by Cindy Kirk
As far as younger siblings getting married, I can relate. My little sister is married, which I find incredibly strange. Thankfully, her husband seems like a pretty decent guy, so all I can do is be happy for her. Then again, my sister and I have parents who are alive and married, which makes my situation a lot less complicated than yours. Most people in your situation would throw a pity party, and yet you choose to focus on your blessings. Not everyone would do that, Amelia. It’s an admirable quality.
While reading your e-mail I couldn’t help but notice something, and I hope you don’t think I’m making light of your situation. I promise, I’m not. But it hit me that you are a lot more like Cinderella than I thought, complete with the evil stepmother and the two stepsisters. Their names aren’t Drizella or Anastasia by any chance, are they? You don’t have a talking mouse friend named Gus, do you?
I wanted to thank you for your note. I enjoyed reading it. And I also wanted to let you know that there’s no pressure to e-mail me back. Your life sounds very busy at the flower shop. I, on the other hand, am just a writer who spends copious amounts of time at the computer, looking for excuses to do anything but write. I don’t want to be a nuisance, and you should feel no obligation to write back. The reason I’m saying this at all is because you seem like the kind of person who might continue exchanging e-mails with a complete stranger even if it is a bother, just for the sake of that stranger’s feelings. I promise, my feelings are of hardy stock. In case you decide not to e-mail, I wanted to say that I’ve enjoyed our little exchanges. You’re an interesting person, Amelia, and I happen to like interesting people.
All the best,
Nate
PS: You should definitely watch The Man Who Knew Too Much.
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
—C. S. Lewis
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Sep 25, 2015 5:15 a.m.
Subject: Re: The Man Who Knew Too Much
Dear Nate,
I’m incredibly sorry if I gave you the impression that you were bothering me! You are far from a nuisance. I’ve been enjoying our exchanges too. Please don’t feel bothersome. Please continue to write. And please accept my sincerest apology.
—Amelia
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Sep 25, 2015 2:41 a.m.
Subject: Re: I’m the world’s biggest basket case
Amelia! You have to forgive me! The village was attacked by a swarm of fire ants. They ate everything in sight, including some of the animals. All they left behind were the skeletons. We had to flee in the middle of the night and . . .
Okay, I’m lying. That didn’t happen. But I did read about it happening in a book once. The less adventuresome truth is that I’ve been swamped in Chuukese and absolutely consumed with these kids. I love them. Every single one of them. And lest you feel too neglected, Internet service is practically nonexistent here. Tonight it’s working, so I am typing as fast as possible before it cuts out again. If I travel to the city, I can call you. Other than that, there’s not much point in having a phone.
Tell me what’s going on with William! He’s engaged to a cheater!? What can I do to help? And you hit a guy with your car!? I tell you what. I leave and your entire life falls apart. Please tell me the flower shop is still standing. Oh, and how’s Baxter? Scratch his ears for me.
Love you,
Rach
PS: When are you coming for a visit? It’s long past time for you to get a passport.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Sep 25, 2015 5:20 a.m.
Subject: Re: I’m the world’s biggest basket case
Your help is no longer required! Things are fine with William. He and Bridget are engaged, yes. But she’s not a cheater. At least I hope she’s not. They’re getting married on October 24th, which is in less than a month!
I didn’t hit a guy with my car. I hit a guy’s car with my car. That’s a big difference. He’s the one who actually helped me work through the drama with William and his fiancée. He gave me some great advice, and I think everything’s looking up. I’m good. More than good, in fact. I’m feeling pretty great. :)
Now tell me more about Fiji! You love the kids. You’re learning the languages. Are you ever going to come home?
Missing you like crazy,
Amelia
PS: If I ever get a passport, I should probably go somewhere less intense than a village in Fiji for my first trip. Like maybe Ontario.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Sep 25, 2015 2:12 p.m.
Subject: Re: The Man Who Knew Too Much
Dear Amelia,
I’m not sure I’ve met anyone who apologizes as much as you apologize. And what’s ironic is that you’ve not done anything that warrants an apology. Are you up for a challenge? I challenge you not to apologize for apologizing too much. Think you can do it?
Anyway, thank you for the e-mail. I’m glad I’m not being a nuisance and that you’ve enjoyed our exchanges too.
So tell me, how did you become a florist?
Best,
Nate
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
—C. S. Lewis
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Sep 25, 2015 7:08 p.m.
Subject: The Shop around the Corner
Dear Nate,
Challenge accepted. I will not apologize, even though everything in me wants to do it. And FYI, hitting you with a car most DEFINITELY warranted an apology. That’s all I’ll say about that.
How did I become a florist?
