“You’re such a Californian and Floridian. Subways are much better for people-watching, although it’s very important that you do not make direct eye contact. The best part is that you get to learn gymnastics routines on the subway when the school kids get on.”

The gold shimmers so much I am nearly blinded.

I know what that means. It means that Jessica is going to start talking about Andrew again. She thinks she’s complaining about him, but as I watch her speak, all I can see is the pink aura around her, and the way her face lights up when she talks about him. Oh, but there is such a wounded heart underneath that light.

It’s okay. She’ll be okay.

Later I give money to a homeless man, who tells me he has a secret for me. He was once president of the United States, he whispers, but they made him sleep outside the White House in the park, so he resigned. He says that there are some things people should not have to put up with, especially when they’re too hungry, and so I go into Brooklyn Muffin and buy him a sandwich, and when I come out and give it to him, Jessica shakes her head and says I am just like Blix.

Walking home, we’re on Bedford Avenue when I see an adorable little flower shop, with pots of chrysanthemums and other greenery outside on the sidewalk. The name, scrawled on the door, in white script, is BEST BUDS. And I know I have to go in there.

“You know what? You can head home if you want, but I need to get Patrick some flowers.”

Jessica’s eyebrows go up in little peaks. “You have to get Patrick some flowers?”

“Yes. I took him some cookies the other day, and—”

“Wait. You took him some cookies?”

“Will you stop it? Yes, I took him some chocolate chip cookies because I wanted to meet him, and we were having a conversation, and things got a little animated, and I knocked one of his sculptures off the table and smashed it.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. It was kind of horrible actually. So I’ve been trying to think of how to make it up to him. And maybe flowers would be nice. It’s kind of drab in his apartment.”

“Is it? He’s never invited me in.”

“Besides the smashing of his artwork, I think I made at least five hundred other mistakes with him.”

“He’s tough. Only Blix had the magic touch with him. I’ve never been able to get so much as a conversation going.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder. “Listen,” she says. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to head straight home. Sammy’s going to be getting off the school bus soon, and I should meet him. Good luck with your Patrick project, though.” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re kind of sweet, you know that?” She starts down the street and then turns and points at me. “The cheese on the pizza! Go!”

“Moots!”

“And how do we eat pizza?”

“With our hands!”

It’s glorious inside Best Buds—all tropically fragrant and moist, with greenery in every corner, along with spikes of flowers: roses, tulips, gerbera daisies, mums. The perfect place for a Floridian. Orchids tower in one corner of the softly illuminated cooler, looking like birds preparing for takeoff. I take deep breaths and try to think what would be the best flower for Patrick: the gerbera daisy or the mum plant? An orchid he’d have to take care of, or a bouquet of roses?

I finally take a bouquet of red and yellow roses up to the front counter and wait in line to be rung up by the slightly harried cashier. Two women are standing at the counter, looking unhappy, and the dark-haired one says to the other, “Come on! We’re getting a baby because of him, and I want to thank him. I’ll write him the letter if you won’t.”

The other woman, who is wearing a ponytail and an emerald-green pashmina that I am coveting, folds her arms over her chest and says, “No! The flowers are enough. More than enough. If you write to him, believe me, he’ll be over all the time. I know this guy. He’ll be all up in our business.”

“Some daisies and a nice short letter then. He doesn’t even know yet that the pregnancy test was positive. I think he deserves to know that.”

The ponytailed woman scowls and looks away. Our eyes meet and she suddenly laughs. “Can you believe this conversation?” she says to me. “How to thank your sperm donor and make sure he knows he’s only a sperm donor.”

“Well,” I say. “What about this? What if you sent him the flowers and a card that says, ‘Thanks for the strong swimmers! We got a hit!’”

They look at each other and grin. And then the first woman grabs the pen and writes my message on the card, and they both give me a high five.

