by Amelia Grace
Ma: You need to go back to the store tomorrow.
Me: Is Gram unwell?
Ma: She’s had a car accident.
I’ll talk to you when you get home.
I shoved my phone into my pocket and mounted the bike. I hit the pedals hard to get home. Fast.
Chapter Sixteen
THE DAY YAWNED AND STRETCHED when I arrived at Flowers for Fleur. I dismounted my bike and leaned it against the wall while I unlocked the doors and turned on the lights. I wheeled the black beast into Gram’s office and pushed her bicycle out to the front, then set about arranging a floral bouquet of peonies to adorn it. I returned to the shop, donned my florist apron and started on my list of necessary jobs before I even thought about putting flowers in metal buckets outside the store to welcome the day.
I ran my hand over my forehead. Wild, wicked, Wednesday. That’s what I called it. Gram called it wonderful Wednesday. This is the day all the market flowers came in. It was also the day older blooms were prepped and placed outside the store for a quick sale.
I heard the jangle of keys and the back door creaked. Darcy was here. He was the colour of grey with an “e” today, like the rain clouds—melancholy, deep thought, philosophy and ponderings.
‘Morning, Andi,’ he said, his tone flat.
I gave him a thumbs-up. It’s all I could muster after yesterday’s conversation.
‘I thought you had the day off?’
‘I did. Gram was in an accident. She’s in hospital.’
Darcy stopped walking. ‘Is she okay?’
‘Mostly, I think.’
‘I’m sorry about your Gram.’
‘Me too.’
Darcy headed over to crank up the barista machine and start the process of baking muffins for the morning rush.
The back door creaked again. This time Charlotte walked through with liquid sunshine following her. It should be illegal to smile that brightly at this time of the morning.
She walked over to me, her smile fading. She gave me a hug. ‘Sorry about your gram.’
‘Thanks ... and thanks for coming in on wild, wicked, Wednesday!’ I couldn’t hide my sarcasm.
Charlotte burst out laughing. ‘I call it weird Wednesday. It’s like the entire store takes on a new look. Everything changes, and you have to relearn the store all over again.’
‘That’s for sure.’
‘Hey. Let’s put flowers in our hair!’
I smiled at Charlotte, hiding the shiver that travelled down my spine. Memories do that.
‘Keep your head down, Mr Johnson will see us!’ Mia said while we laid on our tummies in the clover field.
‘But there’s a bee!’
‘Bee bee bumble bee. Be still and it will go away, Landi.’
‘Do you think we are invisible enough?’ I asked.
‘Has Mr Johnson got his glasses on?’
I lifted my head and peeked in Mr Johnson’s direction. ‘No.’
‘Then we’re invisible!’
‘You know we’re trespassing ...’
‘Mr Johnson knows us, so it can’t be trespassing ...’ Mia finished making a head garland out of clover flowers. She lifted it up and placed it onto my head. ‘Now you’re a princess. Tell me, eight-year-old Princess Yolande, who will be your prince?’
I rolled onto my back and looked up at the clouds. ‘I would rather have the dragon than the prince.’
‘A dragon?’
‘Yes. It breathes fire and I can sit on it while it flies high into the clouds ...’
‘Yolande! How on earth will you live happily ever after?’
‘I will.’ I took the clover garland off my head and placed it onto Mia’s. ‘Now you are a princess. Tell me, eight-year-old Princess Mia, who will be your prince?’
‘That’s easy. My prince will be that boy at ballet class. The tall one with the dark hair.’
I gave Mia a smile and giggled. ‘You can have him. He’s got boy germs!’
‘Very nice boy germs!’
‘Eeeew! Mia.’
‘Princess Mia to you!’
‘Yolande?’ Charlotte’s voice pulled me back to the store.
‘Sure. Let’s go with a daisy or two. Super flower power!’
Charlotte grabbed four daisies. She put two in my hair at the back and two in hers at the side. ‘It’s a good thing your Gram isn’t here. She wouldn’t approve of our frivolity.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said as I looked at myself in the reflection of the window. ‘We might start a trend and increase the profit margin ...’
