The Art of Arranging Flowers

by Lynne Branard

“The service was over about an hour ago. We all went to the cemetery. When I got back I saw that your van was still in the parking lot. I’ve been in my office a while and I’m getting ready to leave, but I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “Okay?”

  I nod.

  “You’re Ruby Jewell, right? The florist. I know that Madeline does most of our orders. I guess we haven’t really ever met.”

  “You’re Reverend Frederic,” I say. “We met at the Guilfords’ wedding and the Shepherds’ anniversary party. I fixed an arrangement for your wife when she was in the hospital.”

  He nods. “Yes, yes, that’s right. I’m sorry. Since I live over in Valley and only come a couple of days a week, I feel like I don’t always know the people in this community.”

  He is still sitting behind me, and after glancing only once in his direction, I am facing forward.

  “Juanita was a special person,” he says, and I remember how he got a bit choked up in his eulogy.

  “I didn’t know her very well,” I confess. “I’m more of a friend with her grandson.”

  “Will.” He calls out the boy’s name. “Sweet kid.”

  There’s a pause.

  “He does some work for you, doesn’t he?”

  I nod.

  “And he was with you when you had an accident?”

  I recall the porcupine, the broken ankle, the way Will begged not to leave me.

  “He made his grandmother bring him to church to pray.”

  This was something I hadn’t heard before.

  “Madeline came and unlocked the door for them. She said they stayed here all night. And I think you and Clementine were on the prayer list for a month. I’m not sure that any of the church people ever realized they were praying for a dog, but it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway; they love Will and would have prayed for the porcupine if he asked.”

  I manage a smile.

  “Did you know that he comes in early on Sundays and freshens up the floral arrangements? I see him in here every week, pinching off a few of the leaves, adding a little water. He likes to tell me the names of the flowers in the vases. I think he knows them all.”

  More surprises. He never told me he even notices the flowers in the sanctuary on Sunday mornings.

  “It seems like you’ve taught him a lot in the short time he’s been with you. Funny what kids pick up, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is.”

  “You never know what you’re teaching somebody. And I suppose you don’t always know when you’re learning, either. Funny how that works, too, I guess.”

  And I think about what Will has taught me, how he showed me the clump of bighead clover near the cemetery and the few delicate stems of gayfeather near the creek across the street from the shop. I think about how he made me close my eyes and guess the wildflowers by how they smelled and how he thought deer fern was a crisper green than the dagger. I think about how he makes me feel hopeful.

  “Well, anyway, you can stay here as long as you want. Just pull the front door closed when you leave so it locks.”

  I feel him stand behind me. He places his hand on my shoulder. “We appreciate all you do for this town, Ruby,” he says and squeezes. “You have your own ministry, you know, bringing beauty into our lives.” He lets go. “Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that will save us.”

  And I turn to say good-bye, but he has already gone.

  •FORTY-THREE•

  SHE wants a nice bouquet and a couple of boutonnieres for Justin and Will.” Nora is giving me the morning messages.

  I was at the club in a meeting with the ladies’ tennis team. They are very specific about the flowers they want for their banquet. They’re branching out this year and are requesting tropical: heliconia, birds of paradise, ginger. Apparently, a tennis player from Colville said Creekside copied their banquet design ideas year before last, going with pink and purple dahlias, so this year they want to steer clear of any resemblances. They’re going with fern curls and anthuriums, single stems with just a few strands of ti leaves. With the other tropicals they’ve ordered, this banquet certainly won’t look like any others, but they’re going to have to pay. Tropicals are the most expensive flowers I sell.

  “I thought it was just a paper being signed at the courthouse,” I say, knowing that the formal request made by Jenny and Justin to adopt Will was pushed quickly through the system and has been approved. They are moving into their new house later this week. Will stopped by yesterday to tell me.

  “Well, it is, but Jenny thinks there ought to be a ceremony. She wants flowers.” Nora slides the receipt behind the others. “She’s invited the priest to go and offer a blessing, and then she wants to have a little reception at the church. She wants you to decorate.”

  I feel my chest tighten.

  “And Vivian called and wants to meet about the wedding.”

  “I just met with her last week. She’s sticking with the sunflowers and blue irises.”

  Nora shakes her head. “I think she’s changed her mind. She likes oriental lilies. She was surfing the net and saw a floral design she liked. She’s thinking she’d like to have an Asian theme.”

  I blow out a breath. “I’ve already made the order.”

  Nora shrugs.

  “And Stan wants to know if you can deliver flowers to the clinic in Moses Lake. His sister is getting her nose fixed.”

  “That’s almost two hours away!”

  “Hey, I’m just passing along the messages here. Don’t shoot the mailman.”

  I walk around the counter to the design table behind her.

  “I’m just so tired of bending over backward for the people in this town. I do everything for them—plan their weddings, manage their calendars, handle their funerals—and do you know I haven’t raised my prices in ten years?”

  I throw my notebook and keys on the table. Clementine gets up and leaves the room.

  “Gas has gone up and all of my expenses have increased and I’m hardly making enough to cover costs. And now they want me to cancel orders I’ve already made and then drive clear to Moses Lake for a twenty-five-dollar vase of mums for somebody having plastic surgery?”

