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He glanced at the bouquet Julia had just finished. “Roses?”
“There are better choices for a seventeenth birthday. Tell me a little about her. What does she like?”
“At the moment? I’m not even sure. She doesn’t open up to me.” He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and then waved his hand apologetically. “You probably think I’m a terrible father.”
“You’re here, trying to find the perfect gift for your daughter, that makes you a thoughtful father. Grief is always difficult.”
“You speak from experience?”
She did. She was sure she knew everything he was feeling, and everything his daughter was feeling although Flora had been younger, of course. Was there a good age to lose a loved one? Flora didn’t think so. Even now, so many years later, she would catch the scent of a flower and miss her mother. “What does your daughter like to do in her spare time?”
“When she’s not at school, she helps take care of her sister. Molly is seven. When I get home and once Molly is in bed, she mostly shuts herself in her room and stares at her phone. Do you have flowers that say ‘maybe you should spend less time on social media’? It’s a thorny subject, so maybe those roses would be more appropriate than you think. Or perhaps a cactus.”
So there was a sense of humor there. Buried, possibly mostly forgotten, but definitely there.
“We can do better than a cactus.” Flora stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward the buckets that held an array of blooms. She’d been at the Flower District on West Twenty-Eighth Street before the sun was up, powered by caffeine as she foraged for nuggets of perfection and dodged trucks that were unloading crates. Only flowers could tempt her to leave her bed at that hour of the morning. So many growers focused on shelf life at the expense of color and scent, but Celia relied on her to choose quality and Flora would never contemplate anything less. Her mother had taught her the importance of seasons and now, at the tail end of winter she’d selected alstroemeria and amaryllis, carnation and chrysanthemum. She’d scooped up great bundles of foliage, tallow berries and seeded eucalyptus and stashed them on the metal shelves provided for that purpose. She could never walk past narcissus without adding them to her growing pile. Everywhere she went, she touched and smelled, burying her face deep into flowers and inhaling scent and freshness. She treated flowers as someone else might treat wine, as something to be sampled and savored and for Flora the early morning trip was a sociable event, not only because she knew so many people, but also because so many people had known her mother. It was familiar, a connection to the past that she treasured.
Finally, when she’d finished, she helped Carlos load up the van they used for deliveries and together they transported their precious cargo to the store. Once there her selection was sorted, trimmed of leaves and thorns, and the stems cut. Then her day shifted to customers and she handled walk-ins, internet orders and regulars. Her legs ached but she was so used to it that these days she barely noticed.
Her gaze drifted past the hydrangeas and lilacs, and lingered on the alstroemeria before moving on.
She thought back to her own teenage years, and then stooped and hand-selected a bunch of gerberas in sunshine yellow and deep orange. “These should be the main focus.”
He inclined his head. “Pretty.”
“The Celts believed that gerberas relieved sorrow.”
“Let’s hope they were right.”
She could feel him watching her as she selected tulips and roses and then assembled the bouquet. She took her time, trimming the stems and adding foliage. She stripped leaves, removed thorns from the roses, angled the stems and checked the balance and position of the flowers, aware the whole time that he was watching her.
“You’re good at that.”
She identified the binding point and tied the bouquet. “It’s my job. I’m sure you’re good at yours.”
“I am. And I enjoy it. I should probably feel guilty about that.”
“Why?” She wrapped the flowers carefully, added water to the pouch and tied them. “It’s not wrong to enjoy what you spend your day doing. I’d say it’s obligatory.” She wondered what he did.
Despite the fact that he was floundering with his daughter, there was a quiet confidence about him that suggested he didn’t doubt himself in other areas of life. Underneath the black coat his clothing was ca
sual, so probably not a lawyer or a banker.
Advertising? Possibly, but she didn’t think so. Something in tech, maybe?
No doubt Julia would be full of ideas and wouldn’t hold back from expressing them.
Serial killer.
Bank robber.
“I feel guilty because sometimes when I’m at work, I forget.”
“That’s something to feel grateful for, not guilty. Work can often be a distraction, and that’s good. Not every pain can be fixed. Sometimes it’s about finding a way to make each moment better. These flowers should stay fresh for more than a week. Add flower food. Change the water every day. Strip off any leaves that are under the water. It will help to keep the flowers looking good.” She handed them over. “Oh, and remove the guard petals from the roses.”
“Guard petals?”
“This,” she pointed with her finger to the curled, wrinkled edge of a petal. “They look damaged, but they’re there to protect the rose. Once you get them home, peel them away and the flower will be perfect. I hope she loves them.”
