by Holly Kerr
“Auntie Flora can catch anything,” Patrick brags. Even as a little boy, Patrick had always been in awe of my skills.
I check the scoreboard. Severino just threw a ninety four mile fastball. “I’ve never had anything thrown at me that fast,” I admit.
“Do you miss it?”
I feel M.K.’s gaze on me. It’s been years since anyone has asked me about playing. It’s not something I like to talk about. “Sometimes,” I say in a soft voice.
My father started me playing softball when I had been four years old. I surprised him and everyone else by being good at it. I surprised myself with how much I loved it. Playing had started out as something I could share with my father, since none of my brothers were into sports, but I kept at it because it made me happy. And because I was good at it. I made the National junior team when I was fifteen, the senior team three years later.
The team had been gearing up for the 2008 Olympics in Beijing when the Olympic Committee decided women’s softball would not be eligible to compete.
I kept playing for another two years, but my heart hadn’t been into it. And then when the committee reversed their decision and allowed that the sport would be back for the 2020 games, I was a little bitter that I missed out on my dream.
I still am.
“Is it okay that I ask?” Adam’s expression is one of concern. “Patrick’s told me about your career—your pre-Flower Girl career and I’m curious. I used to play ball in high school but nothing like you.”
“Not many play like Flora, men or women,” M.K. says loyally.
I drop my head on her shoulder. “My biggest fan.”
“I’m serious,” M.K. says. “You were amazing. You still would be if—”
“The Olympic committee weren’t a bunch of grumpy old men,” Patrick finishes.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” I say, pulling out another strip of licorice and handing it to M.K. “Timing is everything, especially in baseball.”
“It’s funny though, you meeting Dean in Las Vegas the way you did,” M.K. muses. “Out of anyone, he might know how you feel.”
I’d gone almost three hours without thinking about him and now M.K. brings him up. “I don’t need anyone to know how I feel.” I suspect that came out harsher than I intended, but M.K. doesn’t say anything.
We watch another inning, sitting quietly beside each other, cheering for our favourites, for each other’s favourites.
I’ve missed this.
“How long should it take for me to get over him?” I ask suddenly.
“Thomas or Dean?” M.K. replies without missing a beat. “Because I still think about Clay and I didn’t even have sex with him.”
“You know that’s called obsessing, right?”
“I don’t think it is. It’s not taking anything away from my life. It’s not like I’m so preoccupied, it’s just nice to lie in bed and think about him.”
“Isn’t there anyone else you can think about? I mean, Clay was nice, but you spent, like, an hour talking to him.”
M.K. shrugs. “We just clicked. It’s probably better that we never got together. Now I have this image of Clay as the perfect guy.”
“And that will never change,” I muse. “Maybe it is a good thing.”
Dean
The next day, Clay comes over in the afternoon to watch the Jays game with me on TV. “This place is a dump, Deano,” Clay says, pushing aside an empty chip bag as he settles onto to the couch.
“Yeah.” I grin and hand him a beer. “It’s like Evelyn was never here.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Nope. She’s eventually going to want to get her stuff, but I’m not going to make it easy on her.” I’m glad I didn’t pack her closet yesterday.
“Good. You be an ass.” Clay clinks his beer bottle with mine. “I know it’s hard for you.”
In the middle of the sixth inning, a knock on the door interrupts a double play. I tense. “Do you think it’s her?” I hiss.
“There’s no way she’d show up in the middle of the game,” Clay assures me lazily. “Tell her to come back later.”
With a sense of dread, I head for the door only to find Mrs. Gretchen with her walker and a bottle in her hand.
“Is everything okay?” We share the wall in the semi-detached and talk outside, but she’s never visited.
“I heard you in here.” Mrs. Gretchen pushes the walker forward so I’m forced to move out of the way. “I made sure it wasn’t your girl before coming over.”
I smile as I picture the old lady pressing her ear against the wall to listen to us.
