The Art of Arranging Flowers (12 page)

I
BOUGHT
a black cocktail dress, my first little black dress, which is apparently a rite of passage I missed in my twenties. It's a slim dark sheath with soft ruffles and a small peplum at the hips. It has cap sleeves with a triangle cutout that shows off just a bit of my back. It has a black narrow belt with thread loops at the waist, a hidden back zipper with a hook-and-eye closure, and it is fully lined in amethyst charmeuse with the silky side resting against my skin.

After trying on at least thirty dresses and narrowing my choices down to two, Nora cast her vote for the strapless faille with a structured corset bodice. However, once I modeled the two for what I declared was my final showing, she finally agreed with Carl that the sheath was more slimming. Besides, I told her I don't do strapless. I've never done strapless. I tried the dress on three different times and kept pulling my shoulders up to my ears, thinking that would somehow keep it from falling down. Lucy said I looked like I had been frozen in the middle of a shrug so Nora finally consented and I bought the one with the ruffles and peplum.

It turned out that the dress was the easy part. Once that was purchased, I was led downstairs to find appropriate outerwear, a long wool peacoat, then over to the shoe department for a pair of high heels, black patent leather, then to the jewelry counter for a faux pearl necklace and earrings, and then over to the accessories for a pair of black silk hose. Even with everyone chipping in, I spent as much money on this shopping trip as I did furnishing my house. I spent so much money that Nordstrom's wanted to assign me a personal shopper to assist me on future wardrobe purchases. After I explained to the department manager that this was just a onetime event and that I would likely never buy so many items in one trip again, Carl politely informed her that even though he was confident that Nordstrom's had great sales representatives, he was really the only personal shopper I needed. Still, when I opened the shoe box to show Jimmy the high heels, she had slipped a business card inside with a note saying Candi was available to assist me at any time.

By the time we left the store, everyone at Nordstrom's knew all of our names. They even knew where I was going to wear the little black dress, and, thanks to Nora, they knew that I was being accompanied by an astronaut. We were given champagne and free makeovers, which Carl especially seemed to enjoy. We were escorted by store personnel from one department to another, and when we had bought everything, everyone who had assisted me wanted to see the complete outfit. If it hadn't been for the booze, I'm pretty sure I would have turned down the request, but when I heard the cork pop on our third bottle, I knew I owed them a peek.

Dressed with assistance from the manager of the special occasions department, I walked out of the dressing room in the black dress and the high-heeled shoes, the coat thrown over my shoulder, the jewelry in place, the makeup fresh and my hair pinned up by Lucy, and you would have thought I was somebody. There were oohs and ahhs from the Nordstrom's folks, and I swear Nora even shed a tear or two. I felt like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
when she came out dressed for the opera and Richard Gere couldn't take his eyes off her. Of course, most of my audience was drunk, and the ones who weren't, except Nora, were at least being paid to tell me I looked good, but it didn't really matter; I felt beautiful.

*   *   *

It's after ten o'clock and I walk into my house, place all my bags on the sofa, and fall into the chair next to it. I just sit for a second, trying to catch my breath. Clementine saunters in behind me, goes over to her water bowl, and then returns, dropping down beside me. I think she is worn out as well, Will having taken her on the river walk, going from end to end, at least three times while waiting for the adults.

I'm tired from the shopping excursion and I see now that I suffer from a bit of buyer's remorse, too. I'm sure I could have borrowed some jewelry from Kathy Shepherd or even found something in my own stash; I'm pretty sure I have a suitable coat, and I know I have an old pair of black panty hose. Still, I feel happy in a way I haven't in a very long time. Even with the fatigue and my concern over the amount of money I paid, I feel uniquely included in something that I haven't experienced in a long time, and an odd sense of belonging. I have spent the day intricately connected to members of a group. I feel like part of a family.

I don't remember feeling this way since I was I was kid, and as I consider this, I suddenly remember the strangest thing from when I was nine or ten years old.

I stand up, pull off my coat, throw it over the Nordstrom's bags, yank off my scarf, tug at my shoes until they fall, and sit back down.

