La Fleur de Blanc

by Sean Platt

  “I’d use shorter arrangements on the tables,” she said. “And still keep them off to one side, so they’re not dead in the middle of the table.”

  “Of course.”

  “Same for the candles. And I wouldn’t put anything scented on the tables. Keep the scented ones out from under people’s noses; let them smell the breeze instead.”

  “That’s what I’d had in mind.” Matt looked around. “Anything else?”

  Lily met his eyes. Still hard, still deep, still like a laser’s harsh light. But she no longer felt intimidated or like his ego was too big for her. Amazing what a difference in venue had done for Matthew Vitale.

  “Part of me hates this a little,” said Lily, “but you’re buying daily, so you don’t need anything you buy to last very long.”

  “Okay,” said Matt.

  “There’s something carelessly elegant about laying a few stems flat here and there. Is that a buffet?” She pointed to the empty table.

  “Technically. But really just a few platters.”

  “I’d lay a few there. Fanned a little, you know? And along these partitions.”

  “Not in vases.”

  “Right. They’ll die much sooner. But you’re creating an abundant atmosphere, and careless use of such expensive flowers feels, I imagine, a little like lighting cigars with hundred dollar bills.”

  “You don’t think anyone will find that tacky? Wasteful?”

  “I doubt it. Nobody feels bad for flowers, nor should they. Flowers make you appreciate the beauty of now and the ephemeral nature of life. You want a mood that feels like everything has just blossomed. Everyone subconsciously understands that what blooms in a hurry dies just as quickly, which makes us feel all the more privileged to be part of that moment.”

  “Loose roses,” said Matt.

  “Maybe strip some petals. You could float them in water, maybe around a candle. Or you could sprinkle them on the surfaces, here and there on the floor.”

  “Do you think it’s too much?”

  Lily shrugged. “You’d know better than me.”

  Matt watched her for a moment, then said, “That’s not what you said when you asked to come here.”

  “I didn’t realize you were a natural.”

  “Now you know,” said Matt.

  After a moment of quiet Lily lifted her head and turned toward a noise across the dining room. The kitchen door opened to a thin man in whites, emerging back first. He turned, and Lily saw why: he was carrying a bowl in one hand and a fork in the other. He held both forward as he turned, then jumped a little when he saw Lily in front of him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking from Lily to Matt. “I didn’t know we had company.”

  “Brian, this is Lily,” Matt replied. “Lily owns the flower shop across the courtyard.”

  “The French one?” said Brian.

  “It has a French name,” Lily replied.

  Brian didn’t seem to know what to say, still holding the bowl and fork toward Matt.

  “Lily, this is Brian,” Matt continued. “He handles prep for us.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Brian said.

  Lily looked him over from top to bottom. Brian was very tall, rail thin, and managed to be attractive despite unfortunately bad skin. He smelled like a smoker, and she found herself slightly surprised that Bella would let someone who smelled like smoke into their otherwise pristine restaurant. But hadn’t she heard that about chefs? A surprising number smoked — something that, it seemed to Lily, would dull the taste buds. Something about the combination rang familiar to Lily, but she wasn’t sure why. A few of her friends back home had smoked, though nobody’s parents had ever seemed to catch on.

  “I see you brought lunch,” said Matt, looking at the salad.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking at them each in turn. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Mr. Stamos called and made a special request. He said his new girlfriend likes things that are ‘perfectly citrusy.’ I wanted to see if you liked this vinaigrette. If it’s, you know, citrusy enough.”

  “Or perfect enough.”

  Brian tried a smile, unsure whether his boss was joking.

  Matt took the fork, then speared a piece of arugula. The dressing gleamed in the overhead lights, visible on the leaf. Then, instead of putting it in his mouth, he offered the fork to Lily. Brian’s eyes went to her, curious.

  “I think it’s for you,” she said.

  “It’s for a woman. I’d like to know what you think, if you’d like it.”