‘True,’ Charlotte said, and gave me a cheeky smile as she went to the sales desk to her job list.
I opened the order book and ran my finger down the page. The aroma of coffee alerted me to Darcy’s presence. He placed the brew on the work bench. ‘Coffee is like a hug in a mug,’ he said.
I looked up at him. He was frowning.
‘It’s better with a dash of whiskey, then the hug in a mug becomes a caress to stop the stress!’ I said.
Darcy shook his head at me, slowly. ‘The floral hair is very becoming.’ He reached around and touched my daisy. ‘Do girls still use daisies for “he loves me, he loves me not”?’
I closed my eyes and shook my head for a moment, trying to block a memory from returning.
I looked up at Darcy. ‘It’s a necessary game that prepares girls for analysing potential partners. If one moment the man of your life loves you, and the next moment you’re saying, he loves me not, he doesn’t love you enough. End of story. End of relationship. End of conversation. I have work to do. Thanks for my whiskey-less coffee.’ I lifted the mug to my lips and took a sip of the coffee. I closed my eyes as I tasted the cappuccino laced with chocolate. More chocolate than a mocha, and a teaspoon of raw sugar. It was more than delicious. It was like a love potion for my body and mind with an added kick of fantasy.
When I opened my eyes to thank Darcy, he was walking to the café with his hands behind his head. Was he frustrated? That would be a rare occurrence for the calm, patient and wise man. Perhaps I rattled his bones with the daisy talk?
At 8.20am, I carried the “hot sale” flowers to display outside the store in their tin buckets, and arranged them for a visual explosion on the eyes. Satisfied, I turned to re-enter the store, when I saw a note nestled in the peonies in the bicycle basket. I walked over and removed it. It was addressed to “Yolande” in inked cursive handwriting. Xander. He was the only one who wrote with a nib pen. I slipped the note into my apron pocket and re-entered the store for the morning onslaught.
I went directly toward the sales desk. Charlotte was busy with a customer at the daisies, arranging one in the customer’s hair. I smiled. Maybe we could start a trend.
‘Flowers, tea, coffee or books?’ I asked. The person in front of me was elderly. She held a tissue box and dabbed at her eyes while she sobbed. She was the colour of happy yellow, yet her behaviour was the colour of black.
‘Flowers ... for a funeral,’ she said.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Who are the flowers for?’
‘On top of my husband’s casket.’ She started to cry.
I breathed out my sadness. ‘How long were you married for?’
‘Fifty-five years.’ She dabbed at her eyes, again. ‘I want the flowers to celebrate.’
I swallowed and looked down, opened the order book, then looked back at the woman.
‘These aren’t tears of grief, my dear, they are tears of relief! He made me stand on the scales every morning so he could check my weight, then he would tell me what I could eat for the day, if I could eat!’
I watched her dab away more tears. How sad was her story? Perhaps I should write “Memoirs of a Florist”? ‘What type of flowers would you like Mrs ...’
‘Williams, Mrs Williams. Black roses would be perfect, except I have to play the role of the mourning, devastated wife to fulfil the requirements of the will.’
I felt a heavy burden for Mrs Williams,
her late husband was controlling her behaviour, even after his death. ‘So then, to keep up the façade, I’m thinking you need flowers for a beautiful remembrance—yes?’ I said, trying to make sense of the situation.
‘Oh, yes, dear.’
‘We’ll deliver them, Mrs Williams. Please write down the details of the date and place of delivery. Then enjoy a complimentary pot of tea while I choose some flowers I think will honour your late husband.’
‘Oh my, how sweet of you. Thank you.’
I left Mrs Williams to fill out the details while I went to the workbench and found Gram’s Book of Fantastical Flower Designs. I flipped through the pages and stopped at funerals for men, husbands, fathers and sons. There was one design that looked like the perfect arrangement for Mrs Williams’s little pretence.
I joined Mrs Williams at her table. ‘I believe I have found a fitting arrangement.’ I showed her the illustration. ‘It contains orchids, protea, anthurium, lotus pods, pittosporum, aspidistra, salal and ti leaves. It has a beautiful blend of red, yellow, orange and green colours that oozes warmth from your heart. It’s quite stunning.’