Before my grandparents bought their farm and moved closer to town, they lived out in the country. Back then they still worked my great-grandfather's farm out past Quartz Mountain. I remember Daisy and I staying at their house for about five months one of the early times we were taken from Mama, several years before she died. Their nearest neighbors were the Darbys, a large family who lived in a small log cabin about a half a mile behind us.

There were at least six kids, ranging in ages from a newborn to a teenager. We played with them all summer long. The father was a sharecropper, working the hayfields and tending the cattle that roamed the land all around their little house. He helped my grandfather and was able to stay for free in the cabin, eventually leaving in the fall when he got a job working in the apple orchards down at the Oregon border.

According to my grandmother, the Darbys were very poor, but as I think about them I remember that back then it didn't matter to me if they were wealthy or not. They were the happiest family I ever knew. I thought they had the best toys and the prettiest clothes, never realizing that everything they owned was made by hand or given to them from charity drives at local churches. They served the best dinners I ever ate, even though there was never much more than a pot of stew, glasses of fresh lemonade, and a plate of cold biscuits. And every time Daisy and I got to ride with the Darbys to the lake or to town in their old station wagon, every time we squeezed into the backseats with all six children, I always felt like I was a part of something big and delightful and even very, very rich.

On those rides I was shoved onto somebody's lap or pressed hard between two other children and we laughed as we fell into the pile, laughed as we slammed forward with every stop, Mr. Darby driving that way, speeding up and then putting on the brakes, just to watch us having fun, and we laughed as we got stepped on or pushed aside as everyone moved in and out of the car.

The trips that summer were always loud and rowdy. They were the best trips my sister and I ever had. Being in that station wagon was the only time I felt completely relaxed and completely at ease with being a child. I didn't worry about Mr. Darby getting drunk and crashing the car. I didn't worry that a police officer would stop us at the crossroads and we'd be taken to the station and have to wait on Granddaddy to pick us up. I didn't worry that I might have to drive home if Mama passed out, something I did at least twice before I turned thirteen, or whether she would pull out of the parking lot, forgetting me or Daisy and leaving us in the bar or at some store.

I squeezed myself between two other kids and laughed and sang and slid around in the car like everyone else in the back. I don't remember that much about where we were going, what we did when we got there; I mostly remember the rides themselves. The trip home was always, hands down, the best part of the day. That was, after all, when everyone fell silent, where we all found a place beside or near another and where most of us, the children anyway, exhausted from the day's adventure, eventually fell asleep.

We piled up on each other, some lying on the car floor, others stretched out in the back, and it didn't matter where I landed. I could always find a small view out the window and watch the stars. And even with the breeze blowing through the car, if I listened very closely I could hear Mr. and Mrs. Darby talking quietly to each other.

Sometimes their conversations were romantic, Mrs. Darby snuggled beneath her husband's arm, their whispers to each other marked by quick kisses and soft laughter; sometimes they spoke of more serious concerns, bills and unforeseen costs, or just of ordinary things, of meals and neighbors and schedules. It didn't matter what was discussed. Never did the Darbys speak to each other with raised voices or expressions of blame. No matter what the subject was, I loved to hear the things they said, the simple, everyday things that I always imagined a husband saying to his wife, a wife saying to her husband.

On those long-ago trips, I would take in a deep breath, close my eyes, and pretend I belonged to the Darbys, that Daisy and I were not a part of a family where a father never existed and a mother was almost always drunk or high, always talking a little too loud, laughing or screaming a little too harshly. I would pretend that my sister and I somehow belonged to this large and raucous family, somehow ordered in between Nancy, the teenager, and Louie, the littlest one, still resting in his mother's lap. I would close my eyes and pretend, and for however long it took us to reach our grandparents' place, where Mr. Darby stopped the car and carefully lifted Daisy and me from among the other children, opening the door and carrying us out, I belonged to something big and wonderful and safe.

