by Sean Platt
And most of all, as Lily gazed furtively through her front window, past the courtyard fountain, and at the furniture outside nouveau house, she considered her own display, defiantly in place where she’d left it for most of yesterday. nouveau house’s outdoor display was brown and purposely weathered. Lily’s was white and cream, full of vibrant life. They were like bookends — an angel atop one of the plaza’s shoulders and a demon on the other.
It was easy to think of Kerry Barrett Kirby, likely staring through her windows and stewing, in her special way too, because then she had all the menace of something from a horror show. It was easier, in that way, to pretend that Kerry couldn’t turn other tenants against her, couldn’t somehow funnel customers from her storefront or intimidate other tenants from buying flowers. Lily could almost imagine Kerry’s hard eyes on Marcello Vitale and Silas Richter, trying to push them into a boycott. But luckily Kerry’s will seemed unlikely to bend either man, and the same went for her other regulars: Rachel of the fuck-you florals, Dean Moreno who always bought flowers for his conquests, and the few others she’d garnered. Lily had somehow attracted a resilient bunch — ironically, a jaded and tough breed of flower buyers.
The day dragged on and on and on.
Lily met an overweight man named Vic Norris who seemed somehow familiar, as if he’d once been a handsome movie star who’d gone to seed. She met a thin woman with long red hair the shade of Antonia’s who somehow exuded power and wealth despite her rather unremarkable wardrobe and naked fingers and wrists. She’d inquired about a wedding and had patiently waited through Lily’s lists of possible flowers in every shade of white, blush and cream, but hadn’t once inquired about price. Dean Moreno returned, this time buying for a woman named Vicki (“with an i, because she likes to give head,” he explained — a statement that didn’t logically compute for Lily).
The flower cart stayed in place. Evelyn didn’t return. Kerry remained absent. Rather than relief, Lily felt a sense of building pressure, like a lava bubble quietly forming underfoot. Somewhere, she felt sure, an invisible clock was ticking.
A trio of old women asked why La Fleur de Blanc didn’t carry baby’s breath. A loud, short gay man with a multicolored pocket square wanted a dozen red orchids for his salon, and became outspokenly annoyed when Lily told him that the shop only carried shades and variants of white.
Len walked by her front window and waved, but didn’t come in. Lily almost wanted him to. She didn’t have time for lunch, and found herself wishing he’d court her after all, starting by bringing her food from his cart. Her stomach growled, but she wasn’t even sure if she should eat given the time, because she felt unsettled — perhaps nauseated. Waiting was torture. And she wasn’t even sure what she was waiting for, if anything.
More customers bought nothing. More irritations kept Lily busy with no return of sales or profit. An obnoxious woman with a surgically corrected harelip who had ordered a bouquet for pickup two days earlier came back to declare her order unsatisfactory. It was too multicolored, she said. There were creams and tans in with her whites. It wasn’t pure enough. She didn’t want chocolate in her peanut butter, thank you very much. The woman had not only stormed out without paying; she’d dashed the large bouquet to loose leaves and petals on a bench outside, then thrown the remainder in the fountain. Lily had removed her shoes and pulled the sopping thing out herself, feeling all eyes on her. But better to remove the mess now than to get another visit from the leasing office later.
She saw Kerry, sitting on one of her own chairs outside nouveau house, as she stepped from the fountain with dripping feet. Kerry waved, silent and smiling. Lily retreated, feeling small.
Three o’clock. Four o’clock.
She felt herself sagging, wrung out from her night of fitful sleep. She hadn’t been able to relax. She’d been nervous, excited, giddy, afraid. Alternately laughing and wanting to cry. Lily had triumphed and felt trod upon in the same day. Neither emotion was dominant. She felt strong and weak, subdued and strangely (maddeningly) aroused. Something was waking inside her and keeping the already present Lily — the one operating on fumes and in desperate need of sleep — from dozing.
Five o’clock. Six.
