A Bouquet of Love

by Janice Thompson

  “See?” My father pointed at the fellow. “Just as I suspected.”

  “Babbas, are you saying he’s a bad man?” Gina hid behind the lamppost.

  “Well, what do you suppose he’s got in that case there?” Babbas lowered his voice, his words now laced with concern.

  Gina’s eyes grew wide. “What, Babbas? What?”

  “A machine gun, that’s what.” My father gave an abrupt nod, as if that settled the issue once and for all.

  “M-m-machine gun?” Gina ran back inside Super-Gyros, her shrill voice ringing out, “Mama!”

  “You really think they’re mobsters? I’m outta here.” Darian shoved his laptop under his arm and scooted back inside the door, muttering something about how he wanted to go back to California, where people were normal.

  Didn’t we all.

  Babbas followed him, but I lingered on the sidewalk, convinced we weren’t dealing with mobsters. No, most of the people in the crowd looked just like us—perfectly normal. Not that anyone in the Pappas family could be called normal, but whatever.

  The strains of a Dean Martin song drifted through the air as the door to Parma John’s opened once again. I watched as a young woman not much older than me, judging from the looks of things, stepped outside. She carried a toddler on one hip, and a little boy ran ahead of her on the sidewalk.

  She called out a name, D.J., and then waved at a man—Wow! Real Texas cowboy material!—who ambled her direction, his pointed cowboy boots clicking along the cobblestone road. The handsome stranger pulled off his Stetson and swept the young woman into his arms, brushed her dark curls out of her face, and then planted kisses on her lips. Okay then. Must be a couple. And judging from the way he tousled the boy’s hair and then slipped the toddler onto his shoulders, he was the father of the kiddos. I was looking at a picture postcard of a true Texas family. Wow.

  Maybe the great state of Texas wouldn’t be so bad after all, not if all the fellas looked like this guy. Maybe he had a brother. Or a cousin. One could hope, anyway.

  The young woman glanced my way before walking back into Parma John’s with the cowboy and children. She squinted as the clouds above shifted and a bright, sunny sky caused a glare. Then she offered a welcoming smile and a little wave, which I returned.

  See, Babbas? No mobsters here. Just friendly Texans.

  “Cassia?” My father’s stern voice sounded from the open doorway. “Your mama and Yia Yia need help setting up the kitchen. Besides, it’s not safe out there. You don’t know what those people are up to.”

  The smell of pizza drifted across the road once again, and I fought the temptation one last time. I knew what they were up to, all right. Delicious pizza. Smelled good. Really, really good. But I knew better than to risk losing my inheritance—not that I really had one—over a deluxe pepperoni with extra cheese. Babbas would disown me in a hurry should I step foot over the invisible line he’d painted down the cobblestone street. No, I’d stay on the Super-Gyros side, where good Greek girls belonged.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t stand the temptation one moment longer, my grandmother joined me on the sidewalk. The midday sun gave her thinning white hair an angelic glow and made the soft, tissue-paper wrinkles on her cheeks even more pronounced. Standing against the oversize door of the shop, she looked disproportionately petite. Yet she always commanded respect, tiny or not.

  “Babbas wants you inside, Cassia,” Yia Yia’s words were more instruction than suggestion. “Come, child.”

  I cringed at the word child and fought the temptation to respond with, “He always wants me somewhere.” No point in hurting my grandmother’s feelings. She’d given birth to the man, after all.

  I stepped inside the shop and closed the door behind me. There would be plenty of time later to ponder the realities of pizza parlors and mobsters, flower shops and handsome guys on trolleys. Right now I had work to do. And when a good Greek daughter had work to do, well, she didn’t waste any time smelling the flowers. She got right to it.

  2

  The Boy Next Door

  You know you’re Greek when your father spends so much time with his forehead creased that he looks like he has a unibrow.

