothing but put them in a vase. “People tell you everything, probably because you’re too polite to tell them to shut up.” She blew her hair out of her eyes. “You care.”
Flora did care. Like flowers, people came in all colors, shapes and sizes and she appreciated them all. Her mother had been the same. People would walk into the store for flowers, and stay for coffee and a chat. As a child, Flora had sat quietly among the blooms, bathed in the warmth and the scent and the soothing hum of adult conversation.
Finally, the door opened and he stepped into the shop, bringing with him a flurry of cold air and a sense of anticipation. Heads turned. There was a lull in the conversation as people studied him, and then returned to whatever they’d been doing before he’d made his entrance.
“Okay I have to admit he’s hot. I bet whatever it is he does, he’s the best,” Julia said. “I can almost understand why someone would have an affair with him. He’s all yours, but if he asks you out, don’t invite him back to your place. Unless he works for pest control.” She disappeared into the back of the shop where they stored more flowers.
Flora felt a rush of exasperation.
He wasn’t hers, and he wasn’t going to ask her out. He was ordering flowers, that was all.
“How may I help you?” She pushed her conversation with Julia to the back of her mind. If he was having an affair, it wasn’t her business. Human beings were flawed, she knew t
hat. Life was messy. Flowers brightened life’s mess.
“I need to buy a gift. For a young woman.” His eyes were ice blue and a startling contrast to the jet-black of his hair. “A special woman.”
Maybe Julia was right. Maybe it was an affair.
You saw the whole spectrum of life working in a flower shop, from celebration to commiseration. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but still she was disappointed.
“Is there an occasion? Anniversary? Apology?”
His brows knitted together. “Apology?”
Had she said that aloud? Silently she cursed Julia for infecting her with cynicism. “If you tell me the occasion, I can recommend the perfect flower to convey your message.”
“I doubt that.”
“Try me. I love a challenge. What is it you want the flowers to say?”
He studied her. “I want them to say sorry for all the times I’ve screwed up over the last few months. All the times I’ve said the wrong thing, or done the wrong thing; stepped into her room when she wanted privacy, or left her alone when she wanted company. I want them to say that I love her, and I will always love her, even though maybe I don’t show it in the right way. I want them to say that I’m sorry she lost her mother, and that I wish I could bring her back, or make the pain go away. I especially wish her mother were here now, because she would have known what to buy our daughter for her seventeenth birthday and I don’t.” He paused, conscious that he’d perhaps said too much. There was a faint flush of color across his cheekbones. “And if you can find a way to say that in flowers, then you’re smarter than I am.”
Flora felt pressure in her chest and a thickening in her throat. His pain had spilled over and covered her, too. The silence from the back of the store told her that Julia was listening.
Dead wife.
“It’s your daughter’s seventeenth birthday.” And he was marking the day without the love of his life. His daughter’s mother. His partner. Flora wanted to gather him up and hug him. And she wanted to gather up his daughter, too. She knew loss, and understood the great tearing hole it left in a life. You were left to try to stick together pieces that no longer fit. Your life became a patchwork, with a few holes.
“Becca—my wife—would have known exactly what to buy her. She always chose the perfect gift no matter what the occasion. She probably would have thrown a party of some sort, with all the right people—but I’m not my wife and sadly she didn’t leave notes. Her death was sudden. I’m winging this.”
Flora breathed slowly. He didn’t need her crying for him. He needed her to solve his problem. And gifts were always difficult. She tried hard to buy the right gift for people, but she knew she wasn’t perfect. Becca, apparently, had been perfect. She imagined a cool blonde who carried a notebook and scribbled ideas for gifts the moment someone mentioned something in passing.
Buy Tasha a silk scarf in a peach shade for Christmas.
On Christmas Day Tasha would open her gift and gasp, unable to believe that someone had chosen so well.
No one would ever return a gift bought by Becca.
No one would ever look at it and think I already have three of those.
No wonder he missed his wife. And he did miss his wife, she could see that.
He had a powerful physical presence, and yet he seemed a little lost and dazed. Flora hadn’t known it was possible for someone to look so strong, and solid and yet totally vulnerable.
“Flowers are a perfect idea.” She felt a sudden urge to lighten his load. People-pleasing wasn’t always about being cowardly. Sometimes it was just about wanting to help someone. “Great choice.”
