by Jane Porter
Ruth leans over to smell the red roses, inhaling deeply, but when she straightens she’s no longer smiling. “They don’t smell like anything.”
I lean over and take a sniff. The red roses aren’t without fragrance, but it’s admittedly very light, almost an afterthought. “That’s disappointing.”
“Yes.”
We walk slowly along the stand, Ruth’s hand tucked into the crook of my arm, as we examine the flowers in each silver bucket, with Ruth smelling each.
Ruth talks about her mother the dancer, and from my peripheral vision I track Edie, aware that I’ll have hell to pay should anything happen to her.
We reach the end of the stand and we’re turning away when I hear Edie tsk-tsking. Glancing back, I discover her bent over a bucket of summer dahlias, a mix of spiky pinks and oranges with dinner-plate red and purple, and she’s beaming as if she’s just bumped into long lost friends.
Edie catches my eye, and straightens abruptly. “Dahlias are such show-offs,” she says with a snort.
But I’m not fooled. And I smile.
• • •
Back at Napa Estates, an aide takes Ruth in a wheelchair back to her room. Edie stalks off without a word to me.
I stand in the lobby entrance and am frustrated and hurt and confused.
I don’t know how to make this right. I am trying so hard, too.
Abruptly Edie stops walking and turns to face me. “Well?” she demands. “What are you waiting for? Come with me.”
THIRTEEN
Edie
In my little apartment kitchen I show Alison where I keep the teacups and the canister of tea. I tell her to plug the kettle in and get everything ready.
I sit at the small kitchen table watching and giving direction as need be.
I have to apologize to her, and I don’t know how. I am not very good with apologies.
I was going to talk to her once we had our tea, but I find it difficult to sit in silence, while we wait for the water to boil.
I fuss with the red pom-pom fringe on my white tablecloth. I’ve had this round cloth with the red cherry embroidery for years. I remember once how one of Chad’s girlfriends admired my “vintage” linens.
The kettle whistles just as I’m about to speak. Alison pours the water, filling the cups, floating the tea bags.
She carries both cup and saucers to the table.
“If you like sugar, there’s a spoon in the top drawer and the sugar bowl is already on the table,” I tell her.
“I don’t need any,” she answers. “Would you like sugar?”
I shake my head and she sits across from me. We sit stiffly, and yet so politely. I should have apologized the moment we reached my apartment and gotten it over with. I don’t know what to say now. I’ve lost my nerve and my energy.
I can be a sour old woman and I know it. I am not kind to most people anymore, not tactful, either.
Finally I can’t bear it any longer. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, my voice not entirely steady. “I am sorry for what I said Friday. It was mean-spirited and I displayed poor manners.” I take a quick breath. “I would also like to say thank you for taking Ruth today. Not just to the dentist, but to see the flowers. That was very kind of you and appreciated by me.”
The girl’s been staring down into her teacup this entire time but now she lifts her head and looks up at me. “I wasn’t very nice, either. And I’m sorry, too.”
“Your father said you had a broken engagement.”
She dunks her tea bag once, twice. “He died last year. Six weeks before our wedding.” She looks back down, into the tea. “He killed himself . . . and I was the one who found him.”
Her father hadn’t told me this. I frown, at a loss for words. Quiet stretches.
“We met in dental school,” she adds, as if compelled to fill the uneasy silence. “We studied together, lived together. He was my best friend.”
I take the tea bag out and place it in the saucer next to the cup. “You thought you were going to be a bride and a wife, but then he was gone.”
“Yes.”
“You feel cheated.”
“And confused. How could someone I love so much, just . . . go?”
“Without a good-bye,” I add softly.
She looks up into my eyes. “Yes. Exactly. There was no good-bye. No warning. He was there with me, and then he was gone.”
I rub my knuckles, kneading the ache in my hands. “I loved someone once, like that. And I didn’t get to say good-bye to him, either.”
FOURTEEN
Ali
I leave Edie’s and go up a floor to see Dad. He’s napping in his recliner chair, the TV on, the sound muted. I stretch out on the small couch next to him and watch the TV without the sound.
It’s a program on the Battle of Normandy on the History Channel. With the seventieth anniversary of D-day rapidly approaching, everyone is remembering Normandy.
I don’t know my dad’s awake until he speaks. “Everything go okay with Edie?”
I turn my head and look at him. “You mean, Ruthie?”
“Wasn’t Edie the one upset with you?”
“Yes. And we talked. I think we’re okay.”
“Good. I’d hate to lose a great bridge partner.”
I smile and for a moment we’re both silent, watching the old black-and-white film footage of boats filled with young American GIs surging towards the French beaches. Some of the young soldiers look grim. A few smile at the camera.
They had no idea what was to come, did they?
He turns the volume on the program up, and we listen until the commercial break. He mutes the sound again and asks if I’m still planning on working at that downtown florist this week.
“I’ve agreed to help her for the rest of the week but have warned her I might not be available after that. I’ve got to get back to Scottsdale soon.”
“I’ve been expecting it.”
I sit forward on the couch. “I’m quite sure I know what you’re going to say, but I have to ask anyway. Are you sure you don’t want—”
“Yes.”