  There’s something about the phrase “Everything’s coming up roses” that always makes me smile. When I think of roses, my heart wants to sing. They’re closed one day—barely a bud—and opened wide the next, ready to drink in the sun. Ready to show off their beauty. And the scent! Nothing could compare. That’s why, when faced with the opportunity to work with flowers every day of my life, I longed to jump on it like a june bug on a daisy.

  1-800-PETALS4U. I’d memorized the number that could change my life forever and hoped to put it to good use. But how? Babbas had other plans for me. To show him disrespect would be wrong on many levels, not to mention dangerous to my survival. I knew in my gut he would nix the flower shop job idea without giving thought to my wishes or dreams. The man had no time to stop and sniff the roses. Still, how could I pass up the possibility of working with roses . . . and orchids . . . and lilies . . . and a thousand other flowers I loved? And at a florist shop that turned out to be just down the street, no less? Seemed like the ideal position for a girl like me.

  If only I could manage to convince my father.

  Mental note: Cassia, you’re twenty-three years old. At some point you really have to untie those apron strings.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the words on the sampler in Yia Yia’s bedroom: “God makes all things beautiful in his time.” Was this the right time? Only one way to know for sure.

  With courage mounting, I decided to take my chances. I would apply for the job at the flower shop—maybe pick up just a few hours a week—and continue to help my parents at the family business as well. And I wouldn’t tell my father until I knew for sure the job was mine. Somehow it would all work out. I knew it.

  First things first, though. I needed to figure out a way to sneak away for an hour or so without drawing attention. Once alone, I would head to the flower shop to hand over my résumé. And I would do it all undercover. Like a spy.

  Very rarely had I done anything without running it by my father first. Strange, I know, being in my twenties and all. But when you’ve got different dreams than the rest of the family—say, you want to venture outside the family business to do your own thing—you don’t dare ask for a parent’s opinion on the matter for fear they’ll give it. No doubt Babbas would consider me a traitor to the family for wanting to follow my own dreams.

  And so I set out on my own Wednesday afternoon, claiming I wanted to take a stroll down the Strand to check out the tourist shops. Babbas was so busy installing the new stove that he barely noticed, anyway. I walked down the lovely old street, captivated by its Old World charm. The turn-of-the-century buildings had survived the Great Storm of 1900. Surely the area could survive a wacky Greek sandwich maker in a superhero cape.

  Several blocks down from our store I located Patti-Lou’s Petals. The bell jangled as I walked inside the quaint little shop. I paused, overwhelmed as I took it all in. The colors captivated me at once. Vibrant red roses, the color of Mama’s lipstick. Shimmering yellow tulips, bright as the afternoon sun. Fuchsia gerberas. Orange gladiolas. Golden Asiatic lilies. I found them all in this gorgeous shop, and so much more.

  My gaze traveled from the refrigerated bouquets in the large showroom case to the shelves, which housed all sorts of pretties, including flower girl baskets, greeting cards, ready-to-go bouquets, packets of seeds, yard art, and much more. Talk about variety.

  The bell jangled behind me, and I moved out of the way as a handsome guy—tall with dark hair and broad shoulders—carried in buckets of roses. Wowza. A girl could get used to working with a guy like that. He wasn’t the blonde, blue-eyed, boy-next-door type I’d known in Santa Cruz, but he definitely held some appeal.

  Okay, more than a little appeal. His broad shoulders filled the white T-shirt he wore. My gaze traveled up to his handsome face, br
onzed by wind and sun. The firm set of his chin suggested a stubborn streak, and the half smile, a definite joy of life. My kind of guy. And it didn’t hurt the picture at all when his muscles rippled underneath the T-shirt.

  Look away, Cassia! It’s rude to stare!

  But how could I help myself? Something about him seemed . . . familiar.

  Might be better to focus on the flowers.

  I walked over to the refrigerated case and peered through the glass doors at the beautiful bouquets and arrangements inside.

  Well stocked. Check.

  Behind the counter, a harried-looking woman waited on a customer whose smile was as bright as the golden daffodils the woman wrapped in delicate green paper. She thanked the elderly gentleman for his order as she took his credit card.

  Great customer service. Check.

