Persephone

Chapter IV

It was completely worth working my entire vacation, I reminded myself the following Wednesday when the phone rang again. I forced myself to take a calming breath. The air smelled green and raw. I closed my eyes and tried to pick out the individual scents of my favorite flowers. I’d found the sweet scent of daffodils, the heady fragrance of roses, and a soft hint of daisies when the phone trilled.
I swore under my breath. The flowers may have smelled relaxing, but the sight of so many of them stacked behind the glass door of the refrigerated room and waiting to be made into holiday arrangements was stressful enough without more last minute shoppers calling every three seconds. Worse, the seventy-degree weather I’d enjoyed last Friday had fled and it was getting cold.
“Demeter’s Garden.” Mom’s voice was serene. “How can I help you?”
She grinned at me behind the front counter as she took an order over the phone. Her sleeves were rolled up and she had a smudge of dirt on her cheek that meant she’d been potting plants in the nursery out back earlier. It was magical watching seedlings burst forth from the earth, ripening under her green touch. It was like she could make anything grow any time.
She moved around the shop with the quiet grace and confidence of a queen. Would I ever feel that comfortable with myself? I sighed, retied my green apron, and inspected the work order in front of me. Daffodils and poppies. I could do that.
I frowned when I found a scribbled notation on the back of the ticket: narcissus. I glanced at the customer’s name and saw it was one of our regular customers, Flora. I could imagine the conversation that had taken place during that order. Flora’s shrill voice demanding those small white daffodils she’d seen in one of the other arrangements. Mom gently asking if she meant narcissus, a smaller flower frequently confused with daffodils, then the old woman insisting she knew what she was talking about until my mother wrote down the order and penciled in the correction later. For the record, the customer is never right.
“We’ve been busy,” I remarked when she hung up the phone.
“Got to love the holidays.” She laughed. “How’s Melissa?”
I shrugged. “Busy making fruit bouquets. I think Mrs. Minthe sells as many fruit arrangements as we do flowers.” Melissa’s mother owned a shop in Watkinsville that made flower arrangements out of various fruits.
Mom started to comment, but the phone rang. “It’s been ringing off the hook all day,” she said after asking the caller to hold. “I’m going to take this out back and work in the nursery. Can you man the front?”
“Where’s Chloe?” I asked, dreading the prospect of a customer demanding my attention. The shop was empty now, but I knew the minute Mom left my sight someone would walk in.
The phone beeped in my mom’s hand, reminding her of the caller on hold. She gave it a harried look. “Making deliveries. I don’t expect her back this afternoon.” She tucked my hair behind my ear when I frowned. “The customers won’t bite, I promise.” The phone beeped again and my mother sighed.
“Go,” I told her. “I’ve got this.”
I waited for the heavy wooden door to close before working on the flower arrangement. We’d owned Demeter’s Garden since before I was born, and it felt like my second home. I smiled, remembering that if I kept my grades up and got into the University of Georgia, it would be my home. Melissa and I were going to share the apartment above the shop.
I leaned against the counter and looked around the shop, imagining all the changes I would make when Mom retired. The shop looked as if it had been carved out of an oak tree. The rough floors, counter, and cabinets were all the same honey shade with dark brown spots showing up every few feet, like buttons. Glass doors with wood lining formed the walls, showcasing flower arrangements in their refrigerated glory. This time of year the arrangements in vases crowded the shelves. Potted plants hung from the rafters. Windows filled three walls of the shop, giving pedestrians an unobstructed view of our merchandise, and allowing the shop to be filled with warm sunlight.
Mom and I called the shop “the fishbowl” when no one was around to hear. There was no hiding from customers peering in from the outside. If you arrived early to get some work done or stayed late to count inventory, they saw you. They knocked on the glass or called the shop to get their order taken right then. It drove me crazy.
The first thing I planned to do was hire someone to deal with all the customers. I loved making the arrangements, doing paperwork, and maintaining our website. I just didn’t like dealing with people. I didn’t handle confrontation well, and as friendly as most of our customers were, they always wanted discounts, or rush orders, or impossible flower combinations.
I turned back to the arrangement, running wires through the poppies and letting the arrangement take shape beneath my hands. I smiled at the completed project and wrote the card in flowing script, signing the name of Flora’s husband, as usual. He never remembered the special occasions, so she bought her own flowers.
I bet Joel was the kind of guy who would remember to send flowers. Not that it matters, I thought, smiling as I placed the card in the center of the arrangement.
“How beautiful.”
I jumped, spinning around to face the man on the other side of the counter. “I’m sorry?”