‘It looks and sounds as wonderful as this pot of tea. Thank you, dear. I have left the date, time and place on the paperwork for you, as well as invoice details.’
‘Perfect. Enjoy your tea, Mrs Williams, and I’ll be thinking of you as you celebrate your husband stepping into eternity.’
I returned to the sales desk and entered the details of Mrs Williams’s order.
My phone vibrated. A text.
GRAMPS: Gram had a vertigo attack while she
was driving. That’s why she crashed the car.
ME: No ... she said she had no more vertigo.
She said it was gone. For good.
GRAMPS: Only in her dreams and wishes.
She will lose her driver’s license for certain.
ME: This can’t be happening! Is she okay?
GRAMPS: I know. I can’t believe it either.
She’s sore and sorry for herself and the doctors
are keeping her in for more tests.
ME: Good. I hope they diagnose her this time.
GRAMPS: Me too ... me too.
ME: Gotta go. The store is busy.
GRAMPS: Of course. Thanks for coming in on your day off.
ME: No problem.
I pushed my phone into my pocket and looked up. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ah ... flowers ... please.’ He shuffled from foot to foot. He was nervous. He was young. He was the colour of rose red, filled with love.
‘Hmmm ... girl’s love flowers,’ I said. ‘Are they for anyone special?’
‘Ummm ...’ He looked from the left to the right then leaned in closer. ‘For my girlfriend ... well I want her to be my girlfriend ... I’m going to ask her to be my girl.’ He blew air out between his lips.
I nodded my head at him and smiled. ‘I would love for a guy to give me flowers and ask me to be his girlfriend.’ I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. ‘It will make it even more memorable. A good choice, I say,’ I said to the young man.
He seemed to relax a little.
‘How long have you known her?’
‘Er ... eight months.’
‘So, you know her well then ...’
‘Er ... no.’
‘No?’
‘I see her every day on the train ... that’s all ...’
‘Aaah ... so she’s the girl on the train?’ The corners of my lips rose.
He gave me a crooked smile and looked down. ‘Ah ... yes.’
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Okay ... so you want to play the flower game to win her over—right?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Roses are a no go—they are an assertion of love, and you don’t want to declare your hand yet. Daisies are too innocent and not impressive enough to make a statement. So, I’m thinking a bouquet of ranunculus. They come in ... like paint box of colours ... and are quite exquisite!’
‘Sounds good.’
He followed me to the ranunculus display. ‘There’s many to choose from. It’s all yours from here. Please pay at the sales desk, and ... good luck!’
‘Thanks.’
Done. A funeral full of lies and a girlfriend to be. I was finished at the sales desk. Charlotte could charm people for the rest of the day. I had new flowers to refrigerate, a never-ending list of orders to make up and send out for delivery, stock to order, and displays to replenish.
At 2pm, I stepped outside to catch some sun rays. I was about to re-enter the store when I heard my name.
‘Yolande?’ The voice belonged to a man who wore white clothes and a white apron with Henry's Hooter in blue on the front.
‘Yes?’
‘I have a delivery for you, with the instructions to hand it to you personally.’
‘Oh?’
He held out a pastel green box. On top of the box was a note with the handwritten words “wish granted”. It was Xander’s handwriting in black ink.
I smiled and took the box from him. ‘Thanks.’
When the delivery man left I opened the box. Inside were three large slices of cake. Exactly what I needed on this super- busy, wild, wicked, Wednesday. I wondered if Xander knew he had perfect timing.
By 4pm the daisies were totally sold out. Somehow, daisy hair became a thing today. Gram would be more than pleased.
I wheeled Gram’s bicycle into the store for the night at 5pm, after giving away my two daisies to a little girl who walked by holding her father’s hand. I watched as a sunshiny smile lit up her face, filling me with joy.
I rubbed my thighs. My legs were tired after the maniac of a day. Perhaps it was the bicycle riding making my muscles ache. I sighed, wondering where I would get the energy to ride home. I had an hour left to do the books and clean the store ready for business tomorrow. I had gained a new admiration for Gram. She had been working in her store for fifty years and never had she moaned or groaned about the amount of effort it took.
