by Holly Kerr
As I drive the short distance to the tiny strip mall on Moore Drive that houses Fleur, I keep my thoughts firmly planted in the new garden I’m going to start to create today.
It’s better than thinking of Dean, Dean of the one-night stand. Thoughts of him kept me awake for hours last night. And it’s not even that I can’t stop turning over reasons in my head about why he would take off without a goodbye.
I keep thinking about the sex.
It’s not like I’m desperate or in a drought, because I’ve gone much longer without having sex. Many times. But I can’t stop thinking of Dean, of how we fit together perfectly. How he knew what I wanted a moment before I did. His kisses made me tingle and shiver and all the right things you wanted from a kiss.
It’s been a while since a kiss did that for me.
The way he kissed me when it was over, tenderly, like it meant something. That last kiss wiped out any regret of the syrup-soaked smacker in the IHOP. And then there was the rest of him. The way he—
Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe it wasn’t that Dean was so good, it was that Thomas never was.
I bang on the steering wheel hard enough for Cappie to give a questioning little bark. There’s no point in even wondering about it, because it’s not like I’m going to see Dean again.
It still hurts. I’ve never had a connection like that with anyone, not even Thomas. Maybe if I had more experience, the rejection would be easier to bear.
Nope. Waking up to find him gone would have been tough even if my list of bedpost notches was as long and legendary as Taylor Swift’s.
Imogene is inside the shop when I park in front. She’s my second-in-command, the only person I trust to manage things when I can’t.
I take a few minutes to admire the containers on guard at the door, full of midsummer flowers in full bloom. The coleus draws my attention with the big leaves and vibrant colours, perfect for the shade under the overhang. Orange and yellow nasturtiums mingle with bright green sweet potato vines, yellow Calibrachoa, and sprays of purple salvia.
I pull off a few dead Calibrachoa flowers before I pull open the door. The bell tinkles a welcome and I let go of Cappie’s leash as he waddles into the store.
“It’s your day off. What are you doing here?” Imogene cries, moving slower than Cappie, her well-worn Uggs shuffling along the floor. “You scared the poop out of me. You almost scared the baby out, which wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
I shrug. “It’s a nice day. I thought I’d head over to the new garden.”
Imogene plants her hands on her hips, looking even more pregnant than she did yesterday, if that’s possible. She’s barely five feet tall, and while I’ll never be considered tall, I tower over my diminutive store manager.
“Flora, enough. You need a day off. You’ve worked every day since you got back from Las Vegas.”
“I have things to do. It’s a busy time,” I say, moving to the display in the window to get away from Imogene’s laser stare. She’s only five years older than I am, but she’s been practising her maternal instincts on me ever since I hired her last year.
“I’m only going over for a few hours,” I relent. “M.K. and I are going to the ball game this afternoon.”
“How are you doing?”
I sigh. I learned early on that there’s no point lying to Imogene about anything. She’ll be a terrific mother in that regard, always knowing when her kids are trying to get away with something. “It’s easier when I keep busy.”
“You can’t spend your life working.”
“No, but I can spend part of today.” I head for the back room to pack up my supplies when a banging on the door stops me.
“Ooh, it’s Paulo,” Imogene says, sounding more like a five-year-old coming face-to-face with a pony rather than an extremely pregnant wife.
“We’re not open,” I hiss. For once I don’t want to listen to Paulo, feeling his charm slide over me in the best ways.
“Are you going to tell him to go away?” she counters, waddling to the door. “Morning, Paulo!”
Paulo is our resident hunk of hot man. Tall, dark and sexy, and from Brazil. Imogene says the sight of him makes her want to take salsa lessons. He works at the gym at the end of the strip mall and frequents M.K.’s bakery at the other end, so Imogene is able to watch him saunter by at least twice a day.
Maybe I watch for him, too.
