The Art of Arranging Flowers (8 page)

T
HIS
is one fine house,” I say to the plants resting in the tubs in the back of the van. I turn off the engine and take in the view. I recall that the architecture of the Colonial Revival style sought to follow the American colonial architecture of the period around the Revolutionary War. The houses, like Dr. Buckley's, are usually two stories in height with the ridge pole running parallel to the street, a symmetrical front façade with an accented doorway and evenly spaced windows on either side of it.

There is an elaborate front door, complete with decorative crown pediments and an overhead fanlight. The window openings, though symmetrically located on either side of the front entrance, are hung in an adjacent pair rather than as single windows.

It appears as if someone has either painted or power-washed the outside of the place because the white wood glistens in the afternoon winter sun. The shutters, turquoise blue, stand bright and clean, opening to let the light pour through the windows. The yard has been weeded and mowed, and the narrow flower bed that sweeps around the house and along the sides is marked with new red bricks and filled with fresh soil. The front steps gleam and there are two plant stands, empty but already placed by the door.

Somebody has been getting this house in good condition to sell, and for a moment I wonder if Dr. Buckley hasn't moved back from the lake to do the work. But I don't really think that he has. I haven't seen him in town in months. It's probably Kathy's pushing and prodding and the work of Timothy Barr's painting company and Jerry Dexter's landscaping crew completing all the labor. More than likely, Wade Buckley just gets the bill.

The house hasn't been on the market that long, a few months, but I know there isn't much real estate action in this small town and I know Kathy wants a commission. This is probably her most lucrative property, and I'm sure she'd love nothing better than to get the new veterinarian's name on a contract for this house rather than on one of the cheaper places on her list. If she landed this sale, she would likely take the rest of the winter off.

I dig in my pocket for the house key she gave me and get out of the van. I head to the back and take out the two umbrella trees to put on the porch stands. Once there I realize ferns would have been more traditional, their long leafy stems dropping over the sides, their full pushy bodies filling up the space around the front door, but I still like the schefflera arboricolas and I remain confident with my decision. They're regal in their guard positions, tall and thin, but still up to the task of greeting and welcoming those who enter. I stand back to admire them.

Next I open the door and check out the interior. Kathy was right; there is furniture throughout, sparse but well placed. A sofa in the living room; two small tables with lamps; a couple of chairs, a wingback and an overstuffed one, carefully placed, one under the window and another along the wall. There are white sheer curtains and a few paintings, a large oriental rug in the center of the room and a coffee table set with an open book and two small candleholders, tiny silver birds, their faces set toward the light coming through the door.

There is a dining table and chairs, a china cabinet bearing a few saucers and cups, dinner plates, and a knickknack here and there to give a little color and fill up the shelves. There is the slightest scent of furniture polish, lemon I think, and I assume Kathy has also acquired the services of Linda Brown's cleaning company because everything appears recently swept, mopped, and wiped down. It is obvious that Kathy has spared no expense with this showing, and like her, I am hopeful she will be rewarded for her careful attention.

I return to the van to get the other two plants, walk back in, and place the bamboo in the center of the dining table, thinking its bright purple ribbon is just the right touch. I judge and approve it and then head upstairs to the master bedroom to set the cyclamen somewhere to provide a little life. I find the perfect spot right away.

There is a small empty table beside a queen-sized bed that is covered by a quilt in a jewel box pattern, probably one that Janice Buckley bought at the craft show that they have every fall at the community center. She was a big supporter of local artisans, and we have some wonderful quilters in Creekside. I put the cyclamen on the table, spin it around to find its best side, and rub a leaf gently between my fingers the way Clementine likes me to fondle her ears. The pink petals stand at attention, the bright color rich and opulent, bringing out the same shade found in the delicate stitches of the quilt.

