Lilies That Fester

by Janis Harrison

  “There will be four workshops,” she explained, “and here are their titles. ‘Long Live Fresh Flowers—processing new arrivals to your shop.’ ‘Advertise. Advertise. Advertise—selling your service.’”

  Robbee whispered in my ear. “I’ve heard the speaker is from some backwater town up north but has built her business into a helluva profit-maker. I could use some pointers.”

  “‘Nasturtiums—edible plants and flowers,’” rambled Allison. “‘Sympathy Bouquets—buttering our bread with profit.’” She sat down to a weak round of applause.

  Tyrone took over again. “The success of this conference takes a cooperative effort on everyone’s part. Bernice is making sure our finances are in order. Effie is recording our decisions so future conference committees can refer to her notes.”

  He picked up a paper from the table and waved it. “I have here the reservation list for those attending the Haversham Hall and Conservatory tour that will take place tomorrow afternoon. Of those in this room only Bretta has signed up.”

  Robbee leaned close. “Suck up. Trying to find favor with the president?”

  My answer was a well-placed elbow. He responded with a soft grunt.

  “—see all of your names on this roster,” said Tyrone. “You are the stars of this conference. I want you to mix and mingle. Let the attendees see you and talk to you. As for myself, my door is always open. I will listen to any suggestions on how to improve the quality of this weekend.”

  This was it. Now Tyrone would say something about the board supporting me on keeping the categories secret. I was wrong, and gritted my teeth in frustration.

  “Our industry is part of a Global Garden. Flowers are shipped from all over the world. In our daily lives, we use words such as heliconia, anthuriums, dendrobiums, bromeliads, and bougainvillea. These names sound more like pharmaceutical prescriptions than flowers.”

  Tyrone paused for laughter. When there was none, he continued undaunted. “In my opinion, holidays put us under more stress per situation than any other profession, other than the medical field. Our job is to provide a service with imagination and panache. We have to show our customers that while they can exist without flowers, their world is a better place because of them.”

  “Why is he telling us this stuff?” asked Robbee.

  I shrugged.

  “Global Garden refers to the ease with which we can obtain any flower at any given time. Tulips in August. Lilacs in September. Orchids. Gardenias. Somewhere in the world these flowers are available—if we’re willing to pay the price. Hybridizers and growers are working relentlessly to develop something new and exciting to showcase our unique skills.”

  I smothered a yawn. Monarchy … malarkey. Effie was right about the definition of Tyrone’s name. His demeanor was that of a ruler. He had a captive audience and was milking the attention for every pint.

  My mind wandered. My eyes strayed to Gellie. Since she’d entered the room, I’d fought the urge to stare. It was as if my friend had died, and in her place was this strange woman—Angelica, who was now checking her image in the mirror of her compact. The old Gellie would have ordered a king-sized mug of coffee, laced it with four teaspoons of sugar, then dug into the rolls and butter while flashing me comical faces during Tyrone’s long-winded speech.

  Had my personality undergone such a drastic change when I’d shed one hundred pounds? My weight loss was enmeshed with Carl’s death. When he passed away, I’d lost the taste for food. Those first twenty pounds had dropped off without any conscious effort on my part. The next eighty had been fought with a war of wills.

  My desire for cheeseburgers and chocolate had come back with a vengeance, but by that time I was motivated to lose the weight. The new style of clothes I was able to wear kept me from overindulging, but I’d had some major setbacks. I was a junk-food junky and tried to steer clear of goodies that would trigger my appetite. The taste of a forbidden food sliding over my palate was enough to send me into an eating frenzy, especially if I was under pressure.

  “—and now Bretta will fill us in on the design categories,” finished Tyrone.

  I’d only been preoccupied for a moment. Had I missed something? I whispered to Robbee, “Did he say anything about the board agreeing with me?”

  “Nope.”

  I swung my head around to glare at Tyrone, who stared at me with exalted eloquence. Pulling in a lung full of oxygen, I slowly released it in a ladylike sigh. Nodding and smiling graciously, I came to my feet. “Thank you, Tyrone, for this opportunity. Working with you on this conference has been a valuable lesson. You are the quintessential modern-day president.” I lowered my gaze on him so he wouldn’t miss my implication.