I reach down now, feeling for Clementine's neck, and think about how the six of us crammed ourselves into the florist van today, how Lucy was convinced she had lost her glasses and how we returned to each department we'd visited, searching for them, until Carl finally discovered that they'd been hanging around her neck the whole time; how Jimmy pulled Will into the backseat, tugging so hard that he slid from one side of the van to the other, crashing into the door and then laughing so hard he got the hiccups; how we all groaned when Nora needed to make a stop before we even left town so that she could go to the bathroom again; and how we all decided together that everyone having an ice cream cone would help keep me awake on the drive home, stopping at the Dairy Queen, piling out and then piling back in, our fingers and lips still sticky.

The drive to and from Spokane with my friends was as loud and rowdy as any I took with the Darbys—and even though I know I spent way too much money, I also know that on that ride home I felt happy and safe. And as I glance over at my purchases, which I will likely still be paying off next year, I feel delighted and exhausted and I find myself grateful to Captain Miller for already giving me the best night I've had as a grown-up even if we haven't even gone out yet.

“Well,” I say to Clementine, who barely lifts herself as I find the spot behind her ears and give her a good scratch. “I may have spent way too much for this outfit, but I have to say it was worth it.”

She sighs in agreement and I lie back in the chair and close my eyes, imagining Mr. Darby reaching in and lifting me tenderly from the backseat. He smiles and I pretend I am asleep as he carries me all the way to my grandmother's door.

H
OW
do you know it wasn't for his mother?”

Nora started pestering me about the new veterinarian when I got back from making today's deliveries. She thinks I should go to his house or his office and take him a welcome gift. She suggested an amaryllis or one of the new primrose plants I just bought online. I reminded her that he already bought the bamboo and then I mentioned the bouquet he bought for Valentine's Day.

“That wasn't a son-to-mother flower arrangement,” I tell her.

She makes that huffing noise she makes a lot when she's exasperated.

I keep leaving the design area and heading to the cooler or to the storage room in the back to select the flowers and the supplies for the missionary supper at the Baptist church this weekend. They want small floral displays for sixteen tables. I had Jimmy bring up a box of vases from the basement. She keeps following me.

“Ruby, not everyone sees what you see when you make the arrangements. Not everyone knows that marigolds increase positive energies or that the rose is the ultimate gentle healing herb of love. Not everyone knows what you do when you make a bouquet. They don't feel what you feel.”

I go inside the cooler to check out my inventory once more. I'm thinking that creating something simple is best, Matsumoto asters and some hot pink miniature carnations, a few stems of alstroemeria and a little heather.

“He picked the biggest one in the refrigerator. That's all he did. He saw a bouquet he wanted and he bought it. That
does
sound like a son-to-mother gift. He didn't know the particular qualities of each stem or bloom. He just liked the colors.”

I don't answer. I know that Nora wasn't in the shop when the order was placed on February 14. Jimmy was running the counter. She had stepped out to get them lunch when Dr. Cash arrived, wanting flowers. She doesn't really know what he liked or why he bought what he bought.

The truth is that it doesn't matter to me anyway; I actually feel a little relieved that Dr. Cash is involved with someone. I'm glad I don't have to think about the kinds of things new lovers have to think about, and I'm especially glad I don't have to think about that today. I'm trying to figure out what I can use on the tables in the fellowship hall at the Baptist church. I'll need to come up with arrangements that fit in their budget but are still beautiful and celebratory of the work of the visiting missionaries. I have work to do. I pull out a few stems of orange and yellow alstroemeria from the bucket by the door, and when I turn around to head back to the design table I run into Nora.

“Geez, you're going to make me fall!” I tell her. “Look, I don't want to talk about this right now.”

She steps aside to let me pass, but she stays right on my heels. I feel her breath on my neck; she's that close.

“You need to talk about this. In fact, I think you need an intervention, Ruby Jewell.”

I glance up and see Jimmy standing in the doorway. He's holding the box of vases. He hears the conversation and he turns around to leave. I guess he doesn't want to be a part of intervening with me.

“Jimmy,” I say as he's walking out. “It's okay. I'm not listening to her anyway. Just bring me the box.”

He turns around, comes back in the room, and places the box of vases on the design table. He turns to Nora, shakes his head, and makes another exit.

“Jimmy, come back here and tell Ruby what happened when the veterinarian came and bought the flowers.”

