La Fleur de Blanc

by Sean Platt

  Dylan and Claudette Young came in around noon, just as she was preparing to grab lunch. Lily figured she’d head to Hit N’ Run to kill two birds with one stone; Len had waved several times but had been battling too many customers to come over himself. Given the strange (but well-deserved) explosion in the cart’s popularity, the line would only be longer at lunchtime, and she might have to wait a half hour or more to see him, but she didn’t care. Allison, who seemed just as fired up today as Lily, would man the shop in her absence. But Dylan and Claudette actually grabbed Lily by the wrist as she started spouting excuses to leave. Lily, her stomach growling, smiled. Even hungry, she felt fantastic.

  “Lily,” said Dylan. “You know Claudia, right?”

  Lily nodded. She looked at Claudette and smiled.

  “No, no,” said Dylan. “Not Claudette. Claudia.” He pointed at an incredibly beautiful and exotic-looking woman Lily hadn’t noticed because she blended perfectly with La Fleur’s decor. She had very white hair, pale skin, and was wearing a white dress that stopped just north of her knees. She looked like something cut from a teen boy’s fantasy, with almond eyes and wide red lips.

  “Oh, no. I don’t know Claudia.”

  She extended her hand. The woman took it and said, “Dobry den.”

  “Sure,” said Lily, confused.

  “You know her,” said Claudette. “We brought her in last week to meet you.”

  “That was Cinnamon,” Dylan corrected.

  “No it wasn’t. It was Claudia.”

  Lily had seen the Youngs with many beautiful women, but she’d only met (meaning briefly clasped hands with) two. One had been tall, brunette, and had a spray of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The other had looked so much like this Claudia that Lily was becoming less sure by the second that she hadn’t actually met her, though she was quite sure the one she’d met had a triangle of moles on her exposed cleavage, unlike this one who had no distinguishing marks on her own exposed cleavage. Both had looked like runway models, tottering in on tall heels.

  “I think I know who it was,” said Dylan.

  “I think you don’t know half of what you think you do.” Claudette turned to Lily and confidentially said, “Men.”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” said Dylan. “This is my thing, too.”

  “But we both know where the brains are,” said Claudette, pointing at her own chest. Claudette was pretty and looked like she might have been as stunning as her friends a few years ago. She had the same exotic look as the other women, but was far more animated than they were, often bouncing around the store like a ping-pong ball.

  “It was Cinnamon,” said Dylan.

  “Nerozumím,” said Claudia.

  Lily turned her head. “I’m sorry?”

  “Prosim.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” Claudette said to Claudia, patting her arm. “Lily. Now.”

  Lily wondered if now was a command for her attention. Behind her, Allison was slapping the counter excitedly as if she’d just remembered something she’d been trying to recall, and was experiencing an epiphany of euphoria.

  “We’ve bought a lot of flowers, haven’t we?”

  Lily wasn’t sure if the question was supposed to be rhetorical. It should be. They both knew how many flowers had been purchased.

  “Cinnamon looks a lot like Claudia,” Dylan interrupted. “I get them confused too.”

  “Prosim,” Claudia repeated.

  “A lot,” said Claudette, casting an annoyed look at her husband. “But I think it’s time to make you a true part of the family.”

  Lily looked at Claudia/Cinnamon/whomever and found herself wondering if she was about to be abducted. She imagined a horror movie wherein an eccentric couple kidnaps pretty girls and keeps them in a closet Rolodex, withdrawing one each day to lead around like a fancy pet.

  “Part of the family?”

  “Do you do events?”

  “What do you mean by ‘events’?” said Lily.

  “Soustat,” Claudia offered.

  Dylan said, “Like catering.”

  “Catering is for food.” Claudette rolled her eyes at Dylan’s obliviousness.

  “Mám hlad,” Claudia said.

  “Decorating, or whatever,” Claudette elaborated. “Like for weddings, but for … rooms in general?”

  “You want me to decorate a room in your house?”

  “No, no, definitely not in our house,” said Dylan. “It’s the wrong county for that kind of thing.”