“It’s my birthday,” she says, wheeling her way down the short front hall. “I need someone to share a drink with.”
Clay appears in the doorway to the living room. “You’ve come to the right place, then, ma’am.”
I can’t hide my shock as Mrs. Gretchen cackles like a witch. “It’s been a while since I shared a drink with more than one boy at a time—or anything else.”
“So this is something you’re in the habit of doing?” Clay asks with a bemused smile, taking the bottle and gestures to the couch.
“Mrs. Gretchen, this is Clay. Clay, my neighbour.”
“Are you a baseball player, too, like my Dean?” Mrs. Gretchen asks Clay.
“I don’t play anymore,” I correct, even though it’s sweet to hear her refer to me as ‘my.’
“I’ve seen you with that big bag of stuff. Look like a baseball player to me.” She parks her stroller and perches on the edge of the couch. Evelyn had picked out the furniture; contemporary style with unyielding cushions.
Sort of like Evelyn herself.
“Fetch us some glasses,” Mrs. Gretchen instructs.
“What have we got here today?” Clay examines the bottle as I do what I’m told.
“Schnapps, of course.”
Peach schnapps? Does she really expect us to drink that? As I grab three glasses, I look longingly at the fridge where the cold bottles of beer take up nearly a shelf.
There’s really nothing else in there. Hopefully, Mrs. Gretchen isn’t going to want a birthday snack. Maybe she likes pizza.
“I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking peach schnapps,” Clay is saying as I return with the glasses.
“You can’t compare this to that American swill,” Mrs. Gretchen says heatedly. “Bauer’s Obstler is the very best German schnapps.” She takes the half-empty bottle from Clay and leans forward to pour a round.
“I didn’t know you were German,” I say politely, accepting my glass of clear liquid. It smells faintly like apples.
“My first husband was Austrian. We met in France during the war when I was helping with the resistance. Prost!” Mrs. Gretchen tips back her glass and takes a big swallow.
I follow suit, feeling the burn of the alcohol.
“Whoa—that’s a bit strong,” Clay sputters after a big mouthful.
~
The next morning, I wake up with a stabbing pain in my head and a sense of incredulity that my neighbour Mrs. Gretchen might be one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.
The tale of Mrs. Gretchen’s life as a supply pilot shot down in occupied France during the Second World War took the rest of the bottle of schnapps, and overshadowed the Jays win. Mrs. Gretchen left with the empty bottle and promised that she’d tell us more next time. Clay’s promises that he’d replace the schnapps followed her out the door.
Whatever that stuff is, it was strong.
My morning run clears some of the cobwebs, but not all of them.
After a glance at the backyard, hoping for another glimpse of the neighbour’s gardener, a cold shower gets rid of the rest of the fogginess. I’ve been watching for the garden girl whenever I can. Whoever she is, she’s doing a nice job with the garden.
That’s when I decide to buy Mrs. Gretchen flowers for her birthday. And maybe a box of chocolates. From all the cookies she presses on me, I know she’s got a sweet tooth. The empti
ness of the refrigerator mocks me, so a trip to the grocery store is on the list as well.
Through my morning runs, I’ve gotten to know my new neighbourhood. Streets busy with nonstop buses and cars, lined with semi-detached houses. It hadn’t been my first choice of where to buy a house, but Evelyn had insisted. I didn’t know the city, or any neighbourhood, save the downtown area where Evelyn’s condo was.
I glance at the house before I back my Jeep out into the busy street. It’s a nice neighbourhood, but I don’t love it. We only lived here for six days before Las Vegas, and there are too many bad memories for me to consider it a home.
I wonder if I should sell it.
The thought of making such a decision makes me tired. I’d have to get hold of Evelyn, and the thought of that makes my schnapps hangover come back with a vengeance. I’ll stick with buying flowers today and save any life-altering resolutions for another day.
I head first to the little flower store by the bakery and find parking out front.
