The Perfect Arrangement (2 page)

He smiled again, like my level of remorse amused him.

I shot a nervous glance over my shoulder. One of my stepsisters peered through the afternoon brightness in my direction. My panic peaked. I dug inside my purse, pulled out a business card, and shoved it into the man's hand. “This has my e-mail and phone number. Please get in touch with me, and I'll—I'll get you my insurance information.”

He looked down at the card, then back at me with his head slightly atilt.

I'd already started backpedaling. “I'm very sorry. I'm in a bit of a hurry.” I glanced again over my shoulder. One stepsister was now nudging the other stepsister, pointing in my direction. “It's an emergency, actually.”

His head tilt grew more pronounced.

“Please get in touch with me. I promise to plead one hundred percent guilty. Really, I'm so sorry.” Before the man could object, I dove inside my car, reversed, shifted into drive, and drove away. As fast as the speed limit would carry me.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Sun, Sep 13, 2015 8:06 p.m.
Subject: Brief Encounter

Dear Ms. Woods,

Is that too formal? It feels formal. But I'm not sure what the proper protocol is when addressing someone I met in such circumstances. My name is Nate. I'm the gentleman you bumped into this past Saturday outside Good Shepherd Episcopal Church—the one on Mulberry Avenue? I don't know why I'm feeling the need to be so specific. Unless you make a habit of running into cars often, you probably remember the incident just fine without any prodding.

You were in a bit of a hurry. I must admit, it felt a little bit like meeting Cinderella at the end of the ball, only instead of leaving behind a glass slipper, you left me with a flowery business card. The name on the card given to me said Amelia Woods, so I'm assuming you are the right person. If not, I apologize for the confusion.

You asked that I contact you regarding insurance information. I wanted to let you know that it's not necessary. The bumper isn't so much dented as minutely scratched. Nothing a little spit and polish won't fix. There's no need to worry, and I say this only because you seemed very worried during our brief encounter on Saturday. I hope your emergency wasn't too serious and that everything worked itself out.

All the best,

Nate Gallagher

“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
—C. S. Lewis

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Mon, Sep 14, 2015 6:23 a.m.
Subject: Re: Brief Encounter

Dear Nate,

I am incredibly embarrassed and really very sorry. I promise I'm not usually so scattered and frantic, nor do I make a habit of fleeing the scene of an accident. It didn't hit me until later that what I did was most likely illegal. Saturday was . . . I don't even know what to call it. An unusual sort of day. It's probably best if I leave it at that.

Thank you for being so kind and gracious, but I insist on filing a claim. Despite being in a hurry, I did see the dent. I don't think spit and polish will fix it. Please send me your full name and insurance information, and I will call. It would make me feel better.

My apologies,

Amelia

PS: The subject line of your e-mail made me think of that old black-and-white movie with Celia Johnson. Have you seen it? So many people think it's a romantic movie. I happen to think it's depressing.

Inhaling the tantalizing scent of pumpkin muffins one last time, I waved good-bye to Eloise over my shoulder and exited her bakery. Overhead, the sky was every bit as blue as the flower my store was named after—the Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop, located on the corner of Marietta and Main, directly across the street from the gazebo in the middle of Mayfair's town square.

Taking a sip of hot coffee from my thermos, I unlocked the front door and flipped the lights. Most people dreaded Monday mornings, but not me. I, Amelia Rose Woods, loved the beginning of a new workweek. Because I, Amelia Rose Woods, loved everything about my job. Meeting with brides about their big day, designing corsages and boutonnieres for high school dances. Arranging bouquets for birthdays and anniversaries and apologies and just-because-I-love-yous.
Receiving the fresh flowers that arrived each morning in the back of Wally's van. Even coming alongside the grief-stricken as they bid farewell to a loved one.

I turned on the glue guns and the glue pans, set my coffee and the bag of goodies on the front counter, and looked up at the picture hanging behind it—my mother and me standing in front of this very shop before my first day of kindergarten. We shared the same copper hair, the same fair skin, the same spray of freckles over the same small nose, except I had gray-blue eyes instead of brown and a pointier chin. In the picture, I wore a jean skirt with pink hearts stitched into the hem, my hair in pigtails. One of my small hands clutched onto my mother's. The other held a small bouquet of daisies for my new teacher. Earlier that morning, Mom had let me put the bouquet together all by myself. Warmth filled my chest. The deep-down-in-your-soul kind of warmth. She'd be so happy if she could see me now.

With a smile on my face and thanksgiving in my heart, I printed the orders that came in overnight. A bouquet that needed delivering by noon and one more that needed delivering by six. And then there were the four centerpiece arrangements for the annual book club meeting at the public library in Apple Creek. There were no funerals today, and while I had a wedding this weekend, I'd already placed the order. We wouldn't start putting the actual bouquets and arrangements together until midweek. I picked up the phone and dialed my part-time assistant, Astrid. She had worked at Forget-Me-Not for two years now, mostly on an as-needed basis. I left a message explaining that she didn't
need to come in, then got to work on the arrangements in the storefront cooler while waiting for Wally and his flower van to arrive.

