The Art of Arranging Flowers (13 page)

I
WANT
to ask her to m-m-marry me.” Henry Phillips has waited until everyone has left the shop before walking across the street to talk.

He finally told me last week who he was buying the yellow bouquets for, even though Will let me in on that secret the first time I met the boy. Henry has bought daffodils and freesia, daisies and blazing stars every Thursday for more than a month now. I'm not sure how long he's been checking out stacks of books in the process of falling for the librarian, but it seems a little early for a marriage proposal. Still, I am not one to squelch love.

“That's wonderful, Henry,” I reply. “How do you plan to ask her?”

“Well . . . well, that's why I'm he-here.”

“You want to give her flowers?” I ask, knowing that I have just the bouquet in mind. I used it with Dennis Duncan from Valley when he proposed to Clara, and I also sold it to James Harvey and Bill Durham for their special occasions. “I have a beautiful one with white flowers.”

I call it the You're the One Bouquet and it includes crème and white roses, white gladioli, white miniature carnations, white lisianthus, and delicate white waxflower with just a touch of variegated pittosporum. I am already running inventory in my mind before he answers. I have everything but the lisianthus. I'll need to tell Nora to add that to my order.

He turns away. I guess he has something else in mind.

“I-I think sh-she really likes the yel-yellow ones.”

I nod. I guess You're the One won't work for Henry and Lou. Still, I can do a nice proposal bouquet with the blazing stars and snapdragons. I can make the same bouquet I've made every week for Henry to give to his beloved, only I'll add a few tulips and yellow roses to make it special.

“I-I don't know if sh-sh-she'll say yes.”

I smile and reach under the counter and pull out my order forms. I figure he'll tell me what he wants and I'll just make the list.

“I guess no man asking the woman he loves to marry him knows her answer for sure,” I respond. I take out my daisy pen and write his name at the top of the form. “I suppose a big proposal like that bears a certain amount of risk. Have you been out together a lot? Do you have a favorite place you'll go to pop the question?”

He doesn't answer and I glance up, waiting. He shifts his weight from side to side. He clears his throat.

“We have-haven't been ou-out at all.”

I am surprised. I know I seem surprised. “But all the bouquets? Doesn't she know how you feel with all the bouquets you've given her?”

He shakes his head. His face is bright red.

“You didn't tell her that the flowers are from you?” I understand the blush now.

He shakes his head again.

“Well, Henry, who does she think they're from?”

“I-I don't know.”

“And you want to ask her to marry you?” Oh my, this is not sounding good.

He nods.

Okay. I try to think of how to respond with delicacy, being truthful but gentle. I put down my pen and slide the order form back under the counter. I look him in the eye. “I don't know, Henry. I mean, I'm not a relationship expert, but I think you need to go out together a few times before you rush into marriage.”

“I-I love her and I-I think sh-she loves me.”

“But you've never been out.”

He drops his head, nodding.

“Do you talk to her?”

He shrugs.

“Have you ever spoken to Lou?”

“Sh-she knows I like bi-biographies of pr-pr-presidents. She f-finds me ones I-I haven't read and h-h-holds them for me at the d-desk.”

“And when you pick these up, do you talk?”

He nods. “I-I say thank you.”

I am at a loss here. I don't want Henry to get his heart broken, and if in his first conversation with her, he asks Lou Ann Peterson to marry him, he's definitely on his way to heartbreak. I think of what flower or herb might help here, but I'm not sure exactly what I'm dealing with. Is it a need for confidence or a desire to express strong feelings positively? I could go with paperwhites or something from the passion variety, but I'm not really convinced flowers are the answer here.

“Okay, let's pause for just a second.” I'm trying to organize my thoughts. “Why don't you start by giving her another bouquet and this time adding a card, letting her know it's you sending the flowers?”

He bites his bottom lip, thinking, thinking.

“Then, after a day or so, you could see her and ask her out for a date.”