The bell chimes as I push open the door. A short woman with a friendly smile looks up. “Happy Monday!”
“Hi.” I manage a smile, even though my head doesn’t agree that there’s anything happy about the day, and head to the glass door of the refrigerator unit, gazing at the colourful flowers.
“Can I help you with anything?” She moves slowly away from behind the counter, and I can’t help but notice she’s very pregnant.
“I can get it,” I say quickly. “If you need to sit down or anything.” With a splash of dread like having a bucket of cold water poured over me, I hope I didn’t put my foot in my mouth. What if she’s not pregnant?
“I’m good with walking, just slow,” she says cheerfully and I heave a sigh of relief. I hope she didn’t notice. Has it been that long that I can’t even talk to a pregnant woman anymore?
“I need flowers,” I say in a rush before I say anything else stupid. “For my neighbour. She’s kind of old.”
“That’s sweet of you. What were you thinking of?”
“Flowers. I hadn’t gotten any further than that.”
I look around the store as she spouts out names of flowers. This is more than a corner flower shop; there are containers of plants, empty ceramic pots of every colour and style, and racks of seeds.
“This place is amazing,” I blurt, not able to stop staring at the photos of gardens on the wall.
“Isn’t it? I can’t take any of the credit. Flora’s done an incredible job with the place. It was just this dingy little place to buy roses for Valentine’s Day and look what she’s done. It’s not just the plants and flowers—Flora does landscaping, too. Those are pictures of—”
My heart stops the second time she says her name.
“Flora? As in…Flora…?”
There is no way that the Flora I met in Las Vegas can be the same Flora that works in the flower shop a few kilometers away from my house. I run past here every day. If it is…
“It can’t be her.”
“Flora Shaughnessy,” she offers. “From the Niagara Shaughnessy’s.”
Her last name is no help. “Flora…blonde? Amazing—nice, green eyes? Smells good?” Where did that come from? “Likes Game of Thrones and just came home from Las Vegas a few weeks ago?” I force myself to breathe. It can’t be her. It’s just a coincidence. Flora is a common name.
The expression of confusion on the woman’s face switches so quickly to understanding that it’s like a light comes on in the store. “Oh my god. You’re the guy. The guy, the one from Las Vegas! M.K. told me all about you and your friend. Cute little guy, big, tall redhead? You stood them up,” she accuses.
“They never showed.” My head is spinning. Flora is here. I don’t know what to say, what to say to her.
Maybe I shouldn’t say anything.
“Oh, my god!” The woman laughs so hard I have a flicker of fear about her baby. “This is too weird! But amazing. I’m Imogene, by the way. I’m going to get Flora.” She turns but I put out a hand to stop her.
“No, wait. I don’t want to bother her when she’s working…”
“She owns the place. I think it’s okay to bother her.”
“I should go,” I stammer, turning to the door. “Flora doesn’t want to see me.” She’d proven that when she hadn’t gotten in touch. I don’t need another rejection.
“I don’t think so.” I freeze at the force of Imogene’s voice. For a short little thing, she packs a punch. “If you’re leaving here, you better march yourself over to M.K.’s bakery first, because she is going to kill me if I let you out of my sight. You’re all M.K. talks about. Maybe not you, but your friend. What are you doing here anyway? Did you track down Flora?”
“Flowers,” I say miserably. “Just flowers.”
Chapter Twelve
Flora
I like Mondays.
No one buys flowers on a Monday, unless it’s Valentine’s Day, so it’s usually a slow day at the shop. I always give Imogene paperwork to catch up on. Her due date is getting closer and keeps pace with her panic attacks and cravings for french fries. I’ve lost track of how many McDonald’s runs I’ve been sent on.
I suppose it’s natural to be nervous about a first baby, but somedays I think Imogene might be taking things too far. She has a spreadsheet with no less than seven brands of baby strollers, broken into categories of wheels, steering, space, handles and cupholders.