He came every morning at nine fifteen, leaving me just enough time to clean up and arrange the flowers before opening the doors at ten. I pulled out bad stems, added new ones, refreshed the water, then cleaned all the shelves and doors. By the time I finished, Wally had pulled up outside on the street.

“Morning, Wal,” I said, meeting him by the rear hatch. “How are the flowers looking today?”

“As fresh and as pretty as you.” He smiled his snaggletoothed smile. He was a rough-looking fellow. Not at all the type you'd expect to drive a flower van.

I shooed off his compliment and handed him the bag from Eloise's, a giant-sized chocolate chip–pumpkin muffin tucked inside.

He opened the bag and took a big whiff.

I opened the rear hatch and did the same. “Any extras today?”

“Yes, actually. An abundance of alstroemeria.” He pulled out the bucket. “I can add it to your next bill if you want some.”

They were a gorgeous shade of golden yellow. I stuck my nose in the blooms and inhaled deeply. “Why the abundance?”

“There was a big order cancellation.”

“Well, I'll definitely take some.”

Wally got to work unloading my end-of-the-week orders from Saturday, along with some unexpected alstroemeria.
Once my bounty was inside, I cleaned and cut the stems, put them in new buckets with fresh water and flower food, stored them in the cooler, and went out front to switch the sign from Closed to Open. I swept up the mess and had just finished the by-noon arrangement when the bell on my front door chimed.

I didn't have to look up to see who it was.

George came every Monday at ten fifteen on the dime to purchase a bouquet for his wife, Sylvia. They'd been married for sixty-four years and he still bought her flowers. I didn't care what Hollywood said, that white-haired, age-spotted, arthritic old man was the epitome of romance. I secured a ribbon around the stems of the bouquet I was finishing. “Good morning, George.”

His cane tapped a slow rhythm as he slipped off his hat and made his way to the counter. According to George, that's what a man was supposed to do when talking to a lady—take off his hat. “Good morning, Miss Amelia. That's a fine-looking bouquet you have there.”

I held it up. “You like?”

“It's awfully pretty. Awfully pretty indeed.”

“Wayne Sawyer ordered it for his wife's birthday.” I set it off to the side. “What'll it be for you today, George?”

He rubbed the gray stubble on his chin. “How about something yellow?”

“I have the perfect thing!” I brought Wayne's bouquet back to the cooler and pulled out a small collection of gerbera daisies, daisy poms, and some of the alstroemeria I splurged on earlier, and brought them out to the front to arrange them.

“Those are nice,” George said, waving his finger at the alstroemeria. “Yellow is Sylvia's favorite color, you know.”

“I think you may have told me once or twice.”

“When we first got married, we lived in this teeny tiny garage of a home up in Rhinelander. And do you know what my Sylvia did?”

I did, actually, but I didn't mind hearing the story again. “What'd she do, George?”

“She painted all of our walls yellow. Every single room.”

I looked up from my artwork. “Every single room?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Were you upset?”

“How could I be? Our house looked like the sunshine. It looked like my Sylvia.”

I put the finishing touches on the bouquet and handed it over. “Well then, this ought to make her extremely happy.”

“Yes, it ought.”

I rang George up, wished him a wonderful week, and helped him out the door as he recapped his head and hobbled toward his car with his bright yellow bouquet in hand. Unlike my other customers, who were local residents, George was a bit of a mystery. He didn't live in Mayfair. Most likely he came from somewhere close by, one of the nearby towns without a flower shop of its own.

The phone rang just as George pulled away from the curb in his Lincoln Navigator. I waved one last time, then hurried inside to answer it. It was my delivery guy calling to say he was sick and getting sicker. I ordered him to rest up and get well soon, then called Astrid back, hoping it wasn't too late for her to come in after all. We had two bouquets
that needed delivering, along with the arrangements for the book club. But Astrid didn't answer. I drummed my fingers on the countertop for a few minutes.

Normally I'd call up Rachel and she'd make the deliveries without any questions. But Rachel was currently out of commission. I twisted my lips to the side. My brother was working. One of my stepsisters worked as a lawyer in Milwaukee. The other, however, lived in Green Bay, not more than twenty minutes north of Mayfair. She stayed at home with her two young boys. Maybe she'd do me a favor and deliver the flowers for me. I let out a sigh and dialed her up.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Hi, Crystal. It's Amelia.”

“Amelia? Well this is unusual, hearing from you on a Monday morning.”

“I'm in a bit of a bind at the shop.”

“Oh?”

“My delivery guy called in sick, and I can't get ahold of my other employee. I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if there was any way you could make some deliveries for me.”

“Deliveries?”

“I'll pay you back the gas money. It shouldn't take more than an hour, tops.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Oh, I wish I could, but Milo and Henry have to nap.”

“All day?”

“No, not all day. All afternoon. Plus, Candace is coming in tonight. I want to make sure the house is spic and
span for her. You know how weird she is about cleanliness. And right now we're at the park. The boys have been asking all weekend to go to the park. We can't leave.”

She was going to be at the park
all
morning long with Milo and Henry—ages one and two?

“Hey, random question. Did you drive by Matt's wedding on Saturday?”