I look over at the bed and can't help myself, but I wonder if this was Wade and Janice's bed, wonder if this was the room where she died, wonder if he left it like it was, the dresser against the wall, a full-length mirror in the corner, a tall armoire near the window, all of the wood dark and rich, cherry or mahogany, I can't say for sure. The bed, a sleigh frame, covered with eight or ten decorative pillows, thrown easily near the headboard, the light green bedskirt matching the quilt perfectly. I wonder if Wade just packed his bags and walked away, letting Kathy deal with the dust and the memories, the clothes and the jewelry Janice wore and the things the bereaved husband couldn't stand to sell or handle or give away. I wonder if this was the way their bedroom was when she was alive and he was more than half himself.

I lean over and smooth down the quilt and think about Janice, how bright and cheerful she always was, how fond she was of this town, this house, the people she entertained. I think about her petite body, how she walked every morning, waving as she passed my shop, a big smile on her face, how she always had a vase of fresh flowers delivered to her on Mondays, how she truly wanted my business to thrive.

I realize that I hadn't thought much about it in a while, but I miss Janice. She was a fine human being, a good citizen, an attentive friend. And even though Wade wasn't ever a real sentimental man, never really talked about their marriage, or spoke of his undying love for his wife, or participated in public shows of affection, it is clear her death has paralyzed him. In the same way that cancer tortured and wracked Janice's little body, grief has spoiled and smashed Wade's.

I sit down for a second and then slide back and lean against the pillows. The mattress is soft and I take in a breath and close my eyes. Janice and Wade slept here; I'm sure of it. I sense the ordinariness of this space, the unspectacular nightly routine of two people who know each other, love each other, are accustomed to each other, crawling under these covers and lying together, the simple but splendid way couples sleep, back to back or spooned around each other, the light touch of fingers around fingers while turned face to face.

I realize, lying here in the Buckleys' bed, that I have only known this intimacy, this easy way to end a day and fall into my dreams, with my sister. I have only known what it is to share such sacred, holy space with Daisy, mostly when we were children but a final time just before she died. I have never wrapped myself around anyone else and I somehow suspect I never will.

I sense the lived-in nature of this room, this bed, but I also know too well the sorrow. I turn over to my side, pulling my knees to my chest, and do not even hear the sound of the car driving up the driveway or the opening and closing of the front door. I do not know that I am no longer alone until I hear the voice calling from below.

“Hello. Am I at the right place?”

I jump up, smooth down my shirt, my slacks, check my hair in the mirror, and hurry downstairs.

H
ELLO.”
I enter the kitchen and find a man standing at the kitchen sink, peering out the back window.

There are chickadees at a feeder. Kathy even made sure to set out bird food, obviously hoping to fill the yard with animal life, knowing this might be a nice touch for showing a house to a veterinarian. I'm surprised she didn't ask to borrow Clementine. Having a big dog by the fireplace might have been the clincher.

He turns to me and I think he looks disappointed, or maybe confused. I'm not sure which emotion it is that has caused the deep crease in his brow and his lips to press together, forming such a tight line.

“You're not Kathy,” he says.

I'm still not sure if it's disappointment or confusion.

“No,” I answer. “I'm not.”

I pause and then realize I should probably introduce myself, since I'm the one who isn't supposed to be here.

“Ruby Jewell.” I move closer to him and hold out my hand. “I'm the florist,” I say, and then decide that isn't really the right introduction, but for some reason I keep going. “I brought some . . . I work with . . .” Suddenly, everything I say sounds inappropriate or is somehow doing away with the portrait Kathy was trying to paint.

I know, of course, that everyone understands that real estate agents want the best light shined on a property and that they'll do what they can to create and direct that best light, but everyone also understands that in order for that proposition to work, the best light needs to be in place, shining on things in as natural a way as possible when a potential buyer arrives. If not, it suddenly appears as if everything might just be some tactic or ploy and a person begins to question the sincerity of their agent and the genuine good nature of the house.

My presence at the Buckley house when the customer arrives, my arranging the plants that are being rented to the real estate agent for the purpose of staging a pleasant presentation, is sort of like members of an audience walking in while the unhidden puppeteers practice, the puppets nothing more than plastic faces and pieces of cloth merely stuck and moving on human hands. You may stay and watch the show, but somehow some of the magic is now missing.

