La Fleur de Blanc

by Sean Platt

  Lily reentered La Fleur to find Allison walking Marcello through the displays, holding a small pad and making notes with a pen.

  “Everything good here?”

  Allison turned, telling Lily with her eyes that she wasn’t supposed to be back yet, especially not with lunch from a competing restaurant … although again, it wasn’t like Bella was, in any way, an option for a quickie meal.

  “Fine,” said Allison.

  “Splen—” Marcello turned and his eyes happened on Lily’s disposable plate and plastic fork.

  “Yes?” said Lily.

  But Marcello, his face turning red, had already stormed past them and out of the store.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  FISTS AT HER SIDES

  After the day’s spectacular first half, the afternoon felt like a downward slide.

  Lily was too shocked to follow Marcello as he stormed out of the store in an inexplicable huff. Allison tried and was greeted with a barrage of loud Italian. She only spoke a few words (Allison said she learned “hello,” “goodbye,” “thank you,” “Do you speak English?”, “I don’t speak X,” “Where is the bathroom?”, and “Would you like a blowjob?” in every language she dabbled with) and reported back to Lily the rather unhelpful tidbit that “He’s pissed.” No reason why, and when Marcello slammed the door to Bella by the Sea, Allison felt it wasn’t her place to follow.

  Lily felt like a beaten dog. Like that beaten dog, she wasn’t sure what she’d done to incur the tall man’s wrath. He’d been a perfect gentleman upon entry; he’d been complimentary; he’d increased his weekly order to daily. Then, on a dime, he’d spun into fury.

  Lily wasn’t even sure if his order had become daily before he’d run off — and if not, if he actually wanted to keep his weekly commitment. Allison was equally unclear. For convenience, they’d set things up such that Bella paid its floral bill monthly — a pride move on Lily’s part, because La Fleur was definitely not well off enough to float the expense. Even if the transaction had concluded normally, he wouldn’t have paid. Allison said he’d mostly completed his selection by the time Lily returned and “ruined everything” (it was meant to be a joke, but made Lily cry), so they really only had two options. They could knock on the door and demand to know why he’d grown so angry … or they could prepare his order for the following day as if nothing was amiss, and wait to see if he’d pick it up.

  Did I say something wrong? Lily asked Allison. But of course she hadn’t; she’d asked “Everything good here?” then Allison replied with the single word “Fine.” Neither had excellent memories, but both had zero problems recalling four innocuous words.

  Do I smell bad? Bad enough to make someone furious?

  That was meant as a tension-breaking joke; not only had Lily actually felt confident enough this morning to touch a small dab of perfume behind her ears (something she never did; she supposed Len’s attention had made her want to feel more girly), but the notion of something about her physical presence causing his meltdown was absurd.

  Did something behind me set him off? Maybe he saw something through the window.

  So far, that seemed likeliest of all. Someone had walked by and given him the finger. Or maybe someone outside had managed to nonverbally insult his mother. Italians really hated it when people insulted their mothers, right? It could even have been Kerry, taunting from behind Lily’s back, calling the elder Mrs. Vitale a fat whore. That would cause him to stop and storm out, for sure: She-a insult-a my mama! Lily heard Marcello in her mind like Mario from the Nintendo video games. But even that likeliest of unlikely scenarios felt wrong because Marcello had seemed to look at her, not through the window.

  She’d left for lunch with the elder Vitale happy and cordial. He’d been angry upon her return.

  “Maybe your food offended him.”

  Lily glanced at the garbage can. She’d only managed to eat half, as hungry as she’d been, and as delicious as it was.

  “How would my food offend him?”

  “Maybe it stunk.”

  “Did it stink?”

  Allison shrugged. “I didn’t notice.” She sniffed toward the garbage can.

  “You can’t judge its smell once it’s in the trash. That’s not fair.”

  “I’ll be able to tell if it smells like butt regardless of the other garbage,” Allison assured her, taking the small can as if preparing to vomit inside it.