“The flowers.” He gave me a strange look. “They’re beautiful. Poppies and daffodils, right?”
I made a noncommittal noise, and he smiled as if pleased to have guessed right. “It looks great. You have a real gift.”
“Thank you.” I was sure my face was bright red. I’d jumped like the devil himself had patted my shoulder. Now this guy probably thought I was crazy too.
That would be a tragedy. His eyes were the precise shade of liquid gold as Orpheus’. With the exception of his angular face, short haircut, and leaner physique, he could be Orpheus. I wonder if they’re related.
Horrified, I realized I was staring. “Oh…uh…how can I help you?” I tucked a wavy strand of hair behind my ear.
His eyes twinkled in amusement. My cheeks heated as I realized a guy as hot as him must be used to shop girls getting flustered for different reasons than being caught off guard. I glanced at the antique golden bell against the door, cursing myself for being so wrapped up in the stupid flowers that I hadn’t heard it ring when he came in.
“…arrangement to be delivered next weekend,” he was saying, leaning on the counter.
“Of course.” I took a breath to pull myself together. I fished the pen and ordering pad from the pocket of my apron, gathering confidence from the familiar routine. “Can I get your first and last name?”
“Pirithous,” he answered, spelling it for me. He looked down to read the name emblazoned on my chest. “Pleased to meet you, Persephone,” he said, pronouncing it Purse-a-phone.
I ground my teeth together. My mother refused to change the monogrammed name on my apron to Kora. It was getting to the point where I was thinking of getting it fixed myself.
“It’s Persephone,” I corrected. “Kind of like Stephanie. What’s the occasion?” I held the pen poised over the paper.
He grinned and ran his fingers through his golden hair. “My mother’s birthday.”
My eyes widened as I realized why he thought I’d asked. With more emphasis than the situation called for, I wrote “mother’s birthday” on the appropriate line to show him I’d been asking professionally, not fishing to see if he was single.
My face stayed red throughout the ordering process because Pirithous kept teasing me or misinterpreting my questions. I grew angry when I realized he was enjoying seeing me so flustered.
“I meant what I said, you know.” He leaned so far over the counter I wondered how he kept his balance.
“Huh?” I replied articulately.
“You’re beautiful. Do you…wanna grab a coffee sometime?”
Okay, I thought, enough is enough. Time to pull out the big guns. “Sorry. My mom won’t let me date until I turn eighteen.” Some guys didn’t care that I was underage, but the ones that did always made faces like I’d just offered them rat poison.
I gave him an innocent smile and dropped his change into his open hand. Pirithous closed it as the cold quarters touched his skin. His fingers brushed against mine. He grinned and, for the first time since he’d walked in the flower shop, looked into my eyes.
His pupils widened and he quickly closed his eyes, looking away from me. “I don’t believe it.”
“No, really,” I babbled, so fast the words ran together. “I just turned sixteen this March. My mom’s a bit paranoid, but you can’t blame her with the university down the street and frat boys all over town.”
“He was right! A daughter of Zeus. I didn’t think there were any left.”
Speaking of frat boys…“Isn’t it a little late in the semester for pledging?”
His hand wrapped around my wrist like an iron vice. “Let me go,” he demanded, eyes glittering.
“After you!” I struggled to pull my hand free.
He laughed. “You have no idea, do you? What you are? What you’ve done? Oh that’s right, you can’t lie. You’re really sixteen.” He shook his head as though in disbelief. “Even better. I thought he’d sent me on a fool’s errand. Everyone knows Zeus is dead, but here you are—” his eyes glittered maniacally “—my chance at immortality.”
I yanked my arm back but he didn’t let go. Panic flooded my chest. “Are you high? Let me go!”
I struggled against his grip as he pulled me around the counter. “You’re mine. I found you first. You belong to me!”
I grabbed the counter with my free hand. My fingers closed around a pen, and with more strength than I thought possible I slammed it into his arm.
He howled in pain and I ripped my arm free and scrambled back behind the counter. I yanked open a drawer, spilling the contents, searching for the small knife I used for cutting wires and flower stems. I caught a glimpse of the green handle and grabbed it.
“Stay back!” I waved the arrangement knife in his direction.
“Persephone?” my mother called, throwing open the storage room door. “Is everything—” She looked from Pirithous’ bleeding arm to the knife poised in the air.
I moved between him and my mother. “I’m calling the cops!” I fished my cell phone out of my apron pocket.
That seemed to penetrate Pirithous’ maniac rage enough for him to look up at me, eyes saturated with hate. “I’ll be back for you,” he hissed, then ran out the door.
“Like hell,” I muttered, locking the door behind him.