  Slowly I enunciated each word. “I’m the contest coordinator. I was given free rein to conduct this competition as I saw fit. I have no guidelines since this is the first such contest held by our association, but I do have experience. I have attended other floral contests. Like it or lump it, ladies and gentlemen, the categories will remain a secret.”

  I sank to the chair when my knees gave out. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure everyone could hear it in the silence that followed my statement. Across the table, Gellie smacked her bony hands together. “You go, Bretta. Stick to your guns. Let the chips fall where they may.”

  Zach cleared his throat, and eyes ricocheted from Gellie to his handsome face. I’d noticed that he sat forward in his chair as if it didn’t have a back. That’s probably what came of exercising come hell or high water or while at a florist convention. I was hunched over like a toad and quickly made an effort to sit up straight.

  “Frankly, I don’t see the hassle,” said Zach. “We’re professionals. We do this for a living. What difference does it make as to the categories? I’m looking forward to the challenge.” He delivered a smile in my direction, then rocked back, satisfied that he’d had his say in the matter.

  I nodded thank you, then saw a funny look come over his face. He gasped and leaped to his feet, turning over the chair in his haste. He acted as if he had an itch, twisting and clawing at his backside.

  “Help me,” he shouted. “Something is stuck in … my—”

  He turned toward Darren, who wrapped his hand with a linen napkin. I saw him give a hard yank, then hold up a blood-smeared knife.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Darren. “How did that get in your chair?”

  Zach’s handsome face was etched with lines of pain. “More importantly, I want to know how it got in my ass. What fool would leave an open knife in a chair?”

  “An old fool,” said Effie tearfully, rising unsteadily. She wobbled around the table and took the napkin-wrapped knife from Darren. With hands trembling, she explained, “My grandnephew had it specially made for me. My old fingers can’t work a regular florist knife. This one has a spring-loaded blade. When a bit of pressure is applied to the casing, the blade slides out ready for use.”

  Robbee said, “Holy cow! Granny’s packing a switchblade. Who’d have thought it.”

  Effie turned to him. “I suppose you could call it that, but it isn’t one of those gangster-type weapons. As you can see the blade is only three inches long, but I’ve … uh … honed it to a surgical sharpness.”

  Zach snorted. “Damned right. That blade sliced my ass like a piece of steak. I’m lucky it went through my coattail and trousers before embedding itself in my butt. If Bretta had sat here, she might’ve had a serious injury.”

  “Now, now,” said Tyrone. “Let’s not make this more than it is. You’d better go have that wound tended to, Zach. Ask someone at the front desk who to call.”

  Zach left the dining room grumbling and limping. Effie looked as if she was about to pass out. I put my arm around her shoulders and helped her into her chair. “It was an accident, Effie. He’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, but I feel terrible. I don’t understand how the knife got into that chair. I had it in the basket I brought the place cards in. I’m sure I didn’t take it out.
”

  Suddenly Delia scooted away from the table and stood up.

  Effie looked her over and whispered to me. “Greek, dear. Delia means ‘easily seen.’ In that red outfit, she’d stop a tenton truck.”

  Delia glared accusingly around the room. “We’ve had our little drama, now can we get back to the important subject of this weekend? I gather that Miriam and I are the only ones that see this contest as a potential fiasco. Bretta has to be made to see that we deserve to know—”

  Her speech came to a grinding halt when Gellie asked the waitress for a cup of hot water, and the young woman didn’t understand the request.

  “Hot water,” repeated Gellie, pulling a tea bag from a zippered pouch in her purse. She glanced across the table at me and winked. “Lesser of two evils, Bretta,” she said quietly.

  I didn’t know what Gellie meant until she said in a more normal voice, “What a wonderful idea to present a trophy to the winner.”

  I shook my head at her and tried not to laugh. Deep down inside where it counted, Gellie hadn’t changed. She knew that if Delia persisted on this overworked subject, I’d be pissed, and might tell the whole group to take a hike. However, a wrangle with Bernice was wicked pleasure.