I yawned as I removed my work apron and hung it up on the hook behind the sales desk. I patted down the pockets to check for anything that shouldn’t be left in there, like wire, scissors, ribbon, pens, twine or bloom satchels. I stopped when I found the note from Gram’s bicycle bouquet. I had totally forgotten about it. I removed it from the pocket and opened it up. Two tickets fell from the folded note. I bent down and picked them up off the floor. They were ballet tickets. I opened the letter from Xander.
Dear Yolande and Mrs. Lawrence,
I would like to thank you both for supporting me by allowing me the generous use of your bicycle for my mother’s birthday, and to you, Yolande, for being a wonderful birthday party bicycle supervisor and my tag-along partner. We learned that my dear mother does not have Alzheimer’s or dementia, and that every memory of her bicycle days is indeed intact.
It would be remiss of me to not return your kindness with kindness. So, please enjoy a night at the ballet, on me. I can guarantee you that it will be a magical evening for you both.
Thank you, from my sisters, my father and myself,
Xander
I put my hand over my heart. What a sweet thing to do. But Gram—how could she watch a ballet with her unpredictable health?
Swan Lake was three days away. Perhaps she would be well enough to go by then?
‘What time is your taxi coming tonight, Andi?’ Darcy called.
It was 6pm. That was my routine. The taxi would arrive at 6pm exactly, every single work day that I was here. ‘It’s not,’ I said, and wheeled my bicycle out from Gram’s office.
Darcy whistled. ‘Could this be the new chariot?’ He walked over and cast his eyes over the bike. My bike.
I stood on the tip toe of my safety boots and smiled. ‘Yes. Welcome to my velocipede.’
Darcy leaned over and ran his hand along the frame. Slowly. Like he was enjoying caressing my bike. ‘Your ... velocipede ... is a fine specimen.’
‘Indeed,’ I said. �
��Did you know the bicycle is one of the most efficient inventions in the history of mankind.’
‘Human power—there's nothing more efficient than that.’ Darcy stood upright. ‘Please forgive me for my insensitive comment yesterday. It was harsh—’
‘You’re forgiven. But only because you added extra chocolate to my coffee this morning.’ I gave him a crooked smile.
Darcy narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You’re way too easy to win over!’ He looked out the windows. ‘You’d better get going before it gets too dark.’
‘Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow it is.’
Chapter Seventeen
‘FLOWERS, TEA, COFFEE, OR BOOKS?’ I know I didn’t need to ask the question, but I was trembling inside when I saw him ... and Gram did want me to ask that question, each and every time.
‘Flowers ... for Fleur,’ Gramps answered, not blinking. I had watched him walk toward the sales desk, with a stooped posture. I looked into his red eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat. He was the colour of orange smoke, like a flare. It was his distress signal.
‘She’s bad, Landi. Real bad. I want to fix her. But I can’t.’ His voice cracked, and my throat constricted once again.
Any ounce of happiness inside me evaporated. ‘Peonies are her favourite,’ I said, my voice flat.
‘I know. Make it a white bunch. Pure, like her heart.’ Gramps hung his head and walked away from the sales desk and over to the workbench. I followed him with slow steps, my heart crying in silence.
Gramps ran his hand along the timber bench. ‘There was one test that was brutal, for Gram. The doctor said it was usually well tolerated ... but not for Gram.’ He looked up at the ceiling, trying to stop his tears, I suspect. ‘The fear in her eyes was—’ He stopped talking and swallowed. ‘She was so brave ...’ He leaned his elbows on the workbench and put his head into his hands. ‘I want it to be me, not her. Not my love ...’ Gramps lifted his head and looked at me with wet eyes.
A tear slid down my face. On that side. The side of my face that always betrayed me.
And I ran. In my work boots.
The door to the powder room banged when I pushed it open. I didn’t mean to push it so hard. I swooped down and grabbed my concealer makeup. I wanted to sob. Deeply. But this wasn’t the time, or the place. I had to hold myself together to serve at the flower store. For Gram.