“C-c-could I write that o-on the c-c-card?”

“The request for a date?” I ask.

He nods.

“I guess.” I think about it. “You could say something along the lines of, ‘I hope you have liked the flowers I have sent and now I'm wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me?' And sign your name. Then you show up and ask her.”

“What if I-I write s-something like, ‘Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins and in this way only.'”

I am stunned. Henry didn't stutter at all saying those two sentences. “That's beautiful, Henry. Is that Shakespeare?”

“It . . . it's from the play
Les Misèrables
.”

“I think that should definitely go on the card.”

He smiles.

“So, you want me to make the arrangement now?”

He nods. “I-is it o-okay if I wait?”

“Sure,” I answer. “Why don't you have a seat around here on the stool?” I motion him around the counter and he complies. Clementine stands up and goes over to welcome him into our private space. I watch him give her a pat on the head. She drops down at his side. She and Henry have been friends a long time.

“You want it all yellow, right?”

“Sh-she likes ye-yellow.”

“Then yellow she shall have.”

I go back to the cooler and take stems of all the yellow flowers I have. There are the usuals that I keep on hand: daisies, daffodils, alstroemeria, blazing stars. And I also take a couple of stems of yellow roses, two new tulips. I walk back into the main room of the shop and place them on the table. Henry watches.

“You know, yellow stimulates the nervous system. It helps balance emotions.” I search on the shelves for the right vessel. “How about a nice clear vase?”

“I-I don't carry th-these in t-t-tissue paper?”

I shake my head. “No, not this time,” I answer. “This time, with that quote and this revelation, you have to put these flowers in a vase. With all that sentiment and disclosure, they need to be contained.”

He nods as if he understands.

I find a round glass vase, a tall one with a sculpted ring design wrapped around it. It's pretty but not too showy. I never want the vase to outdo the bouquet. I take it off the shelf, go over to the sink and pour just a little warm water in it, set it beside me, pick up my scissors and start clipping off leaves and cutting ends of stems. I place the flowers in the vase, one by one.

“How d-did you l-learn about flowers?” he asks.

I continue my work. “I took some classes,” I answer.

“E-every . . . body th-thinks y-you make m-magic. Th-that you a-ar-range more than just flowers here.”

I turn to Henry. “Do they?” I ask. I hadn't really heard this before.

“Th-they th-think you a-range h-hearts.”

“You mean like heal broken hearts?”

I can see out of the corner of my eye that he is shaking his head. “L-like m-make h-hearts f -f-feel a cer-cer-certain way. F-f-fix them.”

“Fix, like fixing a bet or a race to make it go the way I want it to?” I had never thought about my arrangements being used in that way.

He nods.

“Do you think I can do that with Lou Ann?” I ask. I stop my work and turn to Henry. I don't want to be a part of something false, something unattainable for him.

He waits and then he shakes his head again. “I-I th-think you bl-bl-blossom what is al-already there. I-I d-don't th-think you ca-can make s-somebody feel s-something th-they d-d-don't.”

I go back to the arrangement. “Well, that's the truth.”

“S-so, h-how d-do you do it?”

“I believe in the power of love, Henry. And I believe it's always present,” I say, tucking in the snapdragons and the stems of greenery. I snip the ends of the tulips and place them in the center of the arrangement and then I spin the vase around, checking it from every angle. “But I do believe that beauty somehow opens us to it,” I add. Suddenly I am remembering the brilliant blue of the hydrangea bush outside my window the day I finally left my bed weeks after Daisy died, the tiniest pink crocus, brazen, rising from the frozen earth, the narrow escape I found.

I add the last of the daffodils to the vase, the yellow rosebud, and a narrow stem of statice, and then I go to my shelf of herbs and take down a jar of Job's tears. When I get back to the design table, I add three seeds to the bouquet for luck. I figure Henry can use all that he can get. I find the yellow chiffon ribbon, wrap it around the glass vase, loop and tie a broad bow. I give it a good final examination, approve, and then walk the arrangement over to Henry. He holds out his hands and I give it to him. I then go over to my box of cards near the cash register and pick out a yellow one, plain except for a tiny hand-painted daisy centered at the bottom. I bought these from Molly Lipton, a high school student who happens to be a very talented artist.