“Why won’t you even consider it?”
“Because it’s hot. Too damn hot. And Phoenix is ugly. I hate the sprawl—”
“I’m not in Phoenix. I live in Scottsdale—”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not. But regardless, I’m there.”
He lowers the footrest, and sits up. “And I like seeing you, Alison, I do. But I can see you here.”
“But it means I won’t see you often.”
“I understand. You’ve got your career, and bills . . . all those bills from dental school. Now’s the time you focus on work. That’s what you do in your twenties and thirties.”
My chest tightened, so much pressure inside. “You’re not a spring chicken. I won’t have forever with you.”
“But we don’t have forever with anyone, which is why you need someone your age. As much as I love you, I’m not your future.”
I stand up and kiss him good-bye. He reaches out to catch my hand. “You’re the one unhappy in Scottsdale. Why stay there? Why stay in that house—”
“It’s all I have of him, Dad.”
“Then at least get a dog. You need a dog.”
“I’m not home enough to have a pet.”
“Then take the dog to work. Everybody does it these days.”
• • •
It’s Tuesday and Dad and Edie play bridge on Tuesday mornings, so I know where I’ll find them when I show up at Napa Estates.
The game hasn’t started yet. They are waiting for the other couple to show. Dad uses the time to go to the rest room, leaving Edie and me alone in the Reading Room.
“Edie, yesterday you told me you didn’t get to say good-bye, either. Why not? What happened?”
“War happened.”
“Had he enlisted, or been drafted?”
She shuffles the cards carefully, once, twice. “He wasn’t American. He
was German.” She taps the cards into a tidy deck. “I met him in Germany, in Berlin, when I was working at the American embassy.”
I struggle to make sense of this. “He worked at the embassy, too?”
“Not exactly.” She taps the cards on the table, glances at the doorway, anticipating the arrival of the others. “When I first met him, he worked at the German Foreign Office, and then later, for the Ministry of Propaganda. During the twenty months I worked at the American embassy, our paths crossed many times, formally and informally. It was a clandestine affair. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Because he was a . . . Nazi?”
“After a certain point, virtually everyone was required to be a member of the Nationalist Socialist German Workers’ Party. Once Hitler had consolidated his power, there wasn’t a choice.”
“So he was.”
“It’s not that simple.” She set the deck of cards in front of her. “I know countless Germans who were sent to concentration camps for making a flippant remark, and they were reported.” She folds her hands on the table. “You don’t know what happened, so you are in no position to judge.”
“I’m not judging.”
“Not all Germans were bad.”
“But the Nazis were.”
She leans towards me, eyes sharp and bright. “Germans weren’t the only ones with propaganda ministries. The Allied forces had their own agenda, and the US entered the war too late. And when they did enter, they were more interested in winning the ‘battle’ than saving lives. Millions died in those camps who didn’t need to die—” She breaks off, shakes her head, and reaches for the cards again.
She shuffles them once more. “I am happy to discuss the Germans and the Nazis and the war with you. But you should have your facts correct before you make assumptions.”
• • •
I woke up sympathetic and curious about Edie’s life this morning and stopped by Napa Estates to speak with her, but when I leave the retirement home for Bloom, I’m annoyed. Agitated.
Edie is a hard woman to like.
She’s imperious and cold, critical and acerbic. I don’t know why I’ve tried to bond with her. She’s too difficult. She’s not someone I want or need to know.
I arrive at Bloom eager to get to work. I don’t enjoy being in a bad mood and I am hoping that the beauty of the flowers will distract me and help my mood improve.
Diana has a lot of orders waiting for me and I quickly get lost in the flower arranging. This morning it’s a variety of bouquets, too. There are orders for birthdays, anniversaries, new babies, and high school graduations.
I’m lucky that Diana likes my work and gives me a lot of freedom. Once I have selected a vase and have a vision in mind, I can lose myself in the physical task of arranging the stems and creating order. It’s nice to be able to have busy hands and free thoughts.
As a dentist I have to be very focused. The work is all about precision. My freshman year in dental school was the most stressful year of my life. I hadn’t anticipated the pressure to be perfect . . . it is the only acceptable result . . . and it doesn’t end, not in this profession. I remember back in school the angst we all felt as we learned new skills: making wax teeth, drawing teeth, drilling teeth, and how you couldn’t pass if you didn’t have great hands. Not good hands. Great hands.
And great judgment.
That was another eye-opener. You were constantly being judged on your judgment, just as everyone around you was being judged, too.
Dental school was relentless and it is such an enormous high—and relief—when you finish school and pass the WRED. There is new pressure, of course, as you must now find patients and fill out a schedule and figure out how to address your debt. Some of us left school a quarter million dollars in debt. And you don’t make much in the beginning. You’re lucky to earn a hundred thousand a year and that’s before taxes and expenses.
You can see why it takes a long time to whittle the debt down.
It’s a relief to not have to be as intensely focused now. I can work on the arrangements and hum along to music, or daydream, or think about things.
Like Edie telling me that the love of her life was a Nazi.
