Dear Xander,

It’s from a loved one.

Andi

I folded the note I had just written. I didn’t get time to reply to Xander’s note yesterday after Gram’s episode. I glanced over at her. She was back at her workbench of flower imagination with collections of blooms under strict orders to take it easy. A new chair had been placed nearby so she could sit when she needed to, as well “V” buckets under the work bench, in her office and in the powder room.

Happy that Gram was doing okay, I delivered Xander’s note to the flowers in the bicycle basket outside. Today it was an arrangement of pink carnations. My nose twitched at the spicy clove-like fragrance. I returned inside the store and stood next to Gram, on her right side, so she could hear me. 

‘Why is Charlotte here today?’ Gram asked.

‘To help get on top of the mountain load of work,’ I lied. I was scrupulous with my work ethic and never left the store until I had completed every set task, and then some more. Gramps and I had decided Charlotte should be here, so I could float around the shop to keep a closer eye on Gram.

Darcy placed two cups of tea on the work bench, his woody and spicy scent lingering, offering a feeling of protection.

Gram covered her ears at the sound of the bone china teacups clinking, then she stilled. ‘Thank you, Darcy. Just what I need. Perfect timing, as always,’ Gram said, and gave him a small smile.

Gram was back. She was the colour pink again, like the dark pink lipstick kiss of family—warmth, acceptance and unconditional love. My heart warmed.

‘You’re welcome, Mrs Lawrence,’ Darcy said, before he turned and walked back to the florist café, his woody, spicy scent leaving us.

I picked up my teacup and wrapped my hands around it, inhaling the biscuity smell.

‘The storm did wonders for business yesterday,’ I said to Gram, watching as she picked up her teacup and sipped it. ‘Twelve customers asked me if we sold umbrellas.’

‘A valid request considering the unpredicted weather,’ Gram commented.

‘Yes. I found some lovely floral umbrellas on the Internet and was wond—’

‘Great idea, Andi. Floral ones would be a perfect addition to the store.’

‘That’s what I thought. I ordered a few to check the quality.’

‘Wise. I hope they are made here and not overseas.’

‘That’s one of my conditions.’ I finished my cup of tea at a slow pace, savouring the taste and enjoying Gram’s light mood. ‘Let me know if you need a hand with anything,’ I said.

‘Shall do, my sweet!’ Gram beamed me an infectious smile. She was back. Gram was back.

*~*~*~*~*

The rear door buzzed. Deliveries were here. Once they were inside I placed the fresh flowers into the cold room and the other items into the storeroom.

With eagerness, I found the carton of umbrellas and opened it. Seven floral umbrellas were there, plus two plain oatmeal -cookie-coloured ones with a wooden crook handle.

I gathered them in my arms and took them to Gram. We looked over the floral ones for quality, then decided on a suitable price for them.

‘What are these ones for, dear?’ Gram asked, turning the oatmeal-cookie-coloured ones around in her hands.

‘I pictured a hanging unopened umbrella with flowers showing at the top of them—pink tulips actually. A bit like a door wreath I guess. I wanted to have a fiddle with a flower and ribbon design with it—if that’s okay with you.’

Gram looked at the umbrella and closed her eyes. ‘I think I can see it too. Get those work boots moving and fetch us some tulips from the cold room!’ Gram smiled, and I disappeared from her.

When I returned to the workbench, there was nothing but the two umbrellas laying there. I looked around and saw Gram walking about the store talking to people. I took the opportunity and worked on my flower vision. After an intense fifteen minutes I held up my umbrella wreath, pleased with the final product.

I walked over to Gram and held them up for her to cast her scrupulous florist eye over. ‘What do you think?’

‘Ah ... beautiful. Hang it on the French door. When it sells, you can make another one.’

‘Thanks, Gram.’

I hung the door wreath on the white French door and stood back to admire my handiwork. Pleased with myself, I went back to my list of jobs and added gift tags to the floral umbrellas and took them outside to display. When I walked by Gram’s bicycle, there was another note. I removed it from the flowers and opened it.

Dear Andi,

Can I hire the bicycle for a day?

Xander

Hmmm. Persistent wasn’t he. I went inside and wrote another message to him.

Dear Xander,

How do I know you’ll return it?

Andi

I went outside and placed the note in the flowers. I looked up. Storm clouds were gathering again. I had a funny feeling those umbrellas were going to be a hot selling item.

When I entered the store, a middle-aged woman was considering a bunch of red roses, turning them this way and that, undecided. She was the colour of viridian—a green of mixed emotions, melancholy.

‘They’re beautiful aren’t they. For yourself?’

She sighed. ‘My daughter.’

‘Lovely. How old is she?’

‘Twelve.’

‘Birthday?’

‘No. It’s her menarche—the first day of her first period. The flowers are for commiserations. She’s got possibly forty frigging years of blood and pain and inconvenience. That’s 480 periods if she doesn’t have kids ... that’s 3, 360 days, or nine years and two months of leaking blood out of her vagina. No wonder we get cranky!’

I burst out laughing. I placed my hand over my mouth, embarrassed by my reaction.

‘It’s also because I’m sad about it. She’s growing up. She won’t be my little girl anymore. She’ll be all secretive and boys and girlfriends and cranky instead of sugar and spice and all things nice.’

‘But that’s how you want her to be. She needs to find out who she is and how strong she can be, right?’

‘I know. But I wish she could stay my sweet girl for a little while longer ...’

‘With uncomplicated lives ...’ I sighed. I wished I could go back in time and change my life path. Then Mia and I would still be best friends. ‘I think you should celebrate it with a positive bent.’

‘I agree, hence the flowers.’

‘And most girls love flowers ... although, if it were me, I wouldn’t want red flowers.’

‘Why not?’

‘Red ... blood ... it’s a reminder.’ A shiver travelled down my spine. Or perhaps it’s just a reminder for me. A reminder of the blood that dripped to the rocks below on that terrible day of the scars. I pulled the top of my dress higher over my already covered chest scar.

‘She loves red.’

I winced. Memories are powerful. Associations of colour with memories are powerful.

‘Red roses are a declaration of love. I wouldn’t give a bouquet of red roses—just in case a future boyfriend gives her red roses and it reminds her of her first period ...’ I shrugged. ‘How about you bring her in and create whatever takes her fancy, together. It will be fun that way.’

The woman looked at me and tilted her head to the side while she considered my words. ‘That sounds like a wonderful idea. Thank you.’

‘See you at 4pm then?’

‘Yes. Yes, you will.’

I watched as she left the store. I wondered if she would return with her daughter this afternoon. What if the daughter wanted nothing to do with celebrating becoming a woman.

I should have just sold her the flowers.

Red. Like blood.