Paulo glides into the still-closed shop because Imogene holds the door open for him. He’s carrying a tray from Chocolat, so M.K. has already been graced with his presence. “Ah, my mulheres bonitas,” Paulo says with a wide, white smile designed to stop any woman in her tracks. “I need your help.”
Imogene looks ready to melt from his accent.
“We’re not really open yet,” I say regretfully, but not very loudly. Usually I would be tripping over Imogene to get close enough to smell Paulo.
He smells amazing, even when he comes from the gym. It’s like his sweat doesn’t even stink.
“I am in need of flowers,” Paulo announces, waving his hand for emphasis. “Dire need. Life-and-death need. You must help me.”
“You’re my only hope,” I mutter the Star Wars line under my breath as Imogene escorts Paulo to the display, walking as sexily as a seven-months-pregnant woman can manage. I head to the back room, thinking Imogene can handle herself with our hot hunk.
“Who’s getting flowers?” Imogene asks with an edge to her voice.
I roll my eyes and decide maybe she can’t. “What kind of flowers do you need?”
Paulo shrugs, smile still on display, and I melt just a little bit. “You are my mulher flor, so you must tell me. What would you like?”
M.K. always Google translates everything Paulo has ever said to her, which has helped both of us learn a little of the language, so I know he’s calling me flower woman in Portuguese. Could be worse. “It depends on the occasion.”
“The occasion is amor,” Paulo drawls.
I think that’s love, but I’m not sure if it means Paulo is in love or if he got laid. I tend to go for the latter.
“Roses,” Imogene says promptly. “Or a single red rose.”
“Perfeito.” He kisses his fingers and smiles so brightly, it takes Imogene a moment so come to her senses and open the fridge to get the rose.
The image of the red rose lying on the hotel pillow flashes before my eyes. “Is this for your girlfriend or some girl you just met?”
“There are too many mulheres bonitas for me be able to pick just one,” Paulo says in his best panty-remover voice.
“So a girl you just met. Are you going to see her again?”
Paulo narrows his eyes, still with a smile. “I know not where our amor will lead us.”
“Would you ever leave a woman without a word after you spent the night with her?” I demand.
“Of course not,” Paulo says with a frown. “Only a brute would think that is acceptable. Women are to be cherished, even if amor is brief.”
“That’s what I thought.” Dean is nothing more than a brute, even if he is a cute one. And even if the amor was certainly not brief.
Paulo catches my arm as I turn to the back room. “What is it, meu amado?”
Imogene stares at us from the fridge, holding a single, perfect red rose in her hand.
“Men,” I say simply.
Paulo smiles; this time it has a bit of a wolfish tinge. “Not all men, meu amado. If someone hurt you, I would be so happy to help you get over him. It would be my pleasure. For both of us. ”
For the briefest second, almost like the flash of a falling star, I want to jump on his offer because I know exactly what it would mean; one night, and one night only, with that perfect body paying homage to me.
The next morning, he would bring me coffee and a flower.
No. Just, no. With my luck, all these unresolved emotions would only transfer to Paulo, and I’d be stuck panting after him for weeks.
“That’s very sweet of you but I�
��m fine. I’m over him.”
Imogene coughs on her way to the cash register.
“I am.”
“I am unable to get over my amante until I have another,” Paulo says.
“Luckily you never seem to be at loss for amante. But for me, I think I’ll hold off for a bit.”
“I will be waiting.” He raises an eyebrow. “Voce nunca esqueceria uma noite coming.”
I smile tightly in response, not sure if I want M.K. to translate that for me. The bright temptation of Paulo dims to a slimy uneasiness.
But not for Imogene, who has no idea what he may be saying.
After Paulo leaves with a rose for his mulher bonita, I pack plants, supplies, and Cappie into my truck and make a coffee run to Au Pain du Chocolat.
M.K. bought the bakery about a year after I opened Fleur. She’s an amazing baker and did the rounds in the top bakery in Niagara-on-the-Lake before following me to Toronto. When the grilled cheese place at the end of the strip mall closed up, it was a no-brainer for M.K. to realize her dream and open her own place. I was glad I had some of the money left that my brothers gave me to help her out, and even happier to have my best friend so close to me.