Dinnertime came and went. Lily ate a granola bar, nothing else. The bleached blond couple who’d inquired about set work the day before returned, this time with a different woman in tow, still between them like a slave they’d stolen from somewhere. This time, their ward (much more sedate than yesterday’s beautiful girl, but equally stunning and equally unable to speak English) behaved enough to let them conduct their business. They introduced themselves as Dylan and Claudette Young and explained that they made “beautiful movies.” Lily wasn’t sure what that meant. While the Youngs were browsing for set decorations, Lily asked the girl where she could see her friends’ movies. Her response was, “Dobry den, děkuju.”
Seven o’clock.
Lily closed a bit before eight, knowing she’d need to hurry home and wash the day’s stink off of her before going out on any date, be it a fake and friendly one or not. Even after a shower, she didn’t feel remotely attractive. Lily looked at herself in the mirror, applied the hint of makeup her Midwestern upbringing suggested, and forced herself to take the time to dry her long hair straight rather than tossing it into the wet mop of a ponytail. The hairdryer’s heat alchemized with her stress and made her armpits sweat. Good thing she wasn’t really trying to impress Len. Lily thought of it again and again as butterflies stirred in her empty stomach and she obsessed over whether she looked sloppy or merely understatedly pretty.
She hadn’t let Len pick her up. Doing so felt decidedly date like, and she had to remind herself that although she’d admittedly been thinking about Len a lot (more than she was comfortable with; she kept thinking of Allison’s jokes about her needing relief), Lily didn’t really know him at all, and it wouldn’t be smart to tell him where she lived. He might turn out to be a murderer. A rapist. A psycho. A fantastic lover with a great body. There was just no way to know.
She arrived at the appointed restaurant and saw Len waiting alone at a table. The tablecloths were fine linen, and the water was in what looked like crystal goblets. Too nice of a place to chat as friends. Fortunately, Lily had lucked into dressing presentably. Len was decked out in a blazer he could probably still claim as casual, with an open-throated, starched white shirt underneath. He’d combed his hair better than it always seemed during his workday at the often busy kiosk.
Lily had second thoughts. She really shouldn’t let him pay. This looked an awful lot like a date, and she’d unintentionally reciprocated by shaving her legs and dabbing on perfume. Why was she wearing perfume? She never did that.
Lily grabbed a well-dressed man near the restaurant’s front, gave him her credit card, and asked him to make sure that it saw half of the bill. He smiled and pushed the card away. “The gentleman,” he explained, now turning Lily toward the table, where Len saw and stood to greet her, “has already made arrangements.”
“Well,” said Len, looking her over. “Don’t you look nice?”
Lily thought she should say something kind in return, but Len wasn’t supposed to be complimenting her appearance. That wasn’t why they were here. And come to think of it, he shouldn’t be standing.
Len moved to pull out Lily’s chair, so she pulled out her own, then stood beside it like a palace guard, watching him.
“Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”
“No, please. You first.”
“I was raised to let a lady sit first.”
Lily locked eyes with Len, wondering if this was a battle of wills worth having. She finally relented and plunked into the chair in the least ladylike way she could manage. She wanted to sprawl like a man watching football, but was wearing a skirt. Why the hell had she worn a skirt? Any why weren’t they meeting to discuss Palms business at a Jack in the Box?
“Any trouble finding the place?” Len smiled. He was using that Australia
n accent again, almost as if he’d been raised in Australia and it was simply the way he talked. Damn him and his seductive ways.
“No.”
“Hungry?”
“I’m so hungry, I could eat at Applebee’s,” she said.
“Should we have gone to Applebee’s?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re a big fan of Applebee’s. Because you’re not from California.”
“Not really,” said Lily.
“I’ve never eaten at one, but I’m sure it’s terrible.”
“That’s very prejudiced of you. What kind of person bashes a restaurant they’ve never been to?”
“I was joking, Lily.”
“Oh. Of course.” Crap, was she keyed up. The day had worn on Lily more than she’d realized. She felt like a sentinel outside a holy place, swords raised and ready for battle.