  “Get out of the trash, Al.”

  Allison put it back. “Maybe he’s too fancy for your cart food.”

  “He knew where I was going before I went. What, did he expect me to eat at Bella? They have a whole Pretty Woman thing going on over there. I walk in all timid, asking for a sandwich. Then some bitchy girls tell me that I must be in the wrong place and to please leave.”

  “In this scenario,” said Allison, “are you some sort of hungry hooker?”

  “He can’t be offended that I bought from the competition, though, right?”

  “He was buying flowers from our business at the time.”

  “They don’t serve lunch! They have a waiting list! They cost three bazillion dollars!”

  “Maybe this is, like, a Mafia thing. Like, you dishonored him by not paying tribute.”

  “I totally would have given him a bite.”

  “Of your shitty, inferior cart food? That’s what pissed him off in the first place!”

  Lily considered replying, but Allison was flapping her gums, taking the absurd and turning it into something even more ridiculous. Still, the idea that Marcello was somehow offended by Lily’s food (from a cart, served on a paper plate: a culinary indulgence for the poor; an insult to the truly evolved palate) wasn’t really that much more ridiculous than any other idea. Had their ambient music offended him? Had he finally noticed her low-rent Keurig and Lily’s inferior, non-nouveau-house chairs? None of the available options made sense, so why not blame it on a food-related insult?

  “You could just go ask him,” Allison proposed.

  Lily shivered. Marcello, until that point, had been one of the nicest, most flattering people she’d ever met, but the flip had frightened her.

  “Then I’ll ask him,” Allison said, rising.

  “Don’t.”

  “I’ll tell him I need to know about his flower order.”

  But that was the crux of the whole thing. With all that had happened over the past few days, Lily felt like she was walking on a razor’s edge. The idea of a daily order from Bella had tipped her mood from La Fleur might survive to La Fleur is here to stay. It wasn’t just the increased income; it was the prospect of intertwining her business so solidly with one of the plaza’s most respected cornerstone establishments. With Bella’s and Buns’s business — not to mention the half-dozen other smaller players she’d turned into recurring orders, like Silas — Lily had mostly solidified herself as a fixture. Given a few more weeks, she’d have seeded enough white flowers throughout the plaza that shoppers would come to expect them and see them as part of not just her shop’s decor, but the Palms Couture’s as a whole. It would become part of the experience in shoppers’ minds, and give Lily an ounce of the weight Kerry and Antonia were already swinging.

  But right now their relationship with the restaurant seemed uncertain. If Lily forced things she might earn herself an outright no, or a cancellation. Best not to ask and make their arrangements for tomorrow.

  Lily forced herself to soldier through the afternoon hours then into the following day, feeling chastised for an offense she didn’t recall committing. But the morning’s buoyant optimism — the superpower that had made her feel bulletproof, and had drawn ballsy orders accordingly — was gone. She found her head sagging, fingers slow, steps tentative, shoulders rounding as if the air itself was heavy.

  She went home, went to sleep, tried not to worry. The next day dawned. Then, a few hours before they’d finally learn the answer to the status of Bella’s daily order, Evelyn Pierce entered the store.

  “O
h, Evelyn,” said Allison, looking the leasing agent over from sensible low heels to sober dress suit to organized ponytail, “so glad you’re here to pick up flowers for the wild party you’re throwing tonight.”

  “Wait … what?” said Evelyn.

  “And to answer your question, yes, white flowers really are the best if you’re worried about semen staining everything.”

  “I didn’t ask about … what?”

  “She’s not here to yell at us,” Allison explained to Lily. “I know she’s just here to buy flowers for her big orgy tonight.” She considered, possibly realizing that orgies weren’t usually known for their floral arrangements. “Her big lesbian orgy,” she amended.

  “That’s not why I’m here at all,” said Evelyn, looking down at her clipboard.

