I HIGHLIGHTED DAY TWO ON MY CALENDAR. Day two of Gram being okay. She didn’t know I was keeping a record of her health, and she didn’t need to. I was looking for a pattern. There must have been some sort of trigger for her vertigo. Or perhaps, maybe it was viral and had run its course. I hoped it was the latter.

I pulled Xander’s note out of my pocket. I had found it in the bicycle flowers yesterday afternoon at closing time.

Dear Andi

Cross my heart

Xander

How do I know he has a heart? And, he had no punctuation!!! Uneducated douche! His persistence was starting to irritate me. And I don’t do irritated—well ...

I Googled persistent:

persistent

adjective

1. continuing firmly or obstinately in an opinion or course

of action in spite of difficulty or opposition.

He was also annoying:

annoying

adjective

1. causing irritation or annoyance.

And pig headed:

pig-headed

adjective

1. stupidly obstinate.

The word obstinate came to mind:

obstinate

adjective

1. stubbornly refusing to change one’s opinion or chosen

course of action, despite attempts to persuade one to do so.

Yes. He was all of those. He was a persistent, annoying, pig-headed, obstinate human being who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I raised an eyebrow. Had I actually said no? Literally? Guys are literal creatures, aren’t they?

I found the floral writing paper I had been using and replied to his note.

Dear Xander,

No.

I am not in the habit of hiring out

my grandmother’s bicycle to strangers.

Andi

There. I had said it. No. Now he would stop. That would be the last of the note exchanges. I folded the piece of paper and took it outside to the flowers in the bicycle basket. Gram had graced the bicycle with mild earthy smelling daisies today. Pure white with a yellow centre. Simple. Like my no.  

I returned to the buzz of the flower store and a sense of relief washed over me with no more hassling about Gram’s bicycle. I looked over at Gram. She was content at the helm of her workbench, creating blooms of beauty.

I looked over at Darcy. He gave me a wink and a killer smile. Everything was in motion, working smoothly as it should. I went to the sales desk in the centre of the store and took my place as the chief florist’s assistant in magical blooms that changed the perception of the giver, and the mood of the receiver. Giving flowers made anyone look good from the outside. Unless you knew their true heart. And then the flowers could become a source of bitterness ...

‘Flowers, tea, coffee or books?’ The words rolled off my tongue with a melodic sound like it was inborn, and like Gram had insisted upon. Perhaps I even muttered the words in my sleep by now. The middle-aged woman was dressed in black. Was she in mourning? Doubt it. She had black fingernails, lipstick, hair and thick black eyeliner, like a Goth. The colour I saw above and behind her head was purple. She was seeking the meaning of life in the future, or perhaps a reconnection.

‘Lavender, actually.’ Her voice sounded casual.

I raised my eyebrows at her, surprised she didn't ask for black roses, or black tulips, black petunias, black pansies or the black iris, “Before the Storm”.

‘It’s for my cat,’ she elaborated.

‘For your cat?’

‘Yes. He loves it ... or ... I mean, he used to love it. He would smell it and rub his face in it ... until he ... you know ...’

I lowered my head and frowned as my heart grew sad. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

The woman shrugged and shook her head. ‘I buried him in the garden in alkaline soil. I didn’t want an acidic soil to decompose him entirely. The lavender’s for on top of his grave.’

‘He’ll love that,’ I said, and gave her a small smile.

She nodded and smiled back. ‘I’m looking forward to six months’ time when the decomposition process has ended. I’m going to dig him up. I have a plan for his skeleton ...’

My stomach churned. ‘You do?’ I said with wide eyes.

‘Yes. I’m going to clean his bones, dry him out and paint his skeleton all sorts of colourful. Because that’s how he made me feel. He’ll be on display in my study.’

I blinked three times. Then I blinked more than freaking three times again. Don’t judge ... ‘Ahhh, yes. The unconditional love of pets. Have you ever owned a dog?’ I kept my voice smooth to conceal my shock. 

‘Once. Twice. But I prefer the independence of cats. My cat was so affectionate. He loved me. I know he did.’ The woman closed her eyes and held her breath.

It was time to change the subject. ‘Purple lavender, pink lavender or white lavender?’

‘Purple. French lavender ... if you have it.’

‘Of course. I’ll fetch a fresh bundle of lavender from the cold room. While I do that, I need to know what you think of our fresh catnip, if you don’t mind. It’s over with the animal friendly flowers.’ I pointed to the right corner of the store where terracotta pots of cat grass, lemon grass, catnip and valerian sat on a white washed table with wooden cat art.

‘Sure,’ she said and wandered off.

I scooted to the cold room and collected three bundles of fresh lavender, then returned to the sales counter. Three is a magic number. Three would look better than one. I placed them on the desk and stilled, remembering the time when Mia and I kept lavender in our pockets, stolen from my grandmother's store. We went to a party and had planned on getting kissed by a boy or two. We held the lavender over their heads and told them it was mistletoe. A small smile started to uncurl on my lips—

‘Beautiful. I will take all three lavenders, plus the catnip please,’ she said.

I blinked away my memory of Mia. ‘Are you sure you want all three bundles of lavender?’

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Nothing ... it’s a gift for your cat. Enjoy.’

She wiped a tear away. ‘You’re too kind. Thank you.’ She picked up her bag of cat gifts and left. She would be back. When you showed heart, they always came back. Compassion was the key.

I tidied the top of the desk and took the opportunity to step out of the store to check the flowers at the storefront. I lifted my face to the sun and closed my eyes. The warmth energized me at once ...