M.K. greets me with a shake of her head at my cut-off and faded T-shirt. “You’re going to play in a garden,” she admonishes.
“I just got the lecture from Imogene about working too much, so don’t start.”
“I work more than you do, so just remember we’re still on for Monday night.”
“Would I bail on you?”
M.K. hides her answer in a cough. “Yes. And I got Jays tickets for next Saturday, so no working that day.”
I salute her. “Yes, ma’am.”
I can’t ask for a better friend than M.K. She’s done everything in her power to make my new man-free life easier, but there’s some things a girl has got to do on her own.
Like mend a broken heart.
I throw myself into the new job. The garden is a perfect project to get my mind off anyone with a penis, since the owners are a lesbian couple who have just moved in and adopted a little girl, all in a few weeks time. They live a few blocks away from the store and they want me to design a perfect play yard for her.
“We’re so busy with the renos on the house that neither of us has time to even look at the yard,” Erin had explained after she saw me cringe at the patch of dead grass spotted with dog pee and dandelions.
Erin and Dale have given me carte blanche over the yard, and I’ve planned a butterfly garden in the rear of the yard, with margeurites and black eyed Susans mixed among the different-coloured coneflowers. Then there will be delphiniums and salvia rising tall against the hollyhocks and sweet peas on the fence. A perfect circle of lilies of the valley and bluebells will nestle close to the tree. I’ve purged my own supply of shade plants and plan on lining the side of the garden with Guacamole Hostas.
I start digging. When my hands are in the dirt up to my elbows, I can forget about Thomas. Planning and digging and planting make me happy.
I can’t seem to forget about Dean, though.
Dean
“Hey, dude.” Trev greets me with a high five as I step around the fence into the dugout Monday night. “Didn’t think you were coming.”
“I thought you were…” Imad doesn’t finish the sentence but glances at Clay with raised eyebrows.
“Didn’t work out.” I slam my bag on the ground, hoping a show of temper might fend off any more questions.
But Imad still comes up to me during the bottom of the first. I’m on deck, but instead of taking practice swings, I stare unseeingly towards the outfield. It’s the first game I’ve been to since I got back from Las Vegas.
“You okay?” Imad asks in a quiet voice. Everything about Imad is quiet, except for his arm. I’ve watched him throw out a runner at home from right field too many times to count.
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck before glancing at the concerned expression of my teammate. “She said she couldn’t marry me. No real excuse. I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“That sucks.”
“I guess.” It still stings but I’m dealing. I can’t stop counting though. I would have been married for ten days if Evelyn had gone through with it.
“Trust me, it sucks,” Imad says with a humourless chuckle. “Maybe it’ll be for the best in the long run, but to do it like that isn’t cool. And to go all the way to Vegas. Did you at least have some fun down there?”
“Wasn’t really in the mood.”
Imad gently slaps me on the shoulder. “Hang in there.”
“Yeah.” What else am I supposed to do?
Yesterday had been endless. I wandered around the house, unsure of what to do. Should I be packing my things? Looking into coming up with the money to buy the house from her? Throw her things out onto the curb?
That thought had come after a few beers.
I should have left to hang out with Clay, but I hadn’t wanted to leave in case Evelyn came back.
I still have no idea what to say if she does come back. Ten days, and no word from her. It’s like Evelyn has dropped off the face of the earth and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it. Part of me is worried, but then I remember how she dumped me. And that usually brings me around to thinking about Flora.
Tonight, I thought going to the game would help, but when I finally get up to bat, it’s like I’m half asleep. Three pitches fly by; I swing mightily at the fourth, but miss.
Finally, I connect with a low curveball, rocketing it to left field.
That feels better.