Easy, girl. It’s just a table and a nice foreign man.
“Would you like some wine?”
“Yes, please.”
Len raised two fingers and effortlessly called a waiter to the table. His ease was astonishing. He managed to make himself look like a high roller rather than a posturing asshole. The waiter asked Lily what she wanted, and she asked for a white zinfandel. Len ordered a pinot noir.
“I like fruity wine,” Lily explained when the waiter brought her zinfandel.
“Sure,” Len said.
“The sweeter, the better.”
Len smiled. He sipped his pinot. Lily felt as if she was being defensive and he was indulging her. But it’s not like he’d challenged the worth of her selection.
“How was your day, Lily?”
“Busy.”
“I thought about stopping in, but didn’t want to bug you. You have enough on your mind right now.”
It was true, and he’d said it earnestly. Lily felt herself wanting to backpedal, as if she’d been outwardly inhospitable instead of merely thinking that his stopping by would feel like an obligation. She’d been raised to be kind and welcoming. Rebuking a well-intentioned visit, even within the privacy of her mind, suddenly felt rude.
“It wouldn’t be bugging me.”
He smiled. “Sure it would.” Again, Len pronounced it shore. Given Antonia’s implication about the appeal of Lily’s slight accent, it was amusing that she felt drawn by Len’s. “You’re busy all the time now. I guess I really asked the right person for advice.”
“I’m busy, but not with anything worth doing. Plenty of traffic and a fair share of jerks, but only a few orders. Did you see me wading through the fountain earlier today?”
“Yeah, I saw it. You were too quick or I’d—”
“I didn’t need help. It was just one bouquet.”
“Or I’d have done a little dance to amuse my customers in the meantime.”
“What?”
“What makes you think you knew how I was going to end that sentence? Maybe I wasn’t going to say I wanted to help you.”
“You were, though.”
Len sipped his wine. “Fine. So I’m thoughtful. It’s a curse.”
There was a beat. Lily wasn’t sure what to say. She’d calmed some, but not enough. She still felt a strange tempest inside. The wine should help, but hadn’t yet.
Len shifted, the conversation turning on his lead.
“I’ve always wanted to cook,” he said. “But not just to cook, see. I like pleasing people. I like the idea of doing something that makes people feel.”
“Feel?”
“Absolutely. Food does that. It’s the reason people get fat, even: They eat for comfort, to feel better. I noticed early that when I made something special for my family, they all got on a bit better, which wasn’t always the case. I cooked for dates in school and got the best reactions. I ended up kind of catering family birthdays. I got high on it — seeing the way people perked up when I got things just right on a plate. I liked making people happy, and food does that.”
Lily felt herself smile. He was describing many of the ways she felt about flowers. It wasn’t about brokering stems. It was trafficking feelings.
“As long as I can remember, I wanted to have a place of my own. But running a restaurant? Hell, even if you can afford to build or buy one, it’s about the hardest business in the world, thanks to the overhead. The margins are thinner than a hair. But then I went to this franchise fair once, and I learned about food carts. You rent the whole thing, or you buy the trailer and rent the land. No property taxes, no wait staff, no big utility bills. Almost no maintenance, less paperwork, all that. You get the good parts of cooking for people without the bad. In a way, running an operation my size is pure. It’s just you, the kitchen, and the customers.”
“And Paul,” said Lily, referring to Len’s employee.
“Sure, Paul. But I mainly hired him so I could run to the loo without having to close shop.”
Lily smiled (more naturally this time), but even that thought had an edge. Lily couldn’t even leave her own shop. She didn’t have a Paul of her own, and it was impossible to imagine being able to afford one.
“When I picked up that kiosk at the Palms, I thought I’d hit the lotto. There are only a handful of places where you can cook truly great food from a cart and find people willing to pay what’s required. It was, in a way, a dream come true.”
Lily nodded. “It was the same for me.”
“You’ve always wanted to own a flower shop?”