I happen to love that question. My mother was a florist. She owned my flower shop (which is actually on a corner, not around a corner) before I owned my flower shop. Back then it was called The Flower Pot. I have the fondest memories of helping her put together bouquets as a little girl. She started me off on cleaned (no thorns), long-stemmed roses (which are the easiest bouquets to make). Every time I smell them, I think of her. She and my dad used to slow dance in the store. Whenever I sweep the floor, I think of them that way. Smiling and slow dancing. I would sit behind the counter coloring in my coloring book and watch them. They had the best kind of love.
Even though I was only six when she died, not a day goes by that I don’t think of her. Random things remind me of her. Like all your talk about Cinderella. She used to read me bedtime stories at night. All kinds. But my favorites were the fairy tales. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t relate to Cinderella a time or two in my teenage years, even if my stepmother and stepsisters aren’t actually evil.
Anyway, my mother left the flower shop to my dad when she passed, and my dad, I think, had every intention of giving it to me when I was old enough. None of us expected him to pass away as suddenly as he did, least of all him. His affairs weren’t in order, and so the flower shop went to my stepmother, who sold it. I was fourteen, which I think is a difficult year for any girl, but most especially when you’ve lost your father and the place you thought would be yours. I won’t pretend I didn’t mourn deeply.
Life moved on. Time took away the sting. I went off to college and got myself a boyfriend. And then I graduated and we broke up, and lo and behold, my mother’s old flower shop went up for sale. It felt like Providence. I took out a loan, signed on the dotted line, and here I am, the owner of my mother’s old flower shop. I thought about naming it The Flower Pot again, but my mother’s favorite flowers were forget-me-nots, and so, the name has a double entendre. Her picture hangs on the wall above the cash register. I absolutely love what I do.
Boy, do I get winded when I e-mail you. You must be easy to talk to. I’m actually quite shy in real life. My friend Rachel (the
one living in Fiji) is always telling me that I need to get out there and live life. But I think owning and running a successful flower business counts as that, don’t you?
Enough about me. It’s your turn. What got you into ghostwriting? Not many little boys I know want to be a ghostwriter when they grow up. And are you really not going to tell me which celebrity you’re ghostwriting for? Would you tell me if I guessed correctly? Where on the Upper Peninsula do you live? Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask. What does the 24 stand for in your email address?
Affectionately,
Amelia
PS: Guess what movie I rented for tonight? I’ll give you a hint. Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day play the lead roles.
“If I’m honest I have to tell you I still read fairy tales and I like them best of all.”
—Audrey Hepburn
The next morning at the flower shop, while Astrid and I worked and worked on corsages and boutonnieres for the homecoming dance, I couldn’t stop smiling.
“What has you so giddy?” Astrid asked.
“Nothing,” I quipped.
But then I started humming. Astrid gave me that sideways look of hers and asked again. I laughed and shrugged and couldn’t for the life of me stop thinking about Nate Gallagher.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Tue, Sep 29, 2015 1:57 a.m.
Subject: Re: I’m the world’s biggest basket case
Wait a minute. The guy whose car you hit is giving you advice? Do you like him? Is he cute? Please, Amelia, I’m surrounded by tribal folk all day, including bare-chested, saggy-breasted women who don’t usually have all their teeth. I could use a little bit of normalcy. For the love of all that is holy, SPILL.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Wed, Sep 30, 2015 6:23 p.m.
Subject: Re: I’m the world’s biggest basket case
There’s nothing to spill. The two of us exchanged some e-mails. I was a little giddy about it. But he hasn’t e-mailed back in a while, and it’s his turn.
It’s weird, though, because he’s always been so fast at responding. This lull isn’t like him. Of course it comes after I signed my last e-mail “Affectionately.” Affectionately?! What was I thinking? I might as well have told him I loved him.
But you’d think if he wasn’t freaked out before then (I’ve done some ODD things where he’s concerned), a little word like affectionately wouldn’t do it.
Do you think something happened to him? What if he got into an accident and he’s in the hospital? Or . . . oh my goodness, Rachel, what if he died? How would I even know?
Never mind. He’s not dead. I just did a search for his name in all the obits for the Upper Peninsula (he’s a Yooper). Nothing came up. Which means only one thing. He must not be interested.
Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.
—A
PS: Yes, he’s cute. In fact, here’s a picture. Too good to be true, eh?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Oct 2, 2015 6:46 p.m.
Subject: Re: The Shop around the Corner
Dear Amelia,
Now it’s MY turn to apologize profusely. Please forgive me. I had to take an impromptu trip to New York City to meet with the celebrity. It turned into a long, extended, dreadful affair with all-day meetings at the publishing house. I barely had a moment to breathe, but I promise I thought about you the entire time.
How I became a writer isn’t nearly as good of a story as how you became a florist. It was always something I was good at—writing. At least that’s what all my English teachers and professors told me. After I graduated college, I had a severe case of the travel bug. And so I tried making a go at travel writing. I was dirt poor, but happy. I had to take on a lot of odd jobs to supplement my income. My parents convinced me that it was long past time to settle down and get a real job, so I entered into a little phase of life I refer to as the “dark” years. I sat in an office and wrote grants. For two years. I still shudder thinking about it.
