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But if I don’t have either of them, then what amIleft with?
Holly’s working overnight, compartmentalizing her feelings so Bhodi doesn’t see, collapsing inward, and maintaining that, for as much as I love her, I shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. Meanwhile, we’re trying to plan the rest of our lives together. I’m worried if we halt the momentum—any and all excitement about getting married—thenwe stop, and it’s over. So, all I can do is encourage her to focus on the wedding.
While Bhodi is gone, Holly and I run an errand to find out about flowers for the tables. Holly pulls up the map app on my cell and we arrive at a ramshackled old nursery on the outskirts of town where a grizzled old man named Mr. Johnston greets us.
He’s hunched, is as weathered from the sun as his faded Battleship North Carolina cap is grayed around the edges, and his demeanor is as affable as any agent on my lot.
Mr. Johnston has employees, though it’s a small operation. By the looks of the greenhouses without any translucent plastic roofing stretched over the framing, the offerings they’ve grown have condensed as the owner has aged. Customers bring their purchases to a woman in a wheelchair. She has a cannula in her nose and my gut reaction is that the dust the cars entering and leaving the lot are kicking up can’t be good for her health, let alone the pesticides. Then again, her makeshift desk is a stack of four flat white organic manure bags. She’s dressed as vibrant as any granny who retires down to Florida, complete with royal blue polyester pants and a printed fuchsia top. The white-haired woman waves in Holly’s direction about as fast as a snail runs, pleased to see her.
The wave Holly returns is enthusiastic, genuine. However, she’s knee-deep into her conversation with Mr. Johnston already.
“Not going to happen. Too cold in North Carolina in February, girlie.”
Mr. Johnston gives me the impression he would rock back on his heels if he were about four decades younger.
Holly came to him specifically for advice. Her hopes for simple low pots of decorative plumerias on each table at the reception are dashed.
“Hibiscus, like that perfume you wear, is sketchy too. Now orchids with good winter care, those are sure to bloom.” He offers some sympathy. “Season is right. Your florist could source them.”
“Could you?” Holly asks, wanting Mr. Johnston to have the business without a middleman’s interference.
“Any other year if it were a potted plant, sure. ‘Cept I can’t make promises this year, Miss Holly. My wife, Doris, isn’t as well as she used to be and I’m not sure we’ll be around come spring. I gave up the stall at the farmer’s market when the rental agreement came due. It’s too much for us anymore, lugging the inventory. Keeping up with the credit card chips and readers that need the internet.”
“You can’t retire.” Holly bites her fingernail. “Where will I get my plants from?”
He tosses his chin toward a quaint bungalow across the street where I presume he and his wife reside. The paint is chipping and there are colorful lawn ornaments scattered over the grass.
“That’s my garden. You visit and I’ll send you home with clippings.” He winks.
“Will you tell me what they are?” My fiancée side-eyes the war veteran.
“What difference does that make if you can care for them? You done fine so far bringing my plants back to life,” he compliments her green thumb.
Holly makes it a point to chat with Mr. Johnston a while longer and when Mrs. Johnston is customer-free she leans to hug the quiet woman, introducing me. Mrs. Johnston wiggles her eyebrows, and I get the impression the ladies have a quiet connection they both enjoy.
Our task lasts less than an hour. We leave the nursery, Holly conceding in a text to Isobel that plumerias are out. She still wants a low plant as the centerpiece so that the guests at the round tables have no problems conversing over it. It should be colorful and Holly prefers a traditional terracotta pot.
That’s likely the most mainstream of anything we’ve directed Isobel to do. She found us a location: A drive-in that’s closed for the season. The Cadillacs—some pink, some blue—are going to be lined up with the tops down on the convertibles and we’ve licensed movies to play on the big screen. And, God bless the woman, when she found us a red and white striped circus tent and I followed it up requesting for an animatronic fortune teller machine, she sourced other carnie games without me asking. Isobel’s gotten into putting our personalities on display instead of fighting it. Thank fuck for small miracles.
Exhaustion mars Holly’s features, and I tuck her into my bed for her nap. Then I shoot off my own text to Isobel. A man has to keep a few surprises up his sleeve for his soon-to-be wife.
Not soon after Bhodi returns.
My entire body vibrated the first time Half-pint was alone with the guy. I have the same reaction watching a sullen Bhodi walk up the driveway.
Something’s wrong.
I’ve always been aware of Bhodi’s features that match Holly’s. How unmistakable it is that he and Emory are cousins. I don’t like the similarities he has to William. I’m glad William’s shit personality is not mirrored in the ten-year-old. Yet, neither looks as if they’ve had a fantastic time.
I ask anyway, rubbing it in.
Bhod shrugs. William holds onto his shoulders tight as if he’s a proud papa. All the while he babbles on about the batting cages, baseball being an All-American pastime, and how “the boy will learn how to keep his eye on the ball.”
“You get hit?” I ask Bhodi, hunching down to his level.
“Only in my leg.” He rubs his kneecap.
William sucks in his cheek, giving me the impression he not only doesn’t appreciate my presence or my concern. And also that I should have made the kid a bigger baseball fan.