He has a defeated look on his face. It's easy to see that he really doesn't want to be involved. He sighs in resignation, however, because we all three know that he does whatever Nora tells him to do.

“Nora had left to get us a bite of lunch,” he reports. “Dr. Cash came in and asked if you were here. I told him you were out making deliveries. He wanted to know what bouquets I had left and I pointed to the refrigerator. He looked through the door and pointed to the big one on the top shelf and he asked me if anybody had bought that one. I said no, that it was for purchase, and he said he would take it. I got the arrangement out, wiped off the vase on the bottom where some water had spilled, asked him if he wanted a card and he said no, and then he paid with a credit card, a Visa. The receipt should have been in the day's stack.” Jimmy takes a breath.

He's obviously already gone over this with Nora.

“Did he say who he was buying the flowers for?” Nora asks, and stares at me while Jimmy answers.

“No.”

She nods.

“Did he say that the bouquet was romantic and filled with flowers that provoked feelings of passion within him?”

“Uh, no, I don't recall him saying anything like that either.”

“And he asked if Ruby was here, yes?”

Jimmy nods.

I roll my eyes, place the flowers I had in my hands on the table, and start pulling out the vases that I want to use from the box.

“See, he came by, he was searching for you, but he picked out some flowers for his mother or his aunt or some woman he's related to and he bought them.”

“Nora, he picked out the Graceful Heart Bouquet. It used all the roses I had left over. It had bear grass shaped like a heart. There was pittosporum in it; I even stuck in a little jasmine. Jasmine, Nora, jasmine.”

“Jasmine is not just for increasing sexual desire. You told me yourself that it's used for PMS. Did you think of that?” she asks. “Maybe he wanted the arrangement to help a friend suffering from cramps.” She seems satisfied with herself.

Jimmy shifts his weight from side to side. He is waiting to be excused.

“The vase was a ruby red cube. It was a romantic arrangement. Even someone clueless about flowers would know this is a gift of romance, a gift of passion.” I snip off the ends of the blooms I've chosen and start placing them in the vases. “And I told you that I don't want to talk about this right now!” I say again, my voice raised and sharp.

Clementine slides under the table, out of my way. Jimmy walks out of the room without permission. Nora is studying me.

I feel her watching and watching. I blow out a long breath. “What?” I ask.

“When did you start getting so snippety?”

I put down the flowers and I wipe my hands on my apron. “I am not trying to be snippety,” I say, lowering my voice. “I just have to finish these arrangements and take them over to the church,” I add.

She's still watching me, waiting for something more.

I pinch off a few leaves so that the flowers arrange more easily.

She doesn't respond.

“He hasn't come by since then,” I tell her, and when I look up, the silence not being quite what I expected, I can see she is surprised.

“I haven't seen him since before Valentine's Day,” I add. I figure I might as well lay it all out there.

Now she looks like she feels sorry for me. I hate that.

“Then that is all the more reason for you to drop by with a primrose or a bromeliad.” She cannot let this go.

“Nora, I'm not chasing John Cash. I haven't chased a boy since I was in sixth grade and Tommy Locklear stole my homework. I chased him from homeroom to the playground and then behind the cafeteria and I promised myself I would never do that again.”

She turns away from me.

“Nora . . .”

She won't look at me.

“I'm happy,” I tell her, taking her by the arms. “I don't need a boyfriend. I have you and Jimmy and Clementine and Will. I have this shop to think about, and all the people I try to help. I have a date with an astronaut in two weeks. John Cash is a nice man and I'm sure he is lovely to the animals he treats, and to their owners, and I hope he will be successful and happy in Creekside. I don't want a boyfriend,” I say again. “I don't need an intervention or a special potion. I'm good, okay?”

She doesn't respond.

I tug on her arms a little. “Okay?”

She nods reluctantly.

“Okay,” I say, dropping my grip on her and turning back to the table and my work.

“I just don't see why it is that you assist everyone else's love life but don't do a thing for your own.”

“Nora . . .” I shake my head.

She makes a kind of humming noise and goes over to pick up the broom. She starts sweeping up.

“So I'm right,” she says with a kind of smirk. “It is a date with Captain Miller.”

I just have to laugh.