  Bernice is tall, broad, and has all the finesse of an ocean liner. Cajole and flatter aren’t in her vocabulary. She speaks her mind, has the last say, and takes pleasure in leaving demoralized bodies in her wake. I just didn’t plan on being one. Before she spoke, I turned to her, knowing what was coming. She didn’t disappoint.

  “Where is the bill for that trophy? How much did it cost?”

  I named a figure that caused her to slump against the table. Her speechlessness lasted for a breath, but when she opened her mouth, I was ahead of her. “I haven’t gone over my allotted budget, Bernice. With so many donated items, I’m justified in spending the money. The trip to Hawaii is wonderful, but I want to hand the winner something special when he or she succeeds.”

  “You should have told me. Keeping hidden expenditures from the treasurer is a sure way of getting things out of kilter. I’m responsible for every cent, and I intend for these books to show a profit.” She glanced at Tyrone before peering suspiciously at me. “Which reminds me. Where is the bill for the shipment that was delivered about an hour ago?”

  Frowning, I asked, “What shipment? The contest flowers will arrive in the morning.”

  “When I was in the basement a Federal Express man brought a huge box. There was no bill of lading. No invoice. Nothing.”

  I wondered what she was doing in the basement. “Perhaps it’s another donation.”

  “From California? What wholesaler from out west is going to donate flowers for a contest in Missouri?”

  “Maybe it’s a direct shipment from the grower. I won’t know until I check my notes.”

  Delia had sat down, but now she leaned forward. Her tone was sarcastic. “You mean you really have something written down? There are plans? There are notes? There is a list of categories?”

  “Yes, Delia. I’ve worked damned hard on this contest.”

  “So you say, but we haven’t seen any proof.”

  “Now, ladies,” said Tyrone, “I will not tolerate this bickering. Adverse undercurrents will be sensed by the attendees and put a damper on the festivities.”

  “This contest could be fun for everyone,” I said. “If everyone will back off.”

  Miriam surveyed me coolly. “Bretta won’t change her mind, and we’re using our energy arguing a lost cause. We’ll have to prepare for the competition in another way.” She looked across the table at Darren and flashed him a smile. “How about sharing some of your wonderful design techniques? I’m curious how you can come up with one fantastic piece of work after another and another.”

  Before Darren could speak, a trio of tray-bearing waitresses came into the room. The aroma of food turned my stomach, but more upsetting was the company I’d have to keep while eating. I pleaded a headache and left the dining room.

  The headache hadn’t been a lie, but I didn’t want to shut myself in my room. I stepped to the door of the main dining room, but it was crowded, not a single empty table in sight. The bar was open, but I wasn’t a drinker or I’d have hopped on a stool and knocked back a couple of margaritas.

  I bet Zach could use a stout potion to dull the pain of his wounded posterior and pride. It wouldn’t help his macho image to be seen gimping around the hotel, favoring his butt. I was sorry it had happened—sorry for him and for Effie, but I was glad Zach had traded chairs with me. In this flimsy skirt and panty hose that knife would have scored a deeper hit, and I’d have been out of commission.

  In the hall I looked around wondering where to go, and what to do? The new shipment of flowers popped into my mind. When in doubt, do what comes naturally: work. A long flight from California meant the flowers needed water.

  The hall was congested with people waiting for a table. I sidestepped several, murmured “excuse me” a couple of times, then hurried past the elevators to the stairwell that would take me to the corner of the basement nearest the storage rooms designated for our contest.

  I had opened the stairwell door when a hand touched my bare arm. The contact was warm but surprising. Startled, I turned to find Bailey smiling at me.

  “You look upset,” he said, nodding to the stairs. “Shortcut to your room?”

  “Nope. Basement.”

  He grinned. “Really feeling low, huh?”

  That’s the kind of comeback Carl used to make, and I smiled at the memory. But my lip action froze when I met Bailey’s warm gaze.

  Abruptly I said, “An unexpected shipment of flowers has arrived, and someone needs to cut the stems and put them in warm water. I decided I might as well do the job since I’m not feeling very sociable.” I tacked this last on hoping he’d get my drift.