This particular celebrity, it turned out, was a fan of my travel articles. His agent contacted me about writing his first book, which makes many of my writer friends want to murder me in their sleep. Opportunities like this don’t typically fall so decidedly into a person’s lap. This is the third book I’ve written for him. He gets crankier with each one. And no, I can’t tell you who it is. Not even if you guessed correctly.
So tell me what it’s like running a flower shop. What’s your favorite and least favorite thing about what you do? I have this whole picture in my mind of what it’s like. It seems like a romantic job. I’m willing to bet you’re laughing at me right now. It’s probably not at all how I imagine it to be. Things rarely are.
I live in Crystal Falls, which according to MapQuest, is a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Mayfair. And as far as the 24 in my e-mail address, I’d love to hear what you think it means.
Your parents sound wonderful. Tell me more about your father. What did he do for a living? I love the dancing story. Do you like to dance? And are you as alarmed as I am at how fast this year has gone? Somehow it’s already October. I love fall, but I’m not ready for winter.
Best,
Nate
PS: How’d you like the movie?
PPS: Nice Audrey Hepburn quote at the end of your last e-mail. You’re turning out to be every bit as adorable as she was.
PPPS: The Shop around the Corner? Arguably the most romantic movie of all time. Excellent choice. And, I might add, the two wrote letters to one another. Maybe we’ll be the next Alfred and Klara (minus the hating each other in person bit, I hope).
PPPPS: How many postscripts do you suppose are acceptable in one e-mail?
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
—C. S. Lewis
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Fri, Oct 2, 2015 8:23 p.m.
Subject: Oh my goodness!!!!
He e-mailed me back. The cute man I hit with my car emailed me back. He called me adorable. He compared me to Audrey Hepburn! Supposedly, he had to take an impromptu trip to New York to meet with a publishing house, and according to him, he thought about me the whole time?!?
Seriously, Rachel, this guy is too good to be true. He’s smart and witty and absolutely charming. He quoted Mr. Darcy! He knows all the classic movies even better than I do. He listens. He asks good questions. He’s not even intimidated by my neuroses.
Okay, deep breath. Inhale. Exhale. I’m giddy. Beyond giddy. I’m hopping around in my seat. Baxter isn’t even sure what to do with me. I want to e-mail him RIGHT AWAY, but I’m going to wait. I’m going to play it cool. Heaven help me, I really like this guy.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Tue, Oct 6, 2015 9:31 p.m.
Subject: Re: The Shop around the Corner
Dear Nate,
Yes, I did enjoy The Man Who Knew Too Much. But then, I’ve yet to watch a Jimmy Stewart movie I haven’t enjoyed. I completely agree about The Shop around the Corner. I smile like a fool every time I watch it.
My father was a carpenter. When I was a little girl, I thought this made him as good as Jesus. He was a good man. A quiet man. A hardworking, Wisconsin-to-the-bone fellow who loved to hunt and bled green and gold. He was building a house in Green Bay when he met my stepmother. Things happened pretty quickly after that. I don’t blame him. He was a working man with a very sad six-year-old daughter and a newborn son on his hands. He wanted me and William to have a mother. I can understand that.
As far as running a flower shop being a romantic notion. Well, some days it feels that way. And some days it feels like I’m a chicken running around with my head cut off. Case in point. My first year on the job, I had this very large wedding. I
brought all the beautiful bouquets, which I’d slaved over, to the chapel the night before. Put them in the cooler. And discovered the next morning that the setting was all wrong on the cooler and they’d all frozen. Every single one. The next morning was one giant, panic-stricken scramble with plenty of tears (all from me). It didn’t feel romantic at all.
My favorite part, besides the beauty, is probably the customers. I don’t just love being a florist, I love being a small-town florist. I know almost everyone who walks in the door. I get to be a part of their lives. I have this one customer in particular—this ninety-year-old man named George. He comes in every single Monday morning to buy his wife a bouquet. He always has a cute, funny anecdote to tell me too. On the adorableness scale, this man has Audrey beat. My least favorite part would be the bridezillas. Thankfully, I haven’t had to work with many of those. A week ago I met with Bridget and William to go over flowers for their wedding. It went well. She’s not a bridezilla.
I agree with you about the time. I wish I had a magical hour glass that could make everything slow down, especially in the fall. October is a beautiful month in Mayfair. The leaves will peak in color in a week or two. The air is crisp and the town square is decorated in pumpkins and hay bales. We have this darling little chapel that sits kitty-corner across the square from my shop—all white clapboard with a steeple that rises up over the trees. It’s where my parents married, and it’s where Bridget and William are getting married too. There’s this place called Sawyer Farm. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Along with a pumpkin patch, they have the biggest corn maze in Wisconsin. Every year William and I go. My parents used to take me, so now I take William. This year he’s bringing Bridget. I kind of feel like the third wheel.
