Before I head back to Court’s place, I stop at the Publix along A1A. Back when we had a money tree growing in the backyard, I used to buy my make-up from those perky snobs at the department store, but now I get what I need from the supermarket.
I enter the store, refreshed by the cool air conditioning, and survey the layout. I am at the non-food side of the store, right in front of the health and beauty supplies. I pick up a new shade of shimmery lip gloss and a small palette of eye shadows. New make-up always makes the occasion more special. Then I travel along the back of the store, sliding by the deli, the meat counter, the dairy section, and then I land in the produce.
My stomach puts in a request for food, so I head toward the large fruit display, wanting to get something quick for a snack. A mother is there, going through the apples and putting them in a bag. Her toddler, a cute blonde in short pigtails, stands in the back of the cart. The little one is touching a floral arrangement which occupies the front seat of the cart.
“Don’t touch that, Emily. That’s for Grandma.”
“Kay,” says Emily, but when her mother turns to select some pears, Emily pulls off a flower. I smile, understandingly. As a little girl, I used to roam our yard and secretly pick flowers. I would make tiny bouquets and sometimes tuck a flower behind my ear.
I eye Emily, smiling, admiring her little bloom, twisting it in her fingertips and smelling it. She looks so pleased with herself.
“Emily,” her mother shrieks, “that is not for you! Give me that.” Emily’s mother grabs the flower from her daughter’s hand and tosses it into a trash can.
Emily’s little lip starts to quiver, and then tears seep down her cheeks. Feeling sorry for the little girl, I almost buy a flower for Miss Emily. Not a rose. I really hated that story in English class. In American Lit, every story, every book, every poem we read ended unhappily—like the entire American culture only wrote about dreadful things. I mean, there has to be some author out there who does not need antidepressants. Actually, I think my teacher needed them since he showed up every day in shades of black, grey, and dark brown, forever cloaked in fall and winter. Not the best choice for Florida—the land of eternal sunshine and humidity.
I look up at Emily, now bawling, and watch her mother push the cart toward the check-out, and with a turn, I grab an apple and then head toward the floral section, deciding to pick up something for Courtney, a small gift of thanks for letting me stay all week.
As I enter the floral department, I notice a guy at the counter who resembles Ryan. I stop and wait. Then I hear his voice, and I know it’s him. I step forward, ready to say “hello,” but luckily, stop and consider how I probably look, and even worse smell. I step back slowly as I watch Ryan lift an arrangement of vibrant pink blooms off the counter. I realize the flowers are for me, and I don’t want to ruin his wonderful surprise. I pivot quickly and head deep into the produce section, hanging out with the varieties of lettuce. I wait and breathe, one unsteady exhale at a time, and watch as he exits the store.
When I stroll into the floral department, the florist is fixing the front display, rearranging the plants to put the ones with the fullest blooms on the top. She has silver hair, pinned up in a loose grandmotherly bun, and her name badge reads ‘Paula.’ Paula turns with a smile. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, um, I need a little plant. Like for a window sill or something.”
“Sure, hon. Follow me.” We walk toward the back display, and she hands me a tiny plant with purple blooms.
“And how much is it?” I feel slightly embarrassed for asking, but I don’t have much left on my card. “Because it’s just a little something for a friend—just to say thanks.”
“Well,” she begins with a smile, “nothing says it better than flowers. And lucky for you, the African Violets are on sale this week.”
“That’s good,” I respond and place my basket on the counter. “Can I check out here?”
She nods and I unload the contents on the counter and notice the pink stems on her work table behind her, inwardly smiling at Ryan’s thoughtfulness. How many guys buy a girl flowers on the first date?
She notices my stare. “Very pretty, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, what are they?”
“Calla Lilies.”
“Oh, they’re so beautiful.”
“Well, people use them in bridal bouquets or other special occasions. Since we don’t carry them in stock, I have to special order them.”
“Special order? Well, how long does it take?”
“Oh, a week or so.”
A week? I haven’t even known Ryan that long. Does that mean the flowers are not for me? But who are they for? I try not to jump to conclusions and consider the palpable possibilities. He might be buying them for his grandmother or an aunt in the hospital.
“Do you want me to order you some?”
“Some what?”
“Some Calla Lilies,” she eyes me curiously.
“Um…probably not.”
“If you decide you want some, it’s not a problem at all. I order them for Missy every week. That’s my oldest granddaughter.” She pauses, spying my Vanderbilt T-shirt. “You don’t live ‘round here, do you?”
“No,” I say, standing there, not yet connecting the dots between Missy, the Calla Lilies, and Ryan.
“Let me show you a picture of my Missy.” She turns and pulls her purse from under the counter. She produces a floral patterned album with Grandma’s Little Brag Book stitched across the front of it. “I have seventeen grandchildren…and lots and lots of pictures in here.” My eyes follow her fingers, nimbly flipping through pages. “I’ll show you my favorite one. Here she is.” She turns the album, facing me. “This is from Homecoming,” she begins. “Don’t they look nice?” I look down at the picture and see Ryan next to a pretty blonde girl, but I don’t really see Missy at all. My eyes are on him. His smile. His soft green eyes. I see Ryan clearer than I ever have before. He’s perfect. An absolutely perfect lie.
Paula closes her album, but the picture of Ryan stains my mind. I never had a picture of Mike with Amber, but I imagined it vividly in my head. Shelved in my thoughts, I have my own album. It’s thick and black. And it contains pictures of life’s disappointments. Ryan becomes the latest image, and I slip him into a sleeve, facing Mike. I shut my eyes, tight, and wait for the image to blur.
“What’s wrong, hon?” Paula asks.
My hand slides across my stomach. “Nothing.”
“Something you ate?” She thumbs behind her. “Was it that new Mexican place down the road ’casue I’ve heard nothing but bad things about their food?”
I shake my head. “No, not that.”
“I think the city health department needs to go in there and close that place down. I used to work in the bakery here and I know all about—”
“I gotta’ go,” I say.
“What about your groceries?”
“I-I-I don’t need them.”
“You sure?” I leave my basket, full of make-up and a perfectly red apple, in the floral section. I turn, but Paula’s concern follows me. “You okay?”
I increase my pace and flee the store, grappling with my newfound realization: Ryan has a girlfriend, and her name is Missy. I refuse to cry. He doesn’t deserve my tears any more than Mike did, but I have to wonder why guys keep hurting me. Why me? What the hell is wrong with me?
I step outside, and the unwelcomed heat greets me. I climb into the car and rush to get to Courtney’s place, finding an empty house. A note is on the counter: At the beach. I flip over the piece of paper and write on it: Going home. Thanks for everything. Cal.
*****
The Secrets We Keep Page 41
