A Bouquet of Love

by Janice Thompson

  Add “-aki” to the end of any American word and it becomes Greek.

  Okay, so I wasn’t exactly alone in the flower shop. The handsome Greek cowboy lugged in another bucket of gorgeous pink roses and placed it on the bottom level of the refrigerator case. I hated to stare at him as he worked, but with no one else in the place, what else could I do?

  After a couple of awkward moments, he looked my way and offered a cockeyed grin. “I guess yer hired then.” His thick Texas drawl pretty much gave voice to my thoughts.

  “Guess so.” Still, I felt completely lost.

  “Better put on an apron so you look official and all.”

  “Look official?”

  “Yep.” He reached for a floral apron with the words “Patti-Lou’s Petals” on it and tossed it to me. I caught it in midair, then stared at the pink, green, and white flowers on it.

  At least it wasn’t a superhero costume, right? I slipped the apron over my head and glanced at my reflection in the glass on the flower case. Not bad.

  “It suits you.” The edges of Alex’s lips curled up. “Like you were born for this.”

  “I think I was.” My heart swelled at the very idea. Just as quickly, I pictured the look on my father’s face should he see me in this apron. WWBD—what would Babbas do? Kill me, likely.

  “I can’t believe we haven’t run into each other before if you’re into flowers.” Alex straightened the roses in the bucket, then closed the glass door on the refrigerator case. “My family supplies most of the florists in this neck of the woods. We run a nursery in Splendora.”

  “Splendora? I heard Marcella mention it. Is that a town?”

  “If you want to call it that.” He chuckled. “It’s a really small town up Highway 59.” This comment somehow morphed into a conversation about how Highway 59 was being converted into an interstate, but he lost me after that.

  Is it wrong to stare at someone’s eyes while they’re talking?

  “You’re not from around these parts, are you?” His teasing expression shared his thoughts on the matter.

  “Well, I wasn’t raised in Texas,” I managed.

  “Ah. Could’ve guessed that. Uncle Donny always says he wasn’t born in Texas but got here as quick as he could. Guess you’re the same, huh?”

  “Um, right.” I offered what I hoped would look like a convincing smile, followed by a thumbs-up, though I didn’t have a clue who Uncle Donny was.

  Alex didn’t ask where I was from, and I didn’t offer the information. Instead, I waited on an incoming customer who entered with a request for a prom corsage. Afterward I ran my finger back over the price list and did my best to memorize it.

  After finishing up his work, Alex stacked several now-empty buckets. He walked into the back room and came out with two bottles of water. One he handed to me, the other he opened and drank from. I took a little sip and worked up the courage to speak.

  “You’re the guy from the trolley.” Okay, that wasn’t exactly what I’d planned to say, but there it was.

  “The guy from the trolley?” He shrugged and then his eyes lit up. “Oh, I did ride the trolley yesterday. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yeah.” I felt my cheeks grow warm. Good grief. Now he knew I’d taken notice of him.

  “Want to know why?” He leaned so close I could smell his cologne. Yummy.

  Okay, I’ll bite. “Why?”

  “The trolley system just started up again,” he said. “Hurricane Ike took out the whole line in ’08 and it’s been down ever since. Until a week ago. So everyone and their brother’s catching a ride as a show of support. We’re hoping the tourists will take the hint and use it too.”

  “Oh, wow. So I got here just in time?”

  “Yep.” He took another swig from his bottle. “Where did you say you’re from again?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Not a Southern state, judging from your accent.”

  My accent? Was he kidding?

  “I’m from California. Santa Cruz.”

  “Well, now . . .” He squared his shoulders and his eyes narrowed. “You’re on a learning curve then.”

  “Learning curve?”

  “Yer in the South now.” He laid on the drawl extra-thick. “And that means yer fixin’ to learn a few things.”

  “Fixin’ to?”

  “Yep. That’s the first lesson. In Texas, we’re always fixin’ to do sumpthin’.” He gave me a knowing look.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “You name it, we’re fixin’ to do it.” He chuckled. “Like, right now I’m fixin’ to learn you a few things that should come in handy, now that you’re livin’ here.”