  “North of our house,” Claudette explained, casting another annoyed look at Dylan. Lily wasn’t sure why the room’s physical location relative to their own house was relevant. At all.

  “I don’t do home decoration,” Lily said.

  Behind Lily, Allison was jumping around, still silently slapping the counter with her fist.

  “This would be set decoration,” Claudette corrected.

  “Oh. Well, we don’t do any decoration.”

  “Don’t you do weddings?”

  Lily looked back at Allison. Technically, they did do weddings; they just hadn’t had any actual wedding customers yet, except for maybe the lesbian couple. Many local shops merely provided flowers for wedding planners, but Allison had been pushing to hold both ends of that particularly profitable stick, charging both to provide the arrangements and to do the relatively easier work of placing them around the room. It was something that wouldn’t have been possible before Allison came on board and began working for free.

  “Oh my God,” Allison said when Lily looked back.

  “We do weddings. But we haven’t decided on whether we’ll actually set up or just provide them to your planner. Or your decorator. Right, Al?”

  “Oh my God,” Allison repeated.

  “Look,” said Claudette. “We can make it worth your while. Our business is doing really, really, really … ”

  “Thanks to the brilliance of Claudette!” Dylan wasn’t being sarcastic. He was interrupting, though, and had done so too early. Claudette glared at Dylan.

  “Really, really well,” Claudette finished.

  “That’s great,” said Lily.

  “Really well,” said Dylan. “Because Claudette is a mogul. I can get you an art print.”

  “Kde je toaleta?” said Claudia.

  “Venku,” Claudette told Claudia dismissively. With this, Claudia left the store.

  “It’s actually doing so well,” Dylan continued, “that we’re seeking to expand.”

  “That’s great,” Lily repeated, mystified.

  “I’ll tell you about our new venture someday,” said Claudette. “But it’s groundbreaking. Really pushing boundaries. A totally unexplored market niche. And we want to get into TV.”

  “TV,” Dylan repeated, nodding.

  “And maybe a reality show. Do you know anyone in TV?”

  “No,” Lily admitted.

  Behind the counter, Allison made an involuntary yelping.

  “Because that’s a story in itself. How we live, I mean. Or it wouldn’t even have to be a reality TV show. It could be an ongoing program.”

  “About a private eye, maybe,” said Dylan. “Who drives all these fancy cars, races motorcycles … ”

  “But the real star is his wife, who runs a multimedia conglomerate, pushing boundaries.”

  “Oh my God, are we pushing boundaries,” Dylan agreed.

  “You’re not kidding. So pushed.”

  Claudia returned. Dylan grabbed her ass and pulled her closer. Then he grabbed Claudette’s ass, and Claudette grabbed both of their asses. Claudia began moaning, not in English.

  Lily cleared her throat.

  “Anyway, let me know where you want that art print sent,” said Dylan. And they left.

  It took several pregnant seconds for Lily to realize the Youngs had neither concluded their thoughts on Lily’s “set decoration” or “becoming part of the family.” They’d grown too distracted by talking about their overwhelming level of awesom
e.

  “Holy shit,” said Allison, finally coming off mute, a giant smile crawling across her features. “Do you know who those people are?”

  “Dylan and Claudette Young,” said Lily. “And Cinnamon.”

  Allison opened her mouth to go on, but Marcello Vitale walked through the door before she could, his debonair Old World aura scrubbing the shop of whatever the Youngs had brought in with them. And with Cinnamon.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Buongiorno,” Allison purred. Lily found herself wondering if Allison spoke Italian. She spoke fluent French and was already trying to teach Lily a phrase here and there to enhance her French-named shop’s charm, but was it possible she also spoke Italian? Or was this just a hangover from a few nights before, when they’d all discussed the fine men from Bella by the Sea, eliciting surprising amounts of giggling and blushing from Antonia?

  “Buongiorno,” Marcello returned, smiling. He looked to Lily. “And how are you? Are you well?”

  “Well,” said Lily. “Thank you.”

  “Wonderful. Amadeo told you I’d be coming?”