“Do you want me to write it or you?” I ask, thinking he will need to repeat the quote, because I don't remember the exact wording.

“I-I will d-do it,” he replies.

I smile, put the card in its matching envelope, find a small plastic bag to place it in, and then hang the bag on his finger, which he sticks out beside the vase.

“I will add this arrangement to your bill,” I explain. “You can pay me at the end of the month.”

Henry stands up from the stool and Clementine joins him.

“I-I th-think this is just right,” he says. “I-I will w-wait to pr-propose until after we g-g-go out.”

I place my hand on his as he cradles the vase of flowers. “Come back and tell me how it went,” I say with a squeeze.

He nods, turns, then walks around the counter and out the door.

Clementine sits and then lifts a paw to brush against my leg.

“I know,” I tell her, watching Henry cross the street. “It's not up to us now; we can only hope for the best.”

I
AM
to meet Captain Miller at the small airport that is located just behind the sixteenth green at the public golf course. Both of these facilities were built at the top of the hill, straight up Sand Crane Drive. It's a beautiful part of town up there, mostly homes of retired people, mostly golfers and pilots. I guess Captain Miller is all three.

Nora helped me dress. She arrived just before noon even though I wasn't leaving the house until three. She claimed there was much more to the ritual of preparation than just yanking the dress off the rack and throwing it on. And she spent two hours proving she was right.

She brought rose petals and lavender for a tepid bath since a hot one would make me sweaty; a special moisturizer for my legs, which she said would render them silky smooth; and she had arranged for Cora Salisbury, the local hair salon owner, to drop by before two o'clock to wash and style my hair. She even brought sparkling water for herself and a small bottle of champagne for me.

She waited with Clementine in the living room while I soaked, giving me two slices of cucumber, which I thought was an odd snack but was just about to eat them anyway when she snatched them from me, explaining that they were to place on my eyes. She lit a vanilla candle before she left the room, turned on my radio, the jazz station already programmed, and then reappeared after about twenty minutes with a small plate of cheese and grapes. When she knocked on the door and told me why she was there, I worried that she might want to feed them to me, which I must admit made me a tad uncomfortable, but then she entered, carefully placed the saucer by the tub, and quietly backed out.

“You don't have to walk on your tiptoes,” I said, “I'm not asleep.” But she didn't respond and simply closed the door behind her.

After the bath and my home hair appointment, Carl arrived and did my makeup. He worked for a cosmetics company when he was in college. He came in carrying two suitcases, and I thought he was spending the night, but it turned out he still has a cosmetologist's discount and enjoys purchasing cosmetics and supplies from the headquarters of Estée Lauder.

He started me in corals: lipstick, eye shadow, blush, all of them from the same color format, but then once he got a good look at me he shook his head and made me wash it all off, starting over with what he called his “rosy palette.” It was rooted in pink, and after he finished I felt like I had been sprayed down in Pepto-Bismol, but both he and Nora seemed pleased. After all the color, Carl applied mascara. At first there was so much I was afraid my top and bottom lashes were going to stick together and I wouldn't be able to open my eyes. I told him that I didn't really want to miss having a good look at the president because of an overabundance of eye makeup, and he stormed out of the room and then stormed back in, handing me a tissue and telling me to blot it gently against my lashes. He must have said “gently” ten times. So I was careful and it seemed to help.

Jimmy came over to the house as well and took pictures. Now I know how a girl must feel getting ready for the prom. Since I never attended the high school socials, I don't have anything to compare this experience to, but I do know that I feel polished and shined. And now I think I know what Daisy meant when she used to say she was “done up and going out.”