“It’s always been in the back of my mind. My parents owned a big farm, and I guess I thought I’d be there forever. But then they passed away, and the only thing that ended up making sense was to sell it.”
“Because you didn’t want to stay and run it.”
“Because I’d have to do it alone. And I did, for a while. But it was too much. And like you said, not something I’d dreamed of.”
“No brothers and sisters?”
“Two of each. But they’re … ” Lily didn’t want to finish. She loved her siblings, but it wasn’t like they’d been much help when Mom had been sick or when Dad had tried running the place alone before succumbing himself. They hadn’t helped prep the farm for sale and hadn’t been there to sell it. They’d only shown up with smiles once there were proceeds to split.
“Say no more. I have a brother myself.”
“Do you get along?”
“Enough.” Len smiled. “I suppose I owe him my determined spirit. The fact that I don’t surrender when I see something I want.”
“He taught you confidence.” Lily imagined an older brother guiding young Len as a mentor.
“By brute force. He’s clean now, but he used to be a drunk. I had to scrap after we left home because as poor as I was and as close to being evicted from my place as I always was, he thought he could take half of whatever I made for myself. I learned to fight him the same time I was trying to love him, and we seldom fought fair. But I learned well enough: You defend what you have. And what you want, you have every right to pursue, no matter the cost.”
“Sounds harsh.”
“Maybe. But it was a lesson worth learning. It taught me that nobody will look out for you other than yourself.”
Knowing it was a foolish thing to bring up, Lily said, “You keep trying to look out for me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“You’re a fair sight better looking than my brother.”
It felt too close to the bone, but Len smiled to strip the edge from his statement, to make it safe. Lily had finished half her wine, and could feel her mood softening. Sweet or not, this particular zin packed a punch.
“You’re not asking me much about the Palms,” said Lily. It was a playful allusion to why they were here, and why this wasn’t a date, despite the fact that it clearly was.
“Fine. Tell me about the Palms.”
“It’s a terrible place.”
“Not terrible.”
“Not all terrible, but some people … ”
Lily told L
en about the latest with Kerry and the flower cart, including what Antonia had told her, and how Allison had urged her to think beyond the opinions of others. To stand up for herself, was the way Lily now heard those tips in her mind. To be strong.
“She’s right, you know,” said Len.
The waiter came to the table, interrupting Lily’s response. He asked for their orders, and Lily, blindsided, realized she hadn’t so much as glanced at the menu. Len asked if he could order for her. Lily, feeling flattered and recalling that she was dining with a chef, uncharacteristically allowed it. Then, before leaving the table, the waiter refilled Lily’s glass. She’d drained her wine without realizing.
“What were you saying?”
“I was saying that your friend Allison is right,” Len said.
“About what?”
“That you should stand up for yourself.”
Lily reminded Len about the cart outside her shop. It had remained outside all day — two days in a row, no new incidents. She’d been on pins and needles while awaiting a response the entire time.
“Well, sure, but that’s passive.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why not hit her back? Don’t just keep your cart. Do something more … I don’t know … more overt?”
“Should I storm into nouveau house and fill her store with flowers?”
“I imagine you’ll have to think on it,” said Len. “But she’s trying to hurt you. So I say it’s fair game to hurt her back.”
“Oh, I don’t know … ”
“Your dream, Lily. Every person is entitled to defend their dream like their child. You’re being too nice.”
Lily stopped to consider whether Len had gone too far and been too presumptuous. Did he know her well enough to tell her she was too nice? Or was it a run-around sort of compliment? Lily found she didn’t care. For full minutes at a time, she hadn’t thought of her shop’s troubles, the worst of her customers, her losses (the first of her overbought stock was starting to die … and yet she’d have to head out in a few days to buy more of the same if she wanted to keep her shelves full), or the weight of ill-fitting judgment she often felt bearing down on her back like too-hot sun at the Palms. Len wasn’t like the regulars any more than Antonia. It was like she’d found agents of an underground proletariat, ripe for rebellion against the upper crust.