  Lily nodded. He’d sent Matt almost as an emissary — something that brought to Lily’s mind quaint old ideas of calling on a lady, forgotten chivalry, and announcing a key person’s arrival. Extra delight had come from how annoyed Matt had seemed to be sent on the errand. He resented Bella’s entanglement with the flower business; he was too good for being an errand boy; he knew his father, when he returned, would refer to him as Amadeo. As good as Matt looked and as much as Allison couldn’t stop herself from breathing heavily around him, it was gratifying to see him knocked down a peg.

  “I believe it is time to increase our order. Something daily.”

  “Daily?” Lily swallowed.

  “Si. I know the flowers last a long time, but honestly we charge our patrons far too much for them to receive day-old flowers. We are like a bakery. Like Buns.”

  The word “Buns” sounded odd on Marcello’s lips. In addition to its feel as a pedestrian word, Antonia talked about Bella by the Sea the way Lily had desperately talked about cute boys in junior high: He doesn’t even know I exist. And yet Bella by the Sea did, of course, know Buns existed. Marcello smiled when he said it, and for the first time, Lily wondered if there was more between Bella and Buns than met the eye … or if there could be.

  Lily smiled. “Flowers last longer than pastries.”

  “Of course. And we will not throw them away. But we will move them other places. Do you think it makes sense, to rotate every day, putting our freshest near the diners then moving the older ones out toward the restaurant’s edges?”

  Lily felt charmed by the notion. What Marcello was proposing meant plenty of shuffling, but it also pointed to a rare attention to detail that she doubted the younger Vitale, who was far more Americanized, shared. It also showed a rare level of respect for his customers that was lacking elsewhere in the Palms. From what Lily had seen, shopping for expensive goods in most places seemed to work something like war, with merchant and customer each trying to prove their superiority. Nowhere had the phenomenon seemed more apparent than in nouveau house, the single time Lily had entered. Customers acted like they were too good for the expensive furniture, and clerks acted like their furniture was too good for such people to buy. Only at La Fleur and Buns did Lily see mutual respect, with each party in a transaction parting happy and whole. And now, despite the extravagant cost of dinner at Bella by the Sea, she was seeing it there as well.

  “I think that sounds lovely,” she said. “What would you … ”

  Lily’s empty stomach loudly reasserted itself midsentence. She’d been famished when the Youngs came in and was now several shades past that. She looked up at Marcello with embarrassment.

  “I think you need lunch.”

  Lily smiled. “We can finish first.”

  Allison sideswiped Lily, pushing between her and Marcello. She’d been urging Lily to check in with Len all day, but Lily kept saying she didn’t have the time. This was the perfect excuse.

  “I can help Mr. Vitale. Go get lunch.” Allison nodded toward Len’s cart, arching her eyebrows. “And whatever comes with it,” she added.

  “It’ll take me a half hour,” said Lily.

  “Insist he be quick.” Allison winked.

  Lily rolled her eyes. She wasn’t going to try for a nooner, though Allison almost certainly would. Lily wasn’t even sure where she and Len stood. She didn’t feel a sense of awkwardness over last night, but they weren’t dating, either. Lily wasn’t a hook-up kind of girl. If they were having sex, they were in some kind of a relationship. And in Lily’s relationships — if she and Len were in one, which she supposed they must be — you didn’t assault a guy the second morning in his place of business, under his sous chef’s nose.

  “Look at the line, Al. It’s fine. I’ll let it go down.”

  “I said I got it … Lil,” she insisted.

  Lily watched Allison, seeing her taunting eyebrows bounce like anxious caterpillars. The look she was giving Lily now — dark eyeliner, rolled-upward green eyes, and carefully shaped brows — would probably seem dead sexy to a man. But to Lily, it meant she should surrender, because she wasn’t going to win this debate.

  “Fine.” Lily tossed Marcello a smile, but wasn’t sure how to read him. They’d obviously been talking about Len’s food cart, and his expression made it look like he was suspicious of Lily’s decision. But what was she supposed to do — go to Bella by the Sea, for a meal they didn’t serve, in defiance of a months-long waiting list, spending money she didn’t come close to having?