  Not wanting to be rude, Lily took the fork and chewed. Matt, meanwhile, took a few leaves between his fingers, using his God-given utensils.

  Brian said, “What do you think?”

  Matt turned to Lily. “What do you think?”

  “Perfectly citrusy,” said Lily, laying her fork in the salad bowl.

  Matt smiled. “I agree.”

  “I drop the lemon in boiling water for ten seconds before using it,” said Brian. “Brings out the flavor.”

  Lily wondered what that could mean, but didn’t care enough to ask. Brian was still standing awkwardly before them, the sleeves of an overly long white coat brushing the bowl’s edge. With one hand free, he raised it to scratch his cheek — a nervous gesture that exposed a peek of tattoo ink. Brian the prep guy clearly wasn’t sure what came next. Had he intruded on Mr. Vitale with a date, or was this business as usual?

  “Approved,” said Matt. “Thank you, Brian.”

  Brian nodded curtly, muttered a noise of agreement, and shuffled off toward the kitchen. Then they were again alone, silent, and seemingly waiting for a calm to break.

  She felt like they were at a standoff — a quieter version of two gunslingers measuring one another and finding themselves strangely compatible despite their differences. Matt’s every grumbling step through her shop had shown his opposition to Marcello’s edict, and yet he’d turned out to have a natural grace with flowers that rivaled her aunt’s. He wasn’t as armor clad as Lily had thought, and perhaps he was seeing her as something new now as well.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said, standing.

  Lily felt some sort of bubble pop. She nodded, then followed Matt toward the door. When his hand reached the handle, she stopped him with a word.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Matt nodded.

  “What did people think, when you proposed opening a restaurant that only held three couples per night, that charged $1,000 to $1,500 for each?”

  Matt still had his hand on the door handle. He seemed to be assessing whether there was judgment in Lily’s question, then decided she was simply asking.

  “They thought I was crazy.”

  “You specifically?”

  “It was my idea. The first person who thought I was crazy was my father.”

  “How did you convince him?”

  “By convincing myself. Once I was totally and completely sure it would work, it stopped being a matter of convincing him to believe in the idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At that point, it became a matter of convincing him to believe in me.”

  Lily met Matt’s deep-blue eyes. She should have a follow-up question, but it wasn’t necessary. Father believed in son, end of story. The rest would have been making it happen.

  “How did you convince yourself?” she said instead.

  “It was a leap of faith. I couldn’t believe Bella by the Sea would work until I saw it work. And I couldn’t see it work until I believed enough to try. I figured I had one shot. It would either happen, or it wouldn’t, and doubt had no place in either argument. So I chose.”

  “Chose,” said Lily.

  “I chose to believe.”

  Lily was still looking into his eyes. Where she’d previously only seen arrogance, she now saw conviction. Where she’d seen ego, Lily now saw unshakable faith. Matt thought a lot of himself, without question. But that was
exactly what had allowed him to do the impossible. He wasn’t a braggart and an asshole. He was devoted. He was sure. And all she’d seen as irritation had been variations on that — all questions filtered through what they might do to damage all he’d worked to build.

  “What would you do,” Lily asked, “if someone tried to run Bella by the Sea out of business?”

  She thought for a moment that he might not respond, or that he’d deliver a knee-jerk reaction. But his answer was plain, as if rehearsed, written it into his business plan, and spoken aloud a thousand times. As simple and unadorned as an all-white bouquet, or a restaurant that served just three guests per night.

  “I wouldn’t let them,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE BRIGHT SIDE

  Lily slept in fits, feeling a tempest inside, stirred by the cool breeze of Matt Vitale’s dedication to his own version of an all-white dream.