I hadn’t seen that one coming.
And Edie was so prickly and defensive about Germany and the Nazi party that I can’t help wondering if she hadn’t been a Nazi, too . . .
I’m just finishing up my second high school graduation arrangement when the Bloom’s front door opens and Craig Hallahan walks in, carrying a box filled with the glass hurricanes from the event at the winery last Thursday night.
I feel a quick bright surge of emotion, a happy emotion, and I smile at him. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” he answers, smiling back as he sets the box on the counter. “I thought Diana would like these back.”
I peek into the box; the hurricanes are sparkling clean. Considerate man. “She’s just run to the bank, but I’m sure she’ll be very happy to have them back,” I answer, surprised by the pleasure I felt when he walked in. I haven’t felt anything like that in a long time. It’s probably a good thing I’m leaving Napa soon. Down the road when I do decide to date again, whoever it is won’t be related to Edie Stephens.
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“No, but I don’t usually take lunch here. There’s too much to do to leave.”
“Diana said you were dedicated.”
“I enjoy the work. No one is scared to see me, and I don’t cause anyone pain.”
“I’ve never been scared to see the dentist,” he answers. “But my brother is one of those nervous patients. Never understood why.”
“Some people have to have more work done than others, and there are those who are more sensitive or don’t numb up as well. Fortunately, I usually only get one patient a day who’s nervous, so that’s not too bad, but I’ve had days where there are a few really terrified patients, and when they are back to back, it’s discouraging.”
“So you enjoy your work.”
“I do. It feels good to know I help people.”
“So you’re not going to stay up here and be a florist?”
“No. I need to get back to my real life.”
“Diana will miss you.”
There is something very quiet and real in his voice and I look up into his face and search his eyes. His expression is as steady as his voice, and I feel a stab of regret that I’m leaving.
It was good for me, being here.
It was good to get away from the Scottsdale office with its chilly air conditioner and whir of drills and wash of chemicals. I can see now that I felt frozen there, surrounded by Andrew’s work and family. Here in Napa I’ve begun to warm up. Wake up. I can see that there might be light—and life—at the end of the tunnel. “It’s been fun, helping Diana out. I feel like a kid at camp, getting to participate in all the craft activities.”
He grins, and creases fan at his eyes and bracket his mouth. He’s tan—sun kissed—and I swear he exudes a mix of earthy soil and pungent wine. “You went to camp?” he asks.
I nod. “Girl Scout camp at St. Albans every summer. Loved it. It was a traditional overnight camp . . . hiking, horseback riding, archery, canoeing, crafts, campfires, all of it.”
“A Girl Scout, huh?”
“From kindergarten until my junior year of high school. Brownie, Junior, Cadette, Senior.”
“You really liked Girl Scouts.”
“I did. And I earned every badge you could.” I bite the inside of my lip as he laughs, but it’s a good laugh, deep and husky and it makes me feel warm, even a little giddy. “Scouting isn’t just cookies and camp. It’s about building skills and leadership.”
“That does fit into your profile.”
“You didn’t do Boy Scouts?”
He shakes his head. “Chad and I played both sports—football, basketball, baseball—and participated in 4-H and FFA, along with our work on the ranch.”
“FFA?”
“Ah.” He’s all about the outdoors and growing things and building things and he’s a bit like summer camp . . . wholesome adventure. Healthy activity. Fresh and fun.
I smile at him. I can’t help it.
“I love your smile,” he says, lips curving, but his voice is low. Quiet. He’s not flirting. He means it.
I’m flattered, but flustered. “I have good teeth.”
“The teeth have nothing to do with the dimples, or the way your eyes crinkle. You smile with your whole face. It’s beautiful.”
Andrew said the same thing, which is why he loved to tease me, to make me smile, and suddenly I feel the old lump back in my throat, the one that makes my chest feel tight and heavy. “You sound like Andrew,” I whisper, struggling to keep smiling but my eyes burn and the ache inside me grows, wider, larger. I miss him so much still. I miss my best friend. He was such a good friend. He knew everything about me. He understood my jokes, my anxiety, my need to please as well as accomplish great things. “He’d say the most outrageous things just to make me laugh. I loved how he could make me laugh.”
“Sounds like a good man.”
He was.
I almost break down and have to turn away, facing the back wall and running my fingers beneath my eyes to stop the tears before they fall.
I haven’t felt like crying in days. I’m caught off guard by all the emotion now.
“I should probably get back to work,” I say, when I’m able to turn around, smiling stiffly. I feel stoic. Martyr-like. I hate it.
“I should get back to the winery, too. It’s busy in the tasting room. Make sure I’m not needed.” He turns to leave but hesitates. “Oh, and Ali, I don’t really know what happened earlier this morning with you and my aunt Edie, but she’s got herself worked up over whatever was said—” He breaks off and drags a hand through his shaggy blonde hair, pushing it back off his face. “Don’t know if you could go by tonight, on your way home, and talk to her . . . maybe smooth things over?”
I look at him, uncomfortable. “Your aunt can be quite sharp.”
“Yes, I know. She’s not an easy person.”