  The man who’d made the purchase turned my way to show off the bundle of springtime flowers. “The secret to a long, happy marriage. I buy a bundle of these every week.” He gave me a nod and bounded from the shop.

  Happy customers. Check.

  The woman behind the counter still looked a little frazzled. She hollered something at a teenage boy and then gave some instructions to the muscular guy delivering the flowers, whose name, I learned, was Alex Rigas. I stepped out of his way as he came back through with another bucketful of roses and found myself swept away by those heavenly brown eyes.

  Familiar eyes.

  Oh, wow. The guy from the trolley. No way.

  Those gorgeous eyes met mine for a quick glance, and I felt the edges of my lips curl up. Not that any sane twenty-three-year-old single girl would blame me. This guy oozed Southern charm and good looks. And did I mention the muscular physique?

  Hello, handsome.

  I cleared my throat and prayed I hadn’t just said that out loud.

  Focus, Cassia, focus.

  The woman behind the counter finished waiting on another customer and then turned to me. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh yes.” If I could just get my hands to stop trembling. I felt like a kid standing in front of the school principal.

  The woman glanced at her watch, then her gaze traveled to the clock on the wall before looking at me again. With my courage now rising, I dove right in. “I saw your ad on the side of the trolley,” I explained. “And I love working with flowers. I’ve only been on the island a couple of weeks, but I really want to—”

  “You’re here about the job?” Before I could respond, she clasped her hands together and ushered up something in another language—maybe Italian?—and her eyes misted over. “Oh, thank God! I thought I’d never get anyone. The timing couldn’t be any better. Praise the Lord and pass the pruning shears!”

  “Oh? Well, that’s good. Would you like to see my résumé? I stayed up half the night putting it together.” I didn’t mention that I’d worked through the night so that Babbas wouldn’t find out about my secret plan. I reached inside my purse and came out with the paper. I couldn’t help but notice it smelled like a gyro.

  “Yum.” She picked it up and sniffed it. “What is this?”

  “Oh, sorry. Think I got a little tzatziki sauce on it.” I used my index finger to wipe it off. “Sorry about that.”

  Great, Cassia. Wonderful first impression.

  “Tzatziki sauce?” The guy from the trolley, Alex, set down a bucket of yellow roses and reached for my résumé. “Do you mind? I haven’t had a good tzatziki sauce in ages.”

  Did he plan to eat my résumé?

  No, thank God. He only sniffed it, then offered up a sigh and laid it back down. “Smells great. Makes me miss my Yia Yia. She’s been gone for years.” With a nod, he added, “I’m half Greek.”

  Judging from the thick Texas twang, he was also half cowboy.

  Still, I’d better get back to the reason for my visit. I returned my gaze to the woman behind the counter. “If you look at my résumé, you’ll see that I have several years’ experience working in a store. Well, not really a store. More of a shop. But I’m accustomed to working with customers and I can run a register.”

  “Perfect!” She glanced at my résumé long enough to seek out my name. “Cassia, is it? Bethesda?” I didn’t even have a chance to say, “Bethesda’s my middle name,” before she said, “You’re hired.” She pushed the résumé aside and extended her hand.

  I shook it. Sort of. She hadn’t even let me tell her about my training in flowers. I’d better get right to it. “I went to a community college a couple of years ago,” I explained. “On the West Coast. From there I got my accreditation with the American Institute of Floral Designers.”

  “Impressive.” She nodded. “I don’t even have that myself.”

  “I had to send in all sorts of pictures of my arrangements and then do a live showing in front of judges.” A shiver ran over me as I remembered that day. Talk about terrified. “I haven’t really had a chance to use my expertise with flowers yet, but I’ve been dying to, so I was hoping I could work with you as your apprentice.”

  “Hmm? What? Apprentice?” The woman behind the counter didn’t seem to be paying much attention. She spent much of the time scolding the teenage boy in the back room—who turned out to be her son Deany-boy.