  The day ended without incident. Afterward Lily and Allison had both gone to Buns where Antonia revealed that she had, indeed, seen the fight in the courtyard and had provided free white chocolate chip cookies to everyone in the shop at the time so they could all enjoy the show. Lily had asked Antonia what she thought about Kerry’s standing after the fight: if she’d run home duly chastised with her tail and pride tucked between her legs, or if she’d feel the need to return with blazing guns. Antonia could only shake her head. She’d never seen anyone confront Kerry so directly. Kerry usually worked like a stiletto, sliding between her opponents’ ribs while they slept. Those who managed to fight back never did so overtly, and unless she grew bored, Kerry usually managed to get her way.

  Antonia’s vague answer had percolated through Lily’s mind on the drive home, as she navigated the quiet seaside streets further up the shore. She’d seen a light on in Dusty’s living room, but he hadn’t come out to check on her. Lily almost wished he had. There was no moon, and the street had a cottage-row feel with just a few lights after dusk like lanterns at a campsite. The Pacific was calm. Everything had been too silent, too still. She felt alone.

  She’d tossed and turned. She felt new conviction, preparing to war with Kerry if the bitch insisted. This wasn’t about a flower shop. This was about pride. This was about having a vision and choosing to stake a claim in belief. Kerry could argue the terms of Lily’s lease, but she was forbidden in her mind. The shop wasn’t just a shop. It was a dream cast in bricks and plaster. It was a vision made real. Like Bella by the Sea, La Fleur de Blanc was a concept that could only be believed through seeing, and could only be seen after she’d chosen to believe. A closed loop with no beginning or end, an ouroboros. She’d fight if she had to. Because her convictions were her own, and not open to anyone’s meddling.

  Lily finally fell asleep sometime after midnight. She dreamed of waiting and watching, of running a race with no finish.

  The next day was uneventful. The shop opened on time; they started the refrigerator truck’s engine and dared someone to complain; they served a few more of the shop’s now-regular customers. Lunchtime came and went. Lily didn’t feel right cutting Len’s long line again, but around three he brought her something to eat anyway, saying that Paul could handle the kitchen just fine for a half hour, and that Allison could handle La Fleur.

  He hadn’t brought anything for himself, so Lily ate on one of the courtyard benches while Len made small talk beside her, trying not to feel self-conscious. The new dish was as delicious as the last. She found herself thinking of Bella by the Sea as she chewed, the particular scents of Len’s ingredients perfectly recalling her prior day’s visit to Bella, during the kitchen’s prep. What seemed more likely? That the two scents were the same, or that she still hadn’t resolved her guilt about Marcello — and whatever invisible offense she’d managed to cause him?

  Feeling bold after her visit, Lily had asked Matt about his father. She hadn’t quite felt up to giving the details, so instead she’d just asked about him: How was Marcello? She hadn’t seen him for a while … since two days before, when he’d left her shop seeming ill. She’d waited for Matt to fill in the blanks, but he’d been oblivious, merely picking up the day’s order, refusing her help in crossing the courtyard.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said Len.

  Lily looked over.

  “You seriously didn’t just say, ‘Penny for your thoughts.’”

  “Sure I did.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t even have pennies. I’ll bet you spend … didgeridoos or something.”

  “We used to have pennies,” said Len.

  “What is a didgeridoo, anyway?”

  “They’re those big, huge, long pipe instrument things.” He stood and feigned unzipping his fly. “Here, I can show you. I have one in my pants.”

  Lily pushed him back down. Len landed on the stone bench with a thud. After a moment, she said, “I just want to run a little flower shop.”

  “Well, then I have good news for you.” He gestured toward La Fleur’s window, where Allison was visibly flirting with a man whose sunglasses, sun-bleached long hair, and collared dress shirt managed somehow to make him look like a surfer P.I.

  “Yeah, that’s not what I meant.”

  “You want to run a flower shop in a way that’s different from this.” Again, gesturing toward La Fleur. Allison seemed to be unbuttoning the surfer P.I.’s shirt. Lily wondered if she’d have an outlandish excuse or if this was about to turn into something she’d need to head in and break up.

  “I don’t know if you know this,” said Lily, “but yesterday … ”

  “The brawl at the mall? Yeah, I know. Kind of hard to miss it.”

