Twenty
Sam lets me carry two of the bento boxes. Maybe he saw the look of panic in my eyes when he opened the shop’s door and set off the pair of ominously cheerful wind chimes hanging from the door handle. The two boxes and the distraction of my growling stomach are all that keeps me from bolting when he nudges me into the paradise of wildflowers and tropical foliage.
At least his mother isn’t right inside the door, waiting to pounce. I duck under a broad leaf that would be more at home in the Amazon than in a rural Oregon flower shop and gawk at my surroundings. One corner of the room reminds me of the gold and peach wildflower fields James and I pass on the way to the coast. The opposite corner looks freshly ripped from the rainforest, complete with mammoth leaves and flower stalks that look like fancy parrots. Between the two, a huge display of roses and dahlias bloom from vases mounted to the wall, all bright reds, oranges, and yellows. A single pink rose nestled between two bright bouquets looks as out of place as I feel.
Now I understand why the shop is called Enchanted Garden—I’ve never been anywhere this magical in my life. Juggling the bento boxes into one arm, I move closer to the wall so I can reach the pink rose. The upturned bloom seems to smile at me, begging to be stroked. Sam beats me to it, snagging the pink rose out from beneath my fingertips.
“Here,” he says and coaxes the bento boxes away from me. The pink rose quickly takes their place in the crook of my arm. “Doesn’t do you justice, but still.”
“I’ll be right there,” a voice calls from the back room.
I freeze in place, terrified of who might emerge from the small doorway. A ghost of a woman like my mother? A mourner dressed in widow black?
Sam’s mother is neither of these things.
In a word, Mrs. Donavon is adorable. Her light brown hair is cut short, at least three inches shorter than mine, which only makes her big, brown eyes look bigger. When she grins, it’s like I’m looking at a tiny, feminine version of Sam with lighter hair and a much louder voice.
“Sarah,” she booms and draws me into a bear hug. “I’m so happy to finally meet you. Sam has been talking about you for years.”
“Um, hi, Mrs. Donavon.” I blush and look over the top of her head at Sam, focusing on him so I don’t yank myself out of her arms. The embarrassment on his face makes my fear of meeting her and my discomfort around her after what just happened to my own mother slightly more bearable. “We brought you bento,” I blurt out anyway.
She laughs and pulls away, patting my shoulder. “Great, but please—call me Liz.” Her expression shifts like a light bulb flickering out, one second warm, the next…empty. “I heard about your mother. I’m so sorry. How devastating.”
I choke out an unintelligible response. Devastating? James must not talk about our family much, or she’d know better. I still can’t feel a thing, but I bet my father has spent the last four days raising a beer to the heavens and thanking his lucky stars he didn’t get caught.
“I’m sorry,” she says and touches my shoulder. “If you’re not ready to talk about it, I understand.”
I can’t seem to respond. If only I were grieving like James. Grieving would feel better than this emptiness.
“So, I tried calling on the way over,” Sam says as we follow her through the curtain of sparkly beads into the back room, which is wallpapered with peg board and a million miniature gardening tools. “You too busy to answer your own son’s call now?”
He sets the bento boxes on the one clear edge of an enormous concrete tabletop covered in squat, round vases, buckets of flowers, and piles of greenery, then slides out a pair of stools. After dusting off what looks suspiciously like dried moss, I settle onto one and pick at my food.
Starving or in a hurry—maybe both—Liz digs into hers without waiting for anyone else to settle in. “Today has been ridiculous,” she says between bites. “This wedding is killing me. Who waits to order their wedding flowers until the last minute? And God only knows what all the people who’ve been leaving voicemail want. You’d think it was Mother’s Day.”
“You need to hire somebody,” Sam tells her. When she grimaces, he turns to me. “My mom is a control freak. The thought of anyone touching her flowers makes her crazy.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Liz grumbles. “I don’t have time to train anyone else, that’s all.”
“How hard is it to answer the phone and take orders? I was eleven the first time you made me help out and it only took five minutes to show me what to do.”
“Not everyone is as bright as you are, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a given.”
A pang of jealousy sours the bento settling in my stomach. Their bickering feels comfortable. Practiced. Even the jabs they throw at each other resonate love.
I want that love.
“I can answer your phones, Mrs. Donavon. I don’t have to touch your flowers if you don’t want.”
“It’s Liz, sweetie. And are you sure? I don’t want to ruin your summer.”
Sam snorts and takes another bite. “Sure she does,” he says through his food and nods toward his mom. “Just look at her. You made my mom’s whole day.”
Sure enough, Liz is on the edge of her seat, fork poised over her bento box, as if she might bolt across the room to grab me an application any second. I can’t help myself—I giggle.
“Shush, Sam,” she snaps, but the light in her eyes hasn’t dimmed a bit. “It would only be a few days a week,” she tells me. “Just enough hours to help me catch up on all these arrangements. I’d pay you, of course.”
My own money. A way to contribute to James and my meager savings account. A safe haven away from my father’s warning gaze.
My smile must be as huge as it feels, because Sam is grinning, too.
I set my fork down and fold my hands in my lap. “When can I start?”