Mia and I loved sunshiny days. We would head to the beach in our summer break. Boys. It was always about boys for her. And there were plenty of them at the beach—with their shirts off, making Mia drool. She would lay beside me and tell me which boy she wanted to marry. I would look at him, peeking over the top of my book, behind my dark sunglass disguise, while she proceeded to tell me how he would propose. Then I would give her my version of the events and add an ugly twist of fate.

I sighed.

I missed her. Terribly. There was no way she would marry now. And I didn’t see marriage in my future. We would never be each other’s bridesmaids, like we had promised when we were fourteen.

Fractured dreams. Irreparable dreams...

I gave the flowers a quick misting spray before I returned to the sales desk and jotted down the time of misting in the flower care book.

I saw polished black shoes in my peripheral vision before a man stopped before me.

I looked up. ‘Flowers, tea ... coffee ... or ...’ The words started to roll off my tongue with a melodic sound from the word flowers, and it was downhill all the way from there. He was not a book type of person. The man standing before me made me feel uneasy. I tensed. His colour was black—oppressive black, and sounded like someone had just hit the piano with a clenched fist.

‘Flowers ... to make me look good,’ he said, and threw me a mega-watt smile that reeked of deceit.

I cringed inwardly but stood straighter, only because I had my steel-capped safety boots on. I tapped my right boot twice on the floor. ‘What’s your definition of “good”?’ I punctuated the air with inverted commas with the word good.

‘Oh ... you know ... kind, considerate, puts others first...’

‘And you don’t do those “good” things?’

‘Two of them sometimes, the other ... never.’

‘Do you prefer to be known as bad?’

‘Yes. I can have more fun if I’m a bad boy!’ He puffed up his chest and crossed his muscular arms.

‘Then ... why do you want to look good? It’s a girl, right?’

‘Yes.’ He unfolded his arms and put his hands into his pockets.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a phony by pretending to look good? What if she loves the flowers and this “good” act, but discovers the real you underneath?’

He scowled. I had hit a sore spot. I needed to tone down the truth.

‘Listen, babe.’ His voice was lowered. Threatening.

I narrowed my eyes at him. He was a monster. Just like the men on that terrible day of my scars, except, I could see his true colours from the outset.

‘I don’t want a lesson on morals. I want flowers. Get me a handful that will make me look good.’

I tapped my work boot on the floor, again. Twice. He would have to choose his own “make me look good” flowers. I started to walk to a pre-made bunch of blooms, then stopped. Gram would be experienced in creating a “special” bouquet for his type. 

I turned to him. ‘I’ll organise a unique bouquet of “make me look good” flowers. It’ll work a treat ... please have a drink on us while you wait for me to make a bouquet from scratch for you. Just tell Darcy, our barista, that Andi sent you. let you know when your flowers are ready, Mr ...’

‘John’s the name.’

‘Go and enjoy, John,’ I said, and walked off the to workbench.

I stopped beside Gram, on her right side. ‘He’s a nasty piece. He wants to look “good”. He’s such a fake. He deserves the golden rule.’

Gram looked at me and smiled. ‘Hmm. Treat others as you shall be treated ... fake for a fake. I have the perfect bunch of flowers in mind—the white candytuft—known for its unpleasant experience if you put your nose close to it. Hmmm ... the girl would have an unappreciative reaction—’

‘And his true self will come out in response. Intuition tells me he’s violent and abusive when he doesn’t get his own way, or if he’s exposed to what he really is. It’s best that we save his target now ... no woman, or man for that matter, deserves to be treated with disrespect.’ Anger boiled inside of me. I wanted to call him out for what he was.

I sighed. A bouquet of revengeful flowers wouldn’t be good for business. Better to go about it in a clever way.

I closed my eyes and put my palm to my forehead. ‘Gram, what if it ends badly for the girlfriend, or us? What if she gets hurt, or he returns fuelled with anger?’

Gram stopped. ‘You’re right, Landi. Let’s play nice.’ Gram went to the cold room and returned with a variety of flowers in various shades of pink. She added sprigs of green and bound them with twine before she wrapped them in natural coloured paper and added a bow of lace.

‘Perfect.’ I took the bouquet of flowers to present to John.

‘Winning,’ he said when he saw the blooms, then stood and followed me to the counter. He threw money on the desk, took the flowers and left.

I waited until he had walked out the door then followed him. He got into a black sports car. I memorised his number plate, just in case it ended badly for the woman.

When I turned to enter the store the bicycle flowers caught my eye. There was a new note. Damn. He really was a persistent, annoying, pig-headed, obstinate human being who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I removed the note and opened it up.

Dear Andi,

What if I become an unstranger?

Unstranger?

Is that like being strange and then becoming less strange, though you are still a little strange? Or does he mean known instead of unknown. Because technically he is known via the notes, but not known as we don’t have a face to the name. He sounds like a middle-aged business man trying to make an acquisition.

I folded the note and slipped it into my pocket. I looked down at my work boots. I’m sure people thought I was strange. A girl wearing floral work dresses and steel-capped boots in a flower store ...

I returned to the sales desk and wrote down the license plate of the car before it disappeared from my memory, IMGR8, then turned and looked at Gram. She was deep in her creative zone—imagining, designing, creating. The bicycle belonged to her. She would have the final say about whether Xander could hire her Raleigh Cruiser bicycle for the day. And I knew for a fact that she would never lend it out to anyone. She would sell the flower store and everything else before she sold her precious bicycle, and then it would only be on her deathbed.

I opened word on the laptop computer and typed the new note. I put the floral note paper into the printer and pressed print:

Dear Xander,

Then you must meet Grandmother Fleur.