Despite the hit, I play like shit. I miss an easy catch, fumble an easy play. I switched to first base after the injury, and I’m pretty good, but when my game is off, it messes up the rest of the team.
We lose 7—3.
“Coming for a beer?” Trev asks as we pack away the equipment. The team is meeting up at a Tex-Mex place on Bayview for beer and wings after the game.
“Think I’ll pass tonight.” I rotate my shoulder, feeling a slight twinge after that last throw.
“So, hey, I meant to ask if you’d heard anything from those girls,” Clay says as he walks with me towards my Jeep parked on the street. “M.K.? And that Flora chick–I can’t remember the name of the third, but she was tall.”
“Tall and Braided,” I say automatically. “Ruthie.” I still haven’t told Clay about Flora. What was there to say? That I slept with her and then ran out to find Evelyn. I left a note, but there’s been no word.
I haven’t figured out if not hearing from Flora is a good or bad thing.
“You do remember! Did you happen to get where they were from?”
I shrug. “Probably someplace far away.”
“Too bad. I wonder what happened?”
“Probably had a better offer. Sorry, bro,” I say, seeing the hurt expression on Clay’s face. “I’m sure something came up.”
I never asked Flora what had happened. Too busy laughing with her…kissing…having sex.
Really good sex.
“Yeah,” Clay says glumly. “They just vanished.”
“Vegas is a big place.” Then how was I able to bump into Flora later that night? Fate? Destiny? Plain bad luck? I hate lying to Clay.
We reach my car, and I let my keys dangle between my fingers, thinking of all the reasons I won’t hear from Flora.
The night meant nothing to her.
She threw away the note and the rose without a second thought.
Like me, she just got out of a relationship. Or maybe she got back into one. Maybe she got back together with Thomas? Maybe she was happily married and needs to keep our night together a secret forever? I could go on and on but Clay’s still talking.
“Yeah. Look, if you ever hear from them—”
“Why would I hear from them?”
“They know your last name. That Flora seemed like a baseball fan.” Clay’s attention is diverted by the group of women heading for a nearby ca
r. There’s two baseball diamonds in the green space, one of which is used by a women’s league. Clay smiles at the group and most of the women return the smile. He nudges my arm as they walk by. “You should check them out. Back on the market…” he trails off with a knowing smile.
“That’s the last thing I need.”
“Don’t be too sure. Best way to get over someone is to move on.”
“It hasn’t even been two weeks!”
“I didn’t say move on tonight,” Clay corrects. “Just keep your options open, Deano.”
“Sure,” I say. An image of a laughing Flora pops into his head, and how she looked asleep beside me.
I wave goodbye to Clay as I pull away from the curb. I know it’d do me good to go out with the team for a beer, but it’s the last thing I want to do. There’ll be questions and Imad would tell me all about a friend of his wife’s that was really great, and Trev would try and bully me into going out one night.
It’s nice to have friends but I’m still in hiding mode. Maybe next week.
As I pull into my shared driveway, the headlights of the Jeep illuminate my neighbour Mrs. Gretchen slowly pulling her recycling bin to the curb with one hand, the other with a tight grip on her walker. I jump out and rush to her side.
“Mrs. Gretchen, what are you doing? This is too heavy for you,” I say, wrestling her for control of the bin.
“The day this is too much for me is the day I put myself in a home,” Mrs. Gretchen snaps, still trying to pull the bin after her, almost running over my foot.
“You should put it out when it’s light.” I finally get the recycling bin away from the older woman and finish wheeling it to the curb.
“Then everyone will see the raccoons get into it. This way the critters get some privacy.”
I wonder at her logic as I head back for her green compost bin.
Mrs. Gretchen waits for me to finish with the bins and to pull out my gear from the Jeep before she starts the slow walk back to her door. “What’s going on with that girl of yours?” she asks. “I haven’t seen her around much.”
I suspect Mrs. Gretchen doesn’t remember Evelyn’s name. Not surprising, considering I doubt Evelyn ever said two words to the older woman.