  “Okay.” I looked around for a piece of paper and a pen, finally locating both in a drawer under the register. “Should I be taking notes?”

  “Maybe.” He nodded. “I’m gonna start by tellin’ ya that y’all is a bona fide word in the South, and it’s used every day, hundreds of times over.”

  “It is?” I asked.

  “Yep. And the plural of y’all is all y’all.”

  “O-okay.” I jotted this down. “What else?”

  He continued to fill my ears with funny Southern sayings, and then the conversation shifted to stories about fishing and hunting. From there he dove into a funny story about his Greek father. Finally, something I could relate to.

  “So, you really are part Greek?” I asked.

  “I am.” Alex’s eyes twinkled. “But I’m also from Splendora, so you have to factor that into my heritage. Kind of changes up the whole thing, if you think about it.”

  I had no idea what that meant but didn’t question him, and the thick Texas twang continued to tickle my ear. I’d never met anyone who looked like Adonis but sounded like Blake Shelton.

  “I’m half Greek, half good ol’ boy,” he said with a wink. “Mama says it’s the perfect combination. Just enough Greek in me to make me stubborn, just enough Southern to make me a gentleman.”

  He had the gentleman part down, no doubt about that. And if he had a stubborn side, I sure hadn’t witnessed it. No, he’d captivated me, drawn me in like the heady scent of those roses he’d delivered. Talk about easy on the eyes and comfortable to talk to. Wow.

  At this point the shop filled up with customers, and I chatted at ease, offered suggestions, and took orders one after another. What bliss! I took the order from Marcella’s mother-in-law, still puzzled by the last name. Rossi. Sounded so familiar. Not that I had time to ponder it for long, what with the shop so full and all.

  “Are you a singer?” Alex asked me after the crowd thinned.

  “Singer? No. Why would you ask that?”

  “Oh, because you hummed the whole time you were putting together the arrangements for that last gal. I thought maybe you were with the Grand Opera Society or something. That’s pretty big around here.”

  “Not at all. But thanks.” A little giggle rose up. “I think there’s just something about flowers that makes my heart come alive.”

  “It’s always great to meet people who love flowers as much as I do.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t happen that often, but then again, I was raised around them. Same with you?”

  “Not at all. My parents don’t know a lily from an orchid.” I bit the inside of my upper lip to keep from telling him that my father thought that flowers were a waste of time and money.

  “Crazy.” Alex laughed. “So what’s your favorite flower?”

  “Man, what a tough question. I’ve always adored lilies. Doesn’t matter what color. Ooh, maybe it does.” I pinched my eyes shut and could almost envision bright yellow Asiatics coupled with yellow button poms and Peruvians. A silly little sigh escaped.

  “I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” He laughed and I opened my eyes.

  “Yep.” But it felt really good to connect with someone who understood and appreciated my love for all things petaled. It didn’t hurt that he happened to be as handsome as a Hollywood star posing for a close-up.

 
; “I always like to compare people with species of flowers,” he said. “Like, my mom is definitely a sunflower. It’s not just that she’s tall—my dad always says she’s so tall she could hunt geese with a rake—but she’s got the sunniest disposition of anyone I know.”

  He’d almost lost me at the rake comment. Still, I didn’t dare laugh, at least not out loud, so I responded with, “I see what you mean. My mom’s more of a poppy—overly colorful.” When all of the color wasn’t sweating off, anyway.

  Alex carried on about his various family members but stopped when he got to one in particular. “Now, my aunt Twila, she’s been a little harder to peg. You never met anyone so vibrant and outgoing. Seriously. Lots of pizzazz. Hope you get to meet her someday.”

  “Let me guess . . .” I put my hand up and thought it through. “She’s a carnation?”

  “Close.” He shrugged. “We’ve pegged her a chrysanthemum.” A crooked grin followed. “She’s a little on the round side. Probably forgot to mention that part.”

  “Ah. Makes sense.” I was swept away by the fact that he seemed to be taking such an interest in something that brought me joy. “So, this whole matching-the-flower-to-the-personality thing is something everyone in your family does?”