  The line was long, wrapping around the courtyard. Lily settled dutifully at its end, but moments later Paul the sous chef was taking Lily by the arm, pulling her to the side.

  “You don’t wait in line here, Lily.”

  Lily liked Paul. He was in his late twenties, possibly older than his boss, but had a rail-thin, almost emaciated look and towered almost a foot above her. He must be like a mantis working in the small trailer, bent to keep his head from scraping the ceiling.

  “Of course I’ll wait.”

  “No, you don’t. House orders. You don’t wait, and you don’t pay. And if you try to do either, we won’t serve you.”

  Lily looked at the long line. “Shouldn’t you be inside, working through all these people?”

  “Not if you’re going to wait and try to pay while I’m in there. This is more important. Straight from the boss.”

  He pointed. Lily looked, and right on cue Len stuck his head through the window and shouted “G’DAY!” Half of the line turned to look at her.

  “It’s not fair for me to cut the line.”

  “That’s why you’re not cutting the line. I’m taking your order here, we’ll cook it up all secret like, then bring it to you. No one in line will be any wiser.”

  Len was still waving. Lily mentally urged him to get back to work, because everyone was still looking at her. So much for secret like.

  “Besides,” said Paul. “You’ve gotta know Len enough by now to know he doesn’t always worry about what’s fair.”

  Lily looked at Paul to see if this was a knock on Len’s character. But he was smiling, and Lily found herself recalling how Len had vowed to operate by any means necessary, how he claimed that all was fair in love and war, and how she herself had applied his advice to (eventually, after a near miss) tremendous result. She’d taken Kerry the Bull by her horns, and now the bitch was powerless against her. Even in the mere two-thirds of a day she’d run La Fleur in the aftermath, everything was coming up roses. Literally, in her case.

  “Fine. What’s good?”

  Paul rubbed his chin. “You haven’t eaten here in a while.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I just mean that we’ve totally changed the menu. Added a lot of new dishes. Do you like mushrooms?”

  “Sure.”

  “Get the ravioli di bello. It’s amazing. Our most p
opular.”

  “Whatever the chef recommends,” said Lily.

  “Sous chef,” Paul corrected.

  “Whatever the sous chef recommends.”

  Paul smiled, slapped Lily cordially on the shoulder, and promised to return in five minutes. He trotted ten feet from the picnic table then turned back, retracing three of the intervening feet.

  “If I could be forward,” he said, “you’re good for him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “For Len. He’s happy.”

  Lily blushed and looked down, then remembered that she was through being ashamed, through being timid, and through playing by society’s usual rules. She was the owner of the city’s ballsiest, most resilient flower shop — a gal with a don’t mess with me face who took zero shit and was willing to do what it took to smite her bitch enemies. A kind of no-bullshit florist. The Godflower, as it were.

  “Thanks,” said Lily. “I’m happy too.”

  From the window, Len peeked out and waved one final time as Paul entered the truck to deliver her order. This wave was more like an a-okay hand sign, indicating his approval of her choice. She found herself wishing he’d come out and sit with her while she ate, but of course he was too busy, just as she’d always been too busy. She could return at the end of the day. She had the guts to do that now. The guts to be vulnerable, and maybe just a tiny bit needy.

  Five minutes later, exactly as promised, Paul returned and set the dish before Lily. It was on a disposable plate, but the food itself made up for the plate’s lack of elegance. It smelled as good as it looked.

  “Two kinds of mushrooms: portobello with cremini, plus tomatoes, Parmigiano-Reggiano and fresh thyme, sautéed in a light champagne brown butter sauce. Len says, ‘Bon appétit.’ He’d have brought it out himself except that he’s knee deep in some bullshit with the stove.”

  “I understand,” said Lily, suppressing slight disappointment. She was only going to see him from the window, and that was more of a letdown than she’d imagined.

  Lily nodded again, then stood. No point in sitting on a bench to eat if Len wasn’t going to join her. She could take it back to the store and eat it in the back room. That would get her to work faster, and let her check in on Marcello. A daily order was no joke, and although she trusted Allison, she wanted to be certain that everything was right.