  Allison rolled her eyes. She took the agent by both upper arms, apparently deciding to go for broke. There was little reason not to deeply offend Evelyn, she seemed to have decided, given the number of times she’d already visited with a complaint. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “I’m kidding, Evelyn.”

  “Of course.”

  “Jizz on white flowers,” she said. “Naturally stain resistant. Get it?”

  “Gross,” Lily said.

  Evelyn stared at Allison for five full seconds. Lily felt herself counting inside her head, wondering if Evelyn actually had a lease termination.

  “Lesbians don’t do that,” Evelyn finally said. Her face was still awkward, as if she’d been forced to say it. But she’d discovered a semen-related loophole and seemed to have felt compelled to share.

  Allison laughed hard, then slapped Evelyn on the shoulder twice as if to say, Girlfriend, you’re all right.

  “What’s up, Evelyn?” Lily asked, but barely cared. Allison had made her joke because there was literally no reason in the universe for Evelyn to enter the shop other than because someone — someone with three names, a plastic surgery face, and an enormous stick up her vagina — had issued a complaint.

  “We’ve had a complaint.”

  “Shocking,” said Allison.

  “What’s she have a problem with now?” Lily asked.

  “Who?”

  “Kerry. What problem does Kerry Barrett Kirby have now?”

  “Kerry Fucking Barrett Kirby,” Allison elaborated.

  “She … ” Evelyn looked back and forth between her clipboard and the two blondes. She looked like a classic sci-fi robot caught in a logic loop, unable to decide which option to pursue. Answering the question would cop to the fact that Kerry had made the supposedly anonymous complaint. But protesting would skirt the reason she was here to begin with.

  Does not compute.

  She continued very carefully. “There has been a complaint about excessive noise.”

  “That must be from me yelling ‘Kerry fucks hobos!’ over and over.” Allison turned earnestly to Evelyn. “But I’m just reporting the facts!”

  “There have been concerns over a truck left idling out back.”

  Apparently Kerry had found the source of her workaround after all. Neither Lily nor Allison knew much about refrigerated trucks and how long they could keep cool given the ins and outs throughout the day, so they’d been running the engine intermittently to run the fridge, then turning if off for a few hours. Lily had even awoken at 3 a.m. in a panic, somehow certain that the truck, left off overnight, had not only lost its cool but become hot. Despite knowing her theory defied the laws of physics given the cooler nighttime air, she was unable to sleep. So she’d driven back to the plaza, started the truck’s engine, and fallen asleep on the shop’s floor atop a few loose blankets.

  “You can’t even hear it,” said Allison.

  “Apparently it’s disturbing some tenants.”

  “How the hell can it disturb her?” Allison stood to her full height, still slightly shy of Evelyn’s forehead. “She’s across the plaza! It’s not even ‘out back’ to her!”

  “She says it’s bothering her customers.” Evelyn’s hand went over her mouth.

  Allison pointed an accusing finger: gotcha.

  “What was that?” said Lily.

  “It’s bothering customers.” Evelyn’s eyes were still wide, her hand still near her mouth. “Says the anonymous complainant.”

  “So it is Kerry.”

  “You knew it was Kerry,” said Allison.

  “But now Evelyn is confirming it. Right, Evelyn?”

  “No,” said Evelyn.

  “Admit it,” said Lily.

  “All I can say is … ”

  “Evelyn,” said Allison.

  Evelyn’s head turned toward Allison.

  “You’re married, right?”

  Evelyn’s left thumb moved to a ring, toying with it. “Yes.”

  “He’s an artist. Last year, he was the guy setting up under the breezeway and drawing scenes in pastels and the occasional impromptu commission. Right?”

  Evelyn looked like she wasn’t sure if she should answer. If she’d been in a Senate hearing, she’d have covered the microphone and whispered to her lawyer.

  “Yes.”