After they leave, the next man in line orders a gigantic bouquet. The cashier, who by now has chattily told me that her name is Dorothy and that she’s actually the owner of the shop, is trying to get his bouquet just right. He’s kind of grim faced and unhappy looking, with such a muddy aura. Then the woman in line behind him laughs and says to him, “Wow, dude! Tell me this: Are you in trouble at home, or are you just a fantastic person?”

I see Dorothy flinch a little, and the man looks down at his shoes and mumbles in a low, dreadful voice: “Not in trouble. My wife died of breast cancer two months ago, and every Friday I put a bouquet on her grave.”

There’s a horrible silence as he reaches over and takes the bouquet. Dorothy thanks him and squeezes his hand. Nobody knows where to look, and I don’t know who I feel sorrier for—the woman customer or him. She’s turned the color of wax paper, and she tries to say something to him, tries to apologize, but he roughly turns away, and walks out, head down, ignoring all of us.

“Whew,” somebody says. Dorothy mops her forehead.

“You didn’t know,” I say to the woman.

She puts her head in her hands. “Why am I always, always doing this kind of thing? I shouldn’t be allowed out of the house! What is wrong with me?”

“You didn’t mean any harm,” I say. “He knows that. He would have been nicer about the whole thing except that he’s a wreck just now.”

“That’s it. I am taking a vow of silence,” she tells me. Dorothy says, “Aw, you don’t have to do that. It’s all going to be okay. People gotta get through as best they can, you know?”

“Come over here and smell these gardenias,” I say. “They’ll change your brain chemistry.”

“They will?” the woman says, and I shrug. I really have no idea. I tell her they might. She laughs. As soon as she’s gone, along with all the other customers and their problems, Dorothy turns to me and says, “So when can you start?”

“Start what?”

“Working here. Can I get you to take a job here?”

“Well . . .” I look around. Really? Should I go to work? And then I know that I definitely should. I’ll get to come here every day and smell flowers and talk to people. “I’m afraid I really don’t know much about arranging flowers,” I say.

Dorothy shrugs. “Flowers, schmowers. I can teach you that. What I’m needing is a listen-to-the-story person. When can you start?”

“Well. Okay,” I tell her. “I could start tomorrow, I guess.”

She comes around the counter and hugs me. She has a slight limp, and straight gray hair pushed back off her face, and a sweet, sweet smile that transforms her tired eyes. “Come tomorrow at ten, okay? We can go over some things. I can’t pay a lot, but we’ll figure out something. Part-time okay?”

“Yes. Yes, part-time is great!”

I’m halfway down the block before I remember I need to tell her something critical—so I hurry back to the shop and call out to her.

“Dorothy! One thing: I’m moving away at the end of the year! So this is temporary. Is that okay?”

She comes out, holding on to a rose stem. “What? Oh! No, that doesn’t matter a bit,” she says. “Whatever.”

And that appears to be that. I’m employed.

I write to Patrick:

Studying Brooklyn today with Jessica as my teacher. Pizzas are pies! Metro is subway. Convenience store is a bodega. #whoknew

Youse are doing awesome. Watch out, or soon you’ll be saying fuggedaboutit.

Also I accidentally may have gotten a job in a flower shop.

I didn’t know people could accidentally turn into florists. Are you happy about this?

I think so. I also think I need to go do a bunch of New York things. Carnegie Hall, jazz clubs, Brooklyn Bridge, Empire State Building, Broadway show, Times Square.

(Patrick shuddering involuntarily, can barely type) Report back. I’ll be cheering you on from the curmudgeon seats inside my dungeon.

You wouldn’t come?

Marnie? Hello? I thought I explained to you that I’m an introvert. #ugly #recluse #irredeemablymisanthropic

And what is there to say to that, except what I do say, which is:

Open your door when you get a chance. I’ve left you a present. A pitiful attempt to make up for your beautiful sculpture that I smashed. Though nothing ever can, I know.

Marnie, Marnie, Marnie. You didn’t have to do this. That sculpture was from another time. Another Patrick who doesn’t exist anymore. Not worth thinking about. You did me a favor. #outwithold

TWENTY-NINE

MARNIE