  “I noticed you didn’t come over to comfort me.”

  “I’m sorry. It was crazy busy. You were gone by the time I could make it. And besides, I’m sure you had that face on.”

  “This face?” She tried on a scowl.

  “No, the hot one.”

  “My fuck-off face is hot?”

  “Ooh,” said Len, rubbing his chest seductively. “Say ‘fuck’ again.”

  She shoved him, this time sideways.

  “She got the point,” Len said.

  “Why did I have to make a point? I just want to run a flower shop. I had this little girl’s idea, birthed from a little girl’s dream of Paris, trying to live her mother’s past.”

  “Is it that dramatic?”

  “I don’t know, Len.” Lily sighed. “Is business always like this? I knew I’d have to buy flowers, sell flowers, keep records, repeat. I knew I’d have to have the guts to do the all-white thing and to charge what I’d have to charge, and pay the rent at a place like this. That took a lot of guts! Somehow I did it … but I never realized that someone would be trying, the entire time, to make sure I failed. I didn’t do anything to start this. I just showed up.”

  “That’s what you did. You showed up.”

  “Why does she hate me?”

  “I could theorize. But does it matter? She has it out for you.”

  “She’s going to kill my shop.” Knowing how pathetic it sounded, she added, “It’s not fair.”

  “Well, maybe not. But you should ask yourself: would you be where you are without her forcing you to improve?”

  Lily rolled her eyes.

  “Sorry,” said Len. “Just trying for a sliver lining sort of thing.”

  Lily finished her food, kissed Len goodbye, and headed back to La Fleur to end her day. The afternoon was equally uneventful, and Lily found herself almost wishing the volcano’s top would blow and get it over with. If she’d knocked Kerry down hard enough to keep her from coming back, great. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like the calm before a storm … and the storm was taking its precious time to arrive.

  Len was waiting for Lily when she closed for the day, making a comic show of pretending to be smashed flat by her descending gate. Lily stopped the gate and let him in, then closed it anew without a word. She didn’t ask what he’d come to say or what they should do. She
’d simply told him to follow her back to her apartment, then led him up the steps. They said little as Len eased onto her couch and Lily sat beside him, but she was already starting to tingle. This time, she didn’t try to deny the need bubbling up inside her. Instead she embraced it, crossing her legs and enjoying the warm, firm sensation between them, content to anticipate what she knew was coming.

  “Feeling any better?” he said.

  His arms were wide across the back of the couch. Lily leaned into him, setting her head on his chest.

  “Yes.”

  “I noticed nothing else happened over there today.”

  Lily rolled her head to look up at him. A five o’clock shadow brewed beneath his chin.

  “I was looking out for you like a big, strong protector.”

  Lily rolled her head back to neutral, now looking at her TV’s blank screen. “You’ve been watching me.”

  “Always. You’re nice to watch.”

  “Watching for predators.”

  “Watching to see if you’ll change clothes in the window.”

  “Watching for Kerry.”

  “Wow,” said Len. “This conversation just got a lot less juicy.”

  “Are you saying Kerry isn’t juicy?”

  “Juicy like a desiccated prune.”

  Lily laughed.

  “Juicy like bone meal.”

  Lily laughed harder.

  After a moment, Len spoke from above her, strangely disembodied as Lily looked across the living room. “She’s not done, you know.”

  Lily considered asking what Len meant, but she knew. He was the one who’d told her to fight back, that bullies didn’t back down easily. Of course she’d keep coming. The Palms Couture’s grande dame had been embarrassed in front of a crowd and hadn’t shown her face since — even via her bureaucratic enforcers at the leasing office. Lily had spent the afternoon imagining herself in a hurricane’s eye, tempted to feel safe but knowing there was plenty of storm left to rage.

  “I know,” Lily said.

  “I don’t know why she doesn’t like you, but you can bet your ass she won’t appreciate what happened yesterday, with you coming across like the victor.”