  “I’d like to see these flowers,” he said, taking my elbow and urging me through the stairwell doorway. The door clunked shut behind us.

  I smothered a resigned sigh. Short of being rude to him, I didn’t see how to get rid of him. We were silent as we went down the first flight of steps. The aroma of his aftershave lotion was pleasant but thought-provoking. I’d know that scent anywhere. Carl had worn Old Spice every day of his life.

  Bailey clomped behind me, not saying a word. Finally, I said, “Besides being an avid gardener and butterfly enthusiast, what do you do?”

  “I’m a deejay for a radio station outside of St. Louis. I play golden oldies for my audience.”

  That was my favorite music, but I’d never have pegged Bailey as a rock and roller. I glanced over my shoulder at the easy way he wore his suit. The navy jacket was neatly buttoned. His burgundy tie hung straight, the knot tied with precision. “I’d have guessed you were an IRS man, banker, accountant—a suit and tie kind of profession.”

  “Really? I’m most comfortable in jeans and sneakers.”

  I stopped to massage my left foot where a blister was forming. “Me, too. These heels weren’t made to traipse down nine flights of stairs.” I looked at his feet. Spit and polish penny loafers without the pennies. In place of the copper coins, Bailey had substituted dimes. An interesting piece of trivia, and when I had a free moment, I might speculate on what it meant.

  “I assume we’re taking this route because you were in too much of a rush to wait for the elevators?” asked Bailey.

  I slipped my shoe back on and started down the steps again. “I hate heights and those glass-fronted elevators are too exposed for my taste.”

  “Oh, so you have a case of acrophobia. My second wife was claustrophobic. Could barely tolerate an open closet door. She’d toss my shirts at the hangers and seem amazed when none draped themselves obligingly around the wire frames. Of course, my third wife wasn’t much better. Her problem was allergies—vacuum cleaners, washing machines, ironing boards, and dishwashers. You name it. If it involved moving off the couch, she became incapacitated.”

  I couldn�
��t keep from sounding flabbergasted. “You’ve been married three times?”

  “Guilty as charged. I’m not proud of my mistakes, but I’m not accepting all the blame. It takes two to make a relationship. My first wife was a paragon. When she passed away, I should have been content with memories of a good marriage.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Car crash. Slick roads. It’s been five years, but the pain is still there.”

  “Yeah. My husband died twenty-two months ago.”

  Bailey whistled softly. “Tough time. I remember it well. You don’t fit in. Still feel married, but no spouse. No spouse, but it’s difficult going out with anyone.”

  Finally someone who understood. Lois was forever pushing me to date and telling me to “get back in the scheme of things.” I looked over my shoulder at Bailey. “That’s right. I’ve tried dating, but I feel as if I’m cheating on Carl.”

  “I thought wife number two would fill a void in my life. Instead of solving my problem, she created more than I wanted to handle.”

  I hurried on down the stairs. That’s what I feared. Carl and I’d been in sync with few minor discords. Behind me, Bailey continued talking. “I divorced her and swore off any serious relationships. I dated a few times, but mostly I sat home. Then I met my third wife and fell for her like a randy teenager. She was beautiful, even laughed at my jokes.”

  “This was the wife allergic to housework? You could have hired a maid if she was perfect in other areas.”

  “Not perfect by a long shot. Did I mention that she gained forty pounds in the six months we were married?”

  “Oh?” I kept my tone neutral. “Do you have an aversion to heavy women?”

  “Women who don’t care about their looks irritate me. Fat women, in particular, annoy the hell out of me. They blame genetics, sluggish metabolism, underactive thyroid, or some such medical problem, when all they need to do is shut their mouths and get up off their wide behinds.”

  His insensitive words hurt. Right then and there, I should have set Bailey straight that overeating has many contributing factors and rarely is laziness among them. I should have told him that I’d once been overweight, but I’d never spent my time lounging around the house. Perhaps I’d eaten the wrong foods, but I wasn’t a slacker. However, those explanations were too personal to make to a man I didn’t know. Instead I navigated the last three flights of stairs in silence.