  “Nice guy. Good guy.” With a glance at Lily, Allison told her the story. Whoever this sketch artist had been, Allison had almost certainly come on to him. Good guy now probably meant that he’d resisted her advances, choosing to stay true to the woman he was already with.

  “You met him?”

  Allison nodded. “I was disappointed when he took down his easel and stopped sketching. Why did he do that, Evelyn?”

  “There … ” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “There was an anonymous complaint.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said that he was making the plaza look like a carnival pier. And that if anyone was going to sketch the front of her store, she wanted a cut of the sales.”

  Lily stared at Allison, spellbound. She’d already known that her friend knew everyone and that she had a natural ability to network fluently that went far beyond her sexual proclivity. She’d already known that Allison was observant and shrewd, and that those skills were extra valuable because pretty much anyone would dismiss her petite, pretty packaging. But she’d just effortlessly popped Evelyn’s top with the right piece of information, saved until the perfect moment.

  “Who complained about our truck, Evelyn?” said Lily.

  Evelyn sighed, her shield of bureaucracy finally faded. All at once, Lily realized that Evelyn was very attractive. “It was Kerry.”

  “And the cart?”

  “Kerry, of course.” She gave a shocking little smirk — at least shocking for Evelyn — and added, “She even got them to let her in after hours to take the cart away. I heard some of the other agents complaining about her. She said the cart was plaza property.”

  Lily pointed across the courtyard, at the front of nouveau house. “That cart, you mean.”

  Evelyn nodded.

  “So what exactly are we supposed to do about … ”

  But Lily could barely hear Allison. She was already out the door, hands balled into fists at her sides.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MAKING A SCENE

  Lily could hear Allison yelling after her, urging her to stop and get back inside, but she’d already sealed her mind to all that was logical, sensible, reasonable. Playing the game with sense, logic, and reason had taken her nowhere. She’d tried tipping the tables to play underhanded, using nouveau house to gather new customers, but it hadn’t been enough. What had Len said? Fight for what you want? Oh yes, she was finally ready to do that, and damn the consequences.

  She grabbed the cart by its handle, tipped it onto its wheels, and spilled nouveau house’s knickknacks onto the seat of a long couch they’d set outside for today’s most offensive of illegal outdoor displays. Too late, Lily thought the items might break and cost her a fortune. None did. She wheeled on the spot and marched back past the fountain, drawing curious looks from kids crossing the wide pool via the paving stones that fo
rmed islands through its middle. Lily had to look like a woman not to be trifled with — her face set and livid, color up, strides thick with strength and purpose.

  Allison stepped in front of the cart, but didn’t zig when Lily zagged to avoid her. Evelyn stayed to the side, looking shocked.

  Lily pushed the cart into the store and began grabbing plants and arrangements almost at random, stocking the cart with history’s most haphazard display. Within sixty seconds she had the thing back outside, in place where it belonged, less obtrusive and more attractive, even as disheveled as it was, than nouveau house’s sprawling and overpriced living room set.

  She was halfway back across the courtyard when Kerry stumbled through her shop door, knees buckling as she tried to rush in heels that were too young for her body. Standing shocked, knock-kneed, her skeletal arms out for stability, Kerry’s long black hair a mess above and around her mouth open, Lily thought she finally — finally — looked genuine. Kerry looked like a real person for once, rather than a statue. This, Kerry hadn’t expected. This, she hadn’t been able to compose herself to face.

  Lily had come back for a hanging basket that had flung off the cart when she’d dumped Kerry’s tchotchkes onto the couch. She ignored Kerry, sighting on it, refusing to make eye contact. She had her DON’T FUCK WITH ME face on, and if Kerry knew what was good for her, she’d stay out of Lily’s way. She just wanted the basket. Then she’d return to her corner, and they could resume hating each other now that the score had been rightly settled.

  But Kerry didn’t know what was good for her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Taking back my cart.” Lily didn’t look up, still striding forward with a machine’s precision, eyes on the basket.

  “That’s not your cart!”

  “It’s sure not yours.”