  I go over to the refrigerator and take out a soda, slamming the door when I’m done. When I turn around, Nora is staring at me.

  “What?” I ask, knowing that she clearly wants to say something.

  She holds up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’ve not got anything to say,” she replies, but she keeps staring like she does.

  I wait.

  She doesn’t disappoint. She does have something to say.

  “Have you been reading your Oprah magazine I subscribed for you?”

  I don’t answer. I have no idea where she’s going with this. I shake my head.

  “Well, you need to start taking a look at her columns.”

  I wait.

  “You want to tell me what Oprah would have to say to me?”

  She pauses. “Well, who am I to speak for the queen? But I think she would probably say that you need to make some changes or start a gratitude journal or put the oxygen mask on yourself before others because you are clearly not living your best life.”

  I look around for something to throw at her, but she immediately sees what I’m contemplating and she hurries around the counter, making it to the front door and out of my range.

  “I’m going to Walmart,” she announces. “We’re out of the double-faced satin pink ribbon and I know Jenny will want that on her bouquet.” And she is gone before I can reply or pick up anything and hurl it.

  I sigh and watch her leave, and then I walk over and pick up the messages that Nora was reading and glance at them. I look up when I hear the bell on the front door signal that someone is coming in.

  “You’re still in danger of getting hit in the head,” I say, thinking Nora has returned for something.<
br />
  It isn’t Nora.

  “Wow. I didn’t realize florists had a violent streak.” John Cash has entered the shop.

  I put down the messages and smooth down the front of my sweatshirt, lifting myself for a proper greeting. “Well, of course, you knew that,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “You know what happened to the porcupine.”

  “Ah, right,” he says, smiling. He glances around me. “And speaking of . . . where’s the pooch?”

  I turn to look where Clementine is usually resting and remember her recent departure. “She also knows the harm I can do.”

  And just like that, she appears from the back room, walks around the counter, ignoring me, and heads straight to the veterinarian. He promptly gives her a good scratch and tender greeting. “Hello, Miss Clem,” he says, and she looks at me smugly.

  I roll my eyes.

  “She’s gaining some of her weight back,” he reports.

  And I give that same smug look back at her. She is very sensitive about her weight and I know it.

  “Yeah, she’s a little portly.”

  She turns around, offering me her backside.

  “No, not portly. I think she’s perfectly fit.” And he’s rubbing her belly now.

  She turns around to face me and she’s one up.

  He turns his attention to me, and Clementine returns to her spot beneath the table.

  “So, how are you?” he asks. Being polite, I suppose.

  “Good. And you?”

  He nods. “I’m okay.” And he slides his hands in his pockets just slowly enough that I am able to see his fingers, his unadorned fingers. The wedding ring is gone.

  “I need a new plant,” he announces.

  “What happened to the old one?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Oh well, that is a good story.”

  I wait. I like good stories.

  He clears his throat. “Maria,” and he pauses. “That’s my ex-wife,” he explains.

  I nod.

  “She left a couple of days ago and it seems she took a few of my things.”

  “She stole your bamboo?” I ask, thinking that is pretty low, even for an ex-wife. “It’s for peace and good luck. How can you steal something that’s supposed to bring good luck? It seems like that would alter your karma.”

  He shakes his head. “She’s never really cared much about karma.”

  “Oh,” I reply. “So, you want something different?”

  “Because that first good luck wasn’t all that good?”

  I hadn’t said that, but I guess that’s what I was thinking.

  “Well, it was stolen.”

  He laughs ever so slightly.

  I walk around the counter over to the plant stand near the window. I pick up a hot pink kalanchoe. “How about a calendiva?” I pinch off a dead leaf and hold it up.

  He studies it and then notices the hanging plant above my head. “What’s that one?”

  I put down the plant in my hands. “Senecio herreanus,” I answer. “This one is bananas.”

  “That sounds about right for my life right now.”

  And I reach up and take it from the hook in the window. I walk around him and stand behind the counter. I take a towel and wipe off the bottom of the planter, turn it around and make sure it is tidy and in good shape. After clearing out a few dead leaves, I am convinced it is ready to go. “Put it in a place that isn’t too sunny; this succulent prefers a little shade. And keep it well drained.”

  He is nodding his head. He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet.

  “Nah, here.” I hand him the hanging plant. “This one is a makeup gift for the one that was stolen. Maybe it will bring you better luck than the bamboo.”

  He smiles and reaches for it. Our fingers touch as I hand him the plant and I feel a bit of a charge run through me. I quickly pull away.

  “I guess I’ll see you at Will’s party,” he says, and I know I look surprised.

  I had forgotten there was a party.

  “When he’s adopted,” he explains. “Jenny invited me.”

  I nod. I guess once I decorate, I’m invited too.

  “You know, I sort of thought you’d adopt him,” he says.

  I don’t respond.

  “You too seem to go together.”

  I am at a loss for words.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you soon. Thanks again for the bananas.”

  I nod. I find my voice. “You’re welcome,” I say.