  “Yep. We’ve learned a lot about people, believe it or not. Marcella’s a hydrangea.”

  “She is?”

  “Yep. She’s a hydrangea. A little more on the subtle, elegant side. See what I mean? And you”—he leaned against the counter and gazed at me so intently that I could smell his cologne again—“are multilayered. Your flower unfolds a little at a time, revealing all sorts of mysteries beneath.”

  “O-oh?” He found me mysterious?

  “I’m guessing, based on having known you . . . how long? Less than an hour?” He gave me a wink. “Anyway, if I’m right, that would make you . . .” The beginnings of a smile tipped up the corners of his lips, and I found myself fixated on that belongs-on-the-big-screen face. Man. The guy could’ve landed on the cover of a magazine. “A rose.”

  I could hardly believe it, but he’d hit the nail on the head. Maybe he really did know me, even after such a short time. I nodded and then gave him a full speech about a paper I’d written in high school about tea roses. An easy smile played at the corners of Alex’s mouth.

  “Our family’s nursery specializes in roses,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe all the different species we have. And the colors. We’re doing so much with color these days.”

  I was dying to hear all about it, but Marcella rushed in the door, totally interrupting our conversation. Bummer. She looked even more harried than before. “Had to stop to pick up snacks and some nasal spray for Deany-boy. Allergy season, you know. Sorry I took so long. What did I miss?”

  Alex squared his shoulders and a thoughtful smile curved his lips. “Well, you missed this gal making some great sales. She managed to talk folks into all sorts of things.”

  “Wow.” Marcella gave me an admiring look. “Well then, you’re officially hired.”

  I didn’t have time to respond. Alex dove into a story about how I’d saved the flower shop from certain ruin by selling a bouquet of flowers to a tourist. “Cassia’s perfect for the shop, Marcella,” he said. “You’ve got a winner here.”

  All right then. The boy thought I was a winner. Should I tell him what I thought about him? Nah, better not.

  “I desperately need the help,” Marcella said. “If you fall in love with the place, maybe I’ll make you a really good deal on it. Someday, I mean.”

  “A really good deal?” Wait a minute. Was she offering to sell me the flower shop? We barely knew each other.

  “I’d do the happy dance all the way to the bank.” She laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, I love working. But I’m worn out trying to balance the kids, the house, my husband, and the shop. It’s just so hard. I can see myself handing over the reins someday. Soon. Maybe very soon.”

  The woman must be kidding. Buy the flower shop? I couldn’t afford to buy a new bathing suit for the summer season right now, let alone a flower shop. Besides, Babbas would have me murdered in my sleep if I made such a drastic move without involving him.

  “Well, I really don’t think I’ll be able to do something like that for a long time,” I said. “One decision at a time.”

  “Right, right.” She nodded. “No rush. It’s just that my husband has been after me for a year to be a stay-at-home mom. I have a houseful of kiddos, and it’s getting harder every day to juggle everything. I feel like I’m dropping balls all over the place. One of these days I’ll need someone to take over the shop so I can retire.”

  “I definitely can’t take over the shop just yet,” I said. “I have a family situation that demands several hours a week. So I’ll have to balance my time between family and work too.”

  “If anyone understands that, I do.” She reached to pat my hand. “Well, don’t worry. It’s clear the Lord has brought you here. We’ll work out the scheduling. You take care of your family, I’ll take care of mine, and between us we’ll both take care of the flower shop. How does that sound?”

  It sounded even better after she told me the hourly salary. Wow. I really could have my gyro and eat it too. If only I could figure out a way to let Babbas know.

  Babbas.

  A quick glance at the clock sent a shiver down my spine. By now he would be looking for me. I’d better get back to the real world . . . and quick!

  4

  Any Place I Hang My Hat Is Home

  You might be Greek if you insist on standing right next to someone while you talk.

  I rushed back to Super-Gyros to find my father perched atop a ladder inside the front of the shop. Judging from the expression on his face—what I could make out from down below, anyway—my absence had stirred up some negative emotions on his end.

