“That’s enough, Lydia,” Mr. Miller said. He put his arm around her and turned her towards their car.
The church attendants sent to break up the argument were too late. It was over. The small crowd dispersed and went to Sunday lunch armed with a delicious story to share.
Cadence waited until Mrs. Connelly was completely alone before running to her. Mrs. Connelly glimpsed her from the corner of her eye and opened her arms in invitation. Cadence crashed into her, throwing her arms around Mrs. Connelly’s neck, squeezing her perhaps too tightly and wishing she could get closer.
“Honey,” Mrs. Connelly whispered in her ear.
Cadence sobbed into Mrs. Connelly’s neck, clung to her. She said nothing. After all, there was nothing left to say. She only wanted to feel protected and loved, and she felt those things now as her new mother stroked her back and shushed her sobs.
Mark stood a few feet away observing his mother—her focus concentrated solely on the young woman in her arms. He saw the mother who bandaged his knees every time he fell off his skateboard. The mother who dried his eyes when his dog died. The mother who patched his jeans and trimmed his hair. The mother who always had the answers to even his toughest questions: “Why can’t we float in the air?” “How do TVs work?” “Where did we come from?” “Who made God?”
He watched this wise woman—this fixer—work her magic on Cadence. Soothing her worry, mending her heart, promising her love. He thought about Cadence’s mother, who did none of those things, and realized in that moment just how fortunate he was to have a mother who cared.
***
“Nice to see you, Mark,” Millie said. She stood at the counter writing in a large ledger.
“Hey, Millie,” Mark replied. “Do you mind if I hang with Cadence for a little bit?”
“Not at all, just as long as she keeps working.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” he said.
“She’s in the back.”
Mark walked through the door, the overpowering floral scent knocking him in the face. He wasn’t prepared for it, but he didn’t not like it. He found the perfumed air instantly therapeutic, and realized this was the best working environment for his girlfriend. Not that she was an emotional mess, but he thought flower therapy could go a long way in soothing the pain she experienced a few days ago in church.
Cadence glimpsed him from the back counter.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her surprise was evident—slightly higher-pitched tone, instant flush to the cheeks, silly grin. He made her unexpectedly happy.
“I wanted to see what your job’s all about,” he said. He approached her and kissed her cheek.
“Really?” She sported a full smile now.
“Yes, really,” he replied. He pulled himself up on the counter and sat, legs dangling, watching her snip the ends of a flower he couldn’t name.
“You’re just gonna hang out with me?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“But don’t you have work to do?”
“It can wait.”
“And Millie said it was okay?” she asked.
“Yep. As long as I don’t distract you, which I think I already am. Get back to work,” he ordered.
She giggled and kept snipping.
“What are those?” he asked.
She laughed out loud. “Seriously, Mark? You’ve never seen a tulip?”
He shrugged. “How should I know?” He picked one up and carefully fingered the petals.
Cadence watched him from the corner of her eye. She wanted to tell him to put down the flower. Instinct told her he’d accidentally tear one of the fragile petals. But experience told her he’d be as gentle with the flower as he was when he made love to her last night.
“I’m including them in your mother’s bouquet,” she said.
Mark tricked her. The flowers he ordered weren’t for his mother. They were for Cadence. He ordered them with the intention of coming here to watch her arrange them for herself. He thought it’d be a fun little experiment to learn more about her—how she saw herself represented in the flowers she chose.
“Well, don’t base it on what you think my mom would like. Base it on what you like,” he said.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I know my mom would like any arrangement you made, so imagine it’s for you,” he replied.
“Okay.” She shook her head, clearly confused, and set aside the tulips.
“Not a fan?” he asked.
“Oh, I like them a lot, but they’re not what I’d put in a bouquet for myself,” she said. She grinned. “They’re kind of old womanish.”
Marked laughed. “So you thought they’d be perfect for my mom.”
“Well, what can I say?” she asked.
She walked to a refrigerator on the far side of the room and rooted around until she found the container with all the roses. She carried it back to her work station.
“I’m a simple girl,” she said, pulling out the roses. “I