Chapter 6

It’s way too early for a Saturday, but I’m here at the shop an hour early for Tracy while she makes an emergency run to the market. My only instructions are on a small note in the back.

Bee, go ahead and start cleaning up the mess I left. So sorry—I couldn’t finish everything before I started falling asleep. I’ll be there at eight forty-five, if I’m lucky.

I grab my ruffled apron and start washing buckets. This job takes a long time since Tracy left about thirty of them stacked together. It takes even longer than usual because I have to wrestle them apart. After a good forty-five minutes, I’ve washed them all, sprayed the insides with bleach, and stacked them upside down on the drying rack. The tower reaches well past my head, and I just pray and pray and pray there isn’t an earthquake today, of all days.

After I set up the signs and filter through the cooler for any old flowers to throw out, I turn on the computer. I’m not dumb when it comes to electronics, but this computer is way too slow for its own good. Tracy tells me it’s her next big purchase. (I’m counting down the days.)

I open the doors and let in the cool ocean breeze, then stand behind the counter at nine o’clock. It’s my first Saturday to work, and I’m not entirely sure what to expect: the manic insanity that Tracy described in detail, or just…busy.

So I wait.

For exactly nineteen seconds.

Three women appear in the door, propped up on four-inch heels and hoisting bulky purses over their shoulders. When they ask for a bouquet for a birthday brunch, I point them to the premade section in the cooler. “And if you can’t find what you want there, our designer will be in shortly and can create something for you.” I glance at the clock. Please, Tracy, hurry.

Lucky for me, the women find what they want, pay, and rush out in a number of minutes. Not-so-lucky for me, however, they aren’t the only customers to enter in the first twenty minutes. Before long, I’m rushing around, grabbing bags and ribbons and mugs and candles from the gift section.

And yes, I’m panicking. I’m trying my hardest to breathe deeply, trying not to count down the minutes until Tracy gets here, but—

My phone dings—a text from Tracy. I read it as I run to the back to grab a new vase to replace a broken one. (I’m amazed it didn’t cut the elderly lady who grabbed it off the shelf.)

Tracy

Stuck in traffic. Be another twenty minutes.

My eyes widen and my breathing quickens, but there is absolutely nothing I can do about this. I trade the flowers from the broken vase to the new one, then I ring her up with a discount, and send her on her way with a smile. (I hope she believes the smile.)

Finally, the busy morning begins to slow down. I lean against the counter, running my gaze over the room to make sure nothing has been broken or messed up by grabby customer hands. But I only have a few minutes before the doorbell makes a terrible racket as yet another customer pushes the door open. I cringe inwardly, twice—once for my aching feet and a second time because this woman looks mad already.

“How can I help you?” I ask, with my biggest, friendliest smile. I adjust my glasses, which have been sliding down my nose all morning, and stand up straighter.

Her eye twitches. “I need an all-white arrangement for a funeral. Something big, showy, in a basket.”

I nearly let out a squeak. We have absolutely nothing like that stocked in the shop right now. Bee, think fast! “Unfortunately, due to the expense of that kind of arrangement, we don’t keep any premade in the shop.” I’m worried I sound just as frazzled as I feel, but I press onward. “Our designer is currently on her way with a fresh batch of flowers—would you be willing to wait?”

She blinks hard, as if in pain. “Sure. Whatever. But she better make it good.”

“Oh, she will,” I say. My face hurts from smiling. “She’s the best.”

The woman mumbles something under her breath, but waits by the front desk. It’s almost like she’s watching every move I make. It’s terrifying, but I try not to think about it.

Ten minutes later, Tracy stumbles through the back door holding six dozen wrapped roses, three dozen under each arm. “Hello!” she cheers, laying the roses on the table. She laughs. “That was a nasty drive. Bee, can you get the rest in the back of the car and lock it? I’ll help our lovely customers.”

I take the opportunity, practically running outside. The car is wide open and full to the brim with flowers of all different colors and sizes. I pick them up, only able to carry four or five sets at a time, and put them with the roses. When everything is locked up, I head to the front of the shop—only to have Tracy call me back to the designer’s table again.

“Help me here, sweetie,” she whispers, when I’m close enough to hear. “I’m overwhelmed. Hand me that oasis.”

I run to the sink and grab the soaking green foam and help Tracy cut it down to fit in the basket. She starts working on the funeral piece, her fingers skillfully placing each wide fern leaf (which Tracy calls “leather”) into the green foam. I help her strip the white roses of their excess leaves and cut them down to size while she arranges them. I want to stand and watch her all day, but more customers have arrived, and I have to go on delivery soon.

I step up to the counter. A young woman approaches me, looking like she’s about to burst into tears. She’s holding a premade bouquet from the cooler, one full of white and lavender flowers that I haven’t learned the names of yet. “I want something just like this. Do you mind making it larger? I have to take it…to…a funeral.” She says the last words on a heaving breath.

I take the vase from her, nodding. “Let me take it to the back. How much do you want to spend?”

“No more than ninety dollars.”

I smile sympathetically, but when I place the arrangement on the table in front of Tracy, she shakes her head at me. “I can’t. You do it. Grab that vase there—” She points behind her. “And grab more leather and those lavender dahlias.”

I stand there, gaping at her. “You want me to make it?”

“Why not?” She smiles. “You’ve seen me do it before, right? You know what it’s supposed to look like. And I’ve seen the way you decorate the shop for me! I know you have an eye for color and order.”

I whimper incredulously. “Okay,” I say, and some part of me snaps and bursts into action. I hardly know what I’m doing as I grab the leather and three lavender dahlias. I cut and wipe the stems of the leather like I’ve seen Tracy do it, then set them in the vase so they make a circle around the rim. I add a few more layers, then pick up the original arrangement and place it inside the new vase. There’s still room around the edges, so I fill it with white wax flower. Once it’s full, I add the three dahlias and three stems of spray roses.

I step back. Tracy steps back. She looks at me. I blush. “Is it okay?” I ask.

She whistles approvingly. “It’s more than okay. I know you had something to work with already, but I’m impressed.”

I nod, completely uncertain, but something is buzzing inside of me as I head to the front counter to ring up our customer. I’m happy to see that she’s no longer on the verge of tears. (I feel a bit like flying.)