  “Where have you been, Cassia?” His tone indicated his frustration. “You can’t just disappear on us like that. Leaving for nearly two hours when we’ve got so much going on? Where is your sense of family?”

  “Sense of family?” Good grief. I hadn’t abandoned the Pappas family, I’d just . . . Hmm. “I went for a walk down to the end of the Strand,” I explained after thinking it through. “See, there’s a great florist shop down there and I wanted to—”

  “Life isn’t all roses, Cassia.” He wobbled a bit on the ladder, and I reached to steady him. “There are some thorns too.”

  Tell me about it.

  “Time to get your head out of the clouds and stop sniffing the flowers.”

  Okay, that made no sense at all. Flowers in the clouds?

  Babbas reached down to grab a lightbulb, then straightened back up to put it in. “I need you. Don’t go wandering off.” At this point he dove into a story about a time he’d lost me at the circus when I was a preschooler. How I’d turned up in the arms of a scary-looking clown. Great. Just the memory I needed to relive today.

  I bit back the groan that threatened to escape. When would he stop talking to me like a toddler?

  He managed to get the lightbulb screwed in, though he nearly tumbled from the ladder in the process. I did my best to steady it. Maybe the man really did need help.

  “With your older brothers running our shop in Santa Cruz, I really need you, Cassia.” His tone steadied in sync with the ladder, which finally stopped wobbling.

  I could barely hear about my older brothers without envying them. Andreas and Basil were lucky ducks, getting to stay in California, even if it meant managing the old shop. Me? Not so lucky. Losing my older siblings to the Golden State put me in the running as oldest available child and most likely to take the heat from Babbas for all things restaurant related. Yippee. Just what I needed.

  Babbas climbed down from the ladder. He looked around the shop, still only about half put together, and clasped his hands at his chest. “My brother will be green with envy when my shop brings in more revenue than his.”

  “But Uncle Alex’s shop in L.A. ha
s been around for years.” Darian approached, his arms loaded with imported food items to put on the shelves. “His sales last year were triple what we brought in, remember?”

  Oy. Had my brother really just said that out loud?

  I couldn’t argue the point, of course, and neither could Babbas. Our uncle’s shop in Van Nuys—the original Super-Gyros—had performed light-years better than our shop in Santa Cruz, though we’d fought valiantly to compete. Surely location had a lot to do with it. That, and my uncle’s star clientele. My cousin Athena worked as head writer for a major network sitcom, after all, and she brought in tons of famous friends and co-workers to their sandwich shop. If we had their star power, our business might thrive too.

  Darian continued to share statistics about our uncle’s successes, at which point Babbas spewed a handful of adjectives, none of them acceptable in front of the younger kids, who happened to be entering from the kitchen with Yia Yia.

  My grandmother must’ve picked up on my father’s angst. She placed her hand on his arm, her expression reflecting concern. “What is it, Niko? What’s eating my baby boy today?”

  He scowled as he dragged the ladder several feet to his right, then began to climb again. “It’s that Rossi family,” he muttered.

  Rossi. Why did that sound so familiar?

  Rossi.

  Oh. Help.

  My heart rate skipped to double time as I made the connection. If Marcella’s mother-in-law was a Rossi, then Marcella was a Rossi too. I’d just accepted a job working for the enemy.

  “What have they done this time?” Yia Yia asked, the concern evident in her voice. “Tell Mama. I will take care of it.”

  Okay, from the evil look in her eyes, I had a feeling she could. And would.

  “They own most of the businesses on the island,” Babbas said. “The pizza joint, the wedding facility, even some sort of shop at the end of the Strand. Can’t remember what Darian said that one was.”

  The florist shop. My heart skipped a beat just as my mother entered the room.

  “Would you believe, they actually have a show on the Food Network.” My father unscrewed a burned-out lightbulb from the ceiling, then passed it to Mama, who reached over to the counter for the box of new ones. “Some sort of Italian cooking show, hosted by the oldest members of the family. How am I ever going to compete with that?”