  And he turns and heads out the door.

  •FORTY-FOUR•

  I CANNOT arrange the flowers. I have taken every stem from the buckets in the cooler and it’s like they wilt in my hands. I use wire; I try the foam; the flowers refuse to stand. They refuse to blend, refuse to deliver. I am like an artist who can’t paint. I have lost my way.

  I try light orange roses, orange spray roses, and Matsumoto asters. I make an attempt with yellow daisy spray chrysanthemums, red miniature carnations, orange carnations and alstroemeria; I even accent with bupleurum, but it’s as if the flowers have gone on strike. Everything I bind, every bouquet I arrange is flat and dreary and lifeless. I may have to call Edna in Deer Park and consign the work to her.

  Nora and Jimmy left early. They were so tired of hearing me complain and fight with the flowers that they both took the afternoon off without pay. Nora isn’t even teasing me or giving me herbal tea. She hasn’t mentioned Oprah once. She even knows that John Cash is single again, but she’s not pushing this time. It’s as if she’s been silenced by what is happening, as if she knows there is no remedy for what is lost.

  “Just go home,” she said before she left, before she ushered Jimmy out the back door. “Quit trying, just go home.”

  And I could see the pity in her eyes; it had been there all morning as I fumbled and stumbled over the orders, the Sunday morning sanctuary flowers, a get-well bouquet, and Kathy Shepherd’s order for a basket of tulips. I managed the basket although it lacks whimsy and fire, but she took the vase away from me when I started breaking the stems of the alstroemeria, the slender tendrils cracking like little bones.

  “Here, give them to me,” she insisted, and she finished the bouquet for Clara Robinson, an order placed from her son in California to be delivered later today at the hospital. “And Jimmy and I will drop it off on our way to the meeting,” she added.

  “Let’s just give the Lutherans a plant for Sunday. Use one of the cyclamen; you’ve got hot pink and white. They’ll be fine with one of those.”

  I let her take that too. That only leaves the flowers for tonight. I still have to create the arrangements for Will.

  The new family has an appointment in Judge Hennesay’s chambers at four o’clock, and then there will be a party to follow. Jenny wanted the same flowers she had at her wedding, pink gerberas, with a few bunches of purple asters to aid in the banishing of the sorrows of the past. She wanted pink and purple tulips in tall clear vases scattered on the tables in the parish hall and long-stemmed pink roses to be handed out when people left. I knew she and Justin didn’t have the money to afford such a lavish celebration, so I had told her earlier this week that I would donate all the flowers. I hadn’t realized she wanted so many.

  “It’s okay if you don’t have arrangements on all the tables,” Nora called from the road to say. “I know this is costly. Just make a couple of centerpieces for the serving tables and use bud vases on the rest.”

  But cost was not the problem. I would give all of my inventory to Jenny and Justin. I don’t care about the money.

  I am bending down, leaning on my elbows over the design table. I hear Cooper come in the back. He is not due today and I wonder why he is here. He greets Clementine and then comes through the door and sees me.

  “Well, great rose of Sharon, what on earth is wrong with you?”

  I don’t even look up. I just shake my head.

  “Are you going to throw up?” he asks. “You been sniffing angel trumpet?”

 
I shake my head again, knowing he’s referring to the deadly plant that makes people do wacky things without even being aware of their actions. I do not answer.

  He walks in and jumps up, taking a seat on the counter. “No Colombian devil’s breath, no oleander, no western water hemlock?” He names all the poisonous plants.

  I just keep shaking my head.

  “Well, then what’s the word?”

  He studies the arrangement set in front of me. “You practicing blindfolded?”

  I glance down at the bouquet, the whisper daisies pressed against the flamingo minis, the ivy loose and shabby, overrunning the vase, the pink long-stemmed rose raised high above them all, sticking out like a too-tall girl. It’s a train wreck.

  “All day,” I say. “It’s been like this all day.”

  He jumps down and walks in my direction. He raises his hand and checks my forehead.

  “I’m not sick, I told you.” And I pull away.

  “Then what’s wrong?” He yanks the rose out of the vase, grabs a pair of scissors, snips off the end and puts it back, then pulls apart the daisies and thins the greenery. Even without the other flowers, the arrangement already looks one hundred times better.

  I shake my head and walk to the stool against the back wall. I sit down and watch as he pulls another pink rose and a stem of gypsophila out of the bucket, a lavender iris and a few white spray roses, and finishes the arrangement. He cups the flowers in his hands and leans down to smell, and then he lifts up and turns to me.

  “How many more you got?”

  “Just daisies and roses,” I answer. “I just need to do a few stems of pink gerberas in bud vases and then the white bucket to hold all the pink roses. That’s all,” I say. “That’s all I have left.”

  He walks out of the room and comes back with the box of small vases and sets them out on the table. He pulls out the daisies and fills them, one by one, while I watch. Then he goes into the cooler and returns with two black buckets and he finds all of the pink buds and gathers them together. He takes them back and returns with the white bucket, which he wipes and cleans and fills with flowers. It takes him all of about fifteen minutes to complete what was taking me all day.