Nora has even made me a pearl wristlet. I had shown her the boutonniere I had arranged for Captain Miller, and somehow she found a way to sneak behind my back and make a corsage that matched it. I had used a purple dendrobium with three small white roses, and a sprig of ivy, tying them all together with a silver-gray grosgrain ribbon. She found a matching orchid and added white spray roses with tiny rhinestones strategically placed so they accented the blooms. She must have worked all morning on it, because Nora doesn't do corsages or nosegays. She claims her fingers can't handle the small bouquets, so I don't know how she managed it, but she did. It's beautiful and when she hands me one of the narrow white boxes that I have given out more than a hundred times to other girls, I am completely surprised. I feel special.

Finally, after all this time, they tell me I am finished and can see for myself their magic-making. Carl makes me close my eyes, and he and Nora guide me to the living room, where Carl has brought and set up a full-size mirror from home. Somehow, he knew I wouldn't have one. And then I feel them both jump behind me.

“Okay, open your eyes!” Carl instructs me, and just for fun, I act like I can't pull them apart.

I am laughing when I catch the first glimpse of myself. Jimmy snaps a picture and I swear I almost cry. I look like no one I have ever seen in a mirror before.

Nora, of course, does cry. She can't stop blubbering about how beautiful I am, and she and Carl embrace. Then Jimmy and Nora embrace. And then it's Carl and Jimmy. And then Clementine wants a hug. And I'm just standing here, thinking maybe I need to start paying more attention to my appearance day to day, because obviously this is a very big deal.

“Okay, okay,” I say, waving away their emotional outbursts.

Jimmy takes a few more photos. I tell them all good-bye, give Clem a snack, grab the silver and black purse I borrowed from Kathy Shepherd, and head out the door, leaving my friends to clean up the mess.

“Text us to let us know what he's wearing,” Carl says as I get in the van. “I'm thinking it's a classic tuxedo but Nora thinks he's bought something contemporary.”

I roll my eyes.
Like I will know the difference
, I think.

“Don't make a face,” Nora yells. “You have on too much makeup for that.”

I turn on the engine and back out of the driveway, having no idea what that sentence means.

When I get to the airport, I see a plane pulled out on the runway, and a man dressed in coveralls directs me to an opening in the hangar, where I see another vehicle, which I recognize as Captain Miller's. I park beside it, turn off the engine, pull out the keys, and drop them in my purse, and when I reach for the handle to open the door, the Captain is standing beside me, holding out his hand.

I don't know if he's wearing a classic or a contemporary suit, but he looks very snazzy. I'm sliding out, trying to be as ladylike as possible, when I remember the boutonniere and then quickly duck back in the driver's seat. When I emerge the second time, Captain Miller looks confused.

“I thought you had changed your mind,” he says, reaching out once more.

I'm stumped. “Oh, because I sat back down,” I say, nodding and taking his hand. I grasp a little too tightly when I suddenly remember Carl showing me over and over again how to shake the president's hand.

“Delicate, Ruby,” he told me when I demonstrated what I would offer. “You aren't arm wrestling.”

I loosen my grip on his hand. When I stand up, he is smiling.

“As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.”

I assume that's some famous quote, but I know nobody has ever said it to me.

“It's Neruda,” he explains. “Pablo Neruda.”

“I like him,” I say, and I hand Captain Miller the boutonniere.

He takes it from the box, notices the corsage on my wrist, and smiles. “You have brought me flowers,” he says. “I am indeed a lucky man,” and then asks, “You'll assist me?”

I glance around for a place to put my purse and he politely offers a hand.

I pin the orchid on his lapel and then stand back to admire my work. It's lovely, and while studying it I notice a tiny sprig of jasmine that's just behind one of the roses. Nora had sneaked into the box and added a little extra touch. It is, of course, our own private florist joke, so I do not mention it to the Captain.

“Shall we?” he asks, holding out his arm, which I take as delicately as I can.