“I need to be going.” I drop this stranger's hand, clear my throat, nod a good-bye, and start to hurry out of the room. Maybe he won't tell Kathy I was here. Maybe I can get out before she drives up.

“It's okay,” he responds, folding his arms across his chest. “I think this house is too big for me anyway.”

I turn back to face him.

“Kathy seems bent on giving me Dr. Buckley's entire life here in Creekside. The office is great, but this house . . .” He looks around. “It's clearly more Dr. and Mrs. Buckley than me.” He waits. “I'm John,” he adds.

I nod as if I know, because the truth is I do know.

“How many children did they raise here anyway?”

“None,” I answer. “It was just the two of them and their pets.”

“Did they stable horses in here?”

I can't help myself; I laugh. “No, just a few dogs.”

He is shaking his head. “I wouldn't know what to do with this much space,” he confesses.

“Mrs. Buckley entertained a lot,” I explain. “There were many socials and get-togethers in this house.”

“Ah,” he replies, drawing out the word, nodding for emphasis. “Well, I figure the only get-together I will be hosting will be Super Bowl parties, and my socials will likely be poker games.”

“I see.” I glance around the kitchen. “Well, still, for a decent Super Bowl party you need good counter space, and you do have a lot of that here.”

He was grinning when he caught my eye. “Yeah, I see what you're saying. Now that you mention it, even to host a respectable poker game you need a big fridge and a good table area.”

“Maybe extra bedrooms if the game goes too late and your guests need accommodations,” I add.

“Nah, I'll let 'em come and play cards, buy the beer and pretzels, but I don't want my poker partners staying over. I need my personal boundaries; it doesn't matter how big my house is.”

I smile as I study John Cash, Kathy's client. He is tall, lanky: a man, it is easy to see, who used to hunch as a boy, trying to hide his height, trying not to stand out or over his classmates, trying to fit in. He has long hands and beautiful blue eyes. His hair is thick and messy and he is wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt, red and blue stripes, and a pair of tan cargo pants. He has on hiking boots, and the back of his pants on his right leg is caught on the top of his boot. He has a warm smile, broad shoulders, and I believe he is right: This is much too much house for him. It's clear to see that he is a log cabin kind of guy, a farmhouse guy, maybe, but definitely not a Colonial Revivalist.

I hesitate. I know I need to leave, but I am clearly delaying my departure.

“You'd have room for your family to visit.” Now I'm fishing.

“My parents don't travel, and my sister prefers hotels,” is his answer.

“Children?” I ask.

Now he knows I'm fishing. He shakes his head, and I see that this is a sore subject.

“Horses?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Just a rowdy pack of shelter mutts and a parakeet.”

I nod and glance away.

“You?”

It's only fair that he asks.

“No children, no family, no horses. One shelter mutt, no parakeet.”

“And just how big is your house?”

I look around. “About the size of that living room.”

We're staring at each other and suddenly I am really, strangely, completely uncomfortable in this moment.

“So, I'm going to go now,” I say as I back up. “Ask Kathy about the Chatham place. It's on Flowery Trail, has its own creek and a tree house.” I turn to walk out. “Oh, and there's a great room in it, perfect for a Super Bowl party.”

I make it to the front door, and then with my hand on the doorknob, I look back. He is watching me.

“The bamboo is a nice touch,” he says. “Almost makes me want to buy this place.”

I can't help myself but I'm grinning. “Then maybe you should make an offer,” I suggest. “And if you mention how much you like the plant, I bet she'll let you keep it.” And before he has the chance to respond, I turn around, open the door, and head down the front steps.

I am in my van and pulling out of the driveway, and I am extremely pleased that I have gotten all the way down the street before seeing Kathy's Cadillac making the turn in my direction.

She's talking on her cell phone and I sigh in relief; she doesn't even notice me.