I stopped listening to the endless debates about strollers two weeks ago. When Imogene decides what she wants, I’ll go buy it for her. Hopefully it’s not the two-thousand-dollar one from Sweden. She’s on her own for that one.
On Monday morning, I get in first and take my coffee to the back room, leaving Cappie out front to wait for Imogene.
The back room is my turf for propagating, designing and arranging. This morning I have violets to be repotted, as well as the first of the fall mums that need to be arranged in containers. My sketchbook is open on the table, tempting me to work on more designs for Erin and Dale’s garden.
I reach in my pocket for a hair elastic, forgetting again that I got my haircut last week. Franco at the salon had been excited when I told him I wanted a new look, giving me a graduated bob that ended just past my jawline. It’s been years since I’ve worn my hair this short. It’s going to take a while to get used to life without the messy bun.
But I like it.
Thomas would have hated it.
I stick in my AirPods and flip past a Maroon 5 song on my iPhone—one of Thomas’ favourites—and settle on Imagine Dragons.
I’m wrist-deep into a bag of potting soil when Imogene blows in through the door.
“Flora! Come! There’s a guy—he wants to see you!”
“A what?” I finish sprinkling a handful of dirt into the pot before adding a shake of nutrients. “What did you say?”
Imogene pulls out one of my headphones. “Take out the ears. It’s a man. Guy. Man. Part of the male species. From Las Vegas.”
I stare at her. “Who?”
It can’t be Dean. Why would it be Dean?
“I didn’t get his name.”
Trying to still my racing heart, I take the violet cutting and place it gently in the pot. “How?”
“He opened the door and walked in and freaked when I mentioned you.”
“Freaked good or freaked bad?” I ask carefully. If it’s Dean—the big if because how—why should I rush out to see him? He left without a word, not even a note—
“Flora!” Imogene’s slightly hysterical voice pulls me out of my head. “Get out there!”
Feeling suddenly unsteady on my feet, I finish with the violet and wipe the dirt off my hands and follow Imogene. At the last moment, I pull out the other AirPod.
If I know for a fact it can’t or won’t be Dean, why is my heart racing like a racehorse at the post?
It really is him.
Dean is really in the middle of my store, crouched down and sending Cappie into spasms of de
light with his hands.
“What are you doing here?” It takes two times to make my voice sound normal, but it’s enough for Dean to hear.
He runs a hand through his hair as he stands up, a nervous grin half-hidden among his beard.
I remember what his beard felt like. And his mouth and his hands…
“I can ask you the same thing.”
“I work here. Own it, actually.” I resist the urge to walk straight into his arms, and cross my own across my chest instead. I remember how his hands felt on my chest. “You left without saying goodbye. Or anything, really.”
“I left a note. You didn’t call me.” His tone is accusing but not angry.
“There was no note.”
“I left one, with the flower. I wouldn’t have run out, but I didn’t want to wake you and I got a text about—”
Fireworks explode inside my chest. “What did it say?”
“The note I left? Just that I had a good time.” He glances at Imogene who stares at us with the fascination of watching an Olympic ping pong game. “And my phone number. And that I live in Toronto.”
The giddy laugh escapes. “I live in Toronto.”
“I’m really glad you live in Toronto.”
His smile melts some part of me, some cold, icy part desperate for the sun. “What else did it say?”
“Does it matter? I left a note; you obviously didn’t get it.”
“It does matter because I’ve thought you were the kind of guy to dine and dash for weeks now.”
His forehead furrows with confusion. “I paid for the pancakes.”
“I mean me. Spending the night and then running out…”
“I left a note,” he says firmly. “I’m not that guy. I mean, I don’t know what kind of guy you want to think I am, but I’m not him.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
I let myself drift forward, drawn to him like he’s a magnet. “You’re here,” I whisper. “And you left a note.”
“I left a note.” He laughs. “I’m glad you didn’t see it. I thought you didn’t want to get in touch with me.”