  I finally stopped talking when I realized I’d lost her completely. At least I thought I had. She turned away from her son and reached for my hand. “You’re an absolute godsend,” she said and then gave my hand a squeeze. “I’m Marcella, by the way.”

  “Great to meet you. I—”

  “Can you ride a bike?” She gave me a pensive look.

  “Ride a bike?” I tried not to let the panic show on my face. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was sixteen. “Um, sure. Can’t everyone?” A forced smile masked my fear. I hoped.

  “Awesome. There’s a delivery bike out back with a large basket. If the customer wants something delivered and it’s close by, I usually send one of the boys on a bike.”

  “Boys?”

  “My kids. The older ones, I mean. They think they’re too old to help Mama now.” She gestured to the back room, where the teenage boy continued to rant about the time. Sounded like they were late to some sort of ball practice.

  “Between school and sports and youth group activities, they’re really too busy to help me anymore.” Marcella sighed. “Anyway, I could use someone else to make deliveries on occasion. Just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable with that part.”

  Yikes. After all these years, riding a bike would be tricky enough. Riding with a bouquet of flowers in the basket? Impossible.

  Okay, maybe not impossible, but the idea made me very nervous.

  I made up my mind then and there to purchase a bike of my own so that I could practice riding with flowers on board. Whatever it took to keep this new job, I would do it.

  “We’re all about going green around here,” she said. “That’s one reason we buy all of our flowers local.”

  “If you want to call Splendora local.” The handsome flower delivery guy chuckled. “Not exactly around the corner.”

  “True.” She nodded and then looked back at me. “It’s actually a couple of hours away. But you get the idea. Local is good.”

  “Right.”

  “Mom, c’mon! We’ve got to go!” The teenager came out of the back room with a baseball bat tucked under his arm.

  Marcella glanced at him then back at me. “I hate to put you on the spot, this being your first day and all . . .”

  “What?”

  “Would you mind watching the shop for a few minutes? I’ve got to run to my daughter’s preschool to pick her up and then swing by and drop Deany-boy here off at baseball practice. Shouldn’t take long. Maybe forty-five minutes?”

  “Well, I . . . Does this really mean I’m hired?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and reached for her purse. “I’m sorry. I thought I already said that. You know how to run a cash register?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Alex, would you sti
ck around and help out?” Marcella gave him a pleading look.

  He nodded. “Sure. Don’t mind a bit.”

  Okay then. Maybe this wouldn’t be so rough after all.

  Marcella flew into action, grabbing her purse and slinging the strap on her shoulder. She glanced my way, her words now staccato. “A customer named Gabi is supposed to come by to look at the arrangement in the case.” She pointed at a lovely bridal bouquet. “If she likes it, tell her we’ll set a plan in motion for her wedding.”

  “Wedding?”

  “Yes. She’s got some pretty elaborate plans but is on a budget, so we’ll work with her. She’s a brilliant dress designer and brings us lots of business, so anything we can do to help her out would be okay in my book. One hand feeds the other, you know?”

  “I see.” Sort of.

  Mental note: keep an eye out for a bride with a penchant for dress design.

  Marcella opened her purse and reached inside for a tube of pale lipstick, which she smeared on her lips without even looking. “Oh, and my mother-in-law is going to stop by to order some centerpieces for the Grand Opera Society’s annual gala. Don’t let her bamboozle you into a lower price just because she’s family. You would be shocked at how family members try to take advantage of me.”

  Shocked? Um, no.

  She sighed. “I still have to make a living.”

  “I understand, but . . .” I put my purse down and took a tentative step behind the counter. “Problem is, I don’t know what to charge for anything.”

  She pointed at a paper taped down near the register. “Price list there.”

  “Ah. Okay.” I ran my finger over the list and tried to take it all in.

  “So, you’re all right to handle things for a few minutes?” She sounded more than a little anxious. “With Alex’s help?”

  Before I could say, “Don’t think so,” she’d disappeared with her son on her heels, griping about how he was going to be late to practice.

  And just that quick I found myself alone in the shop.

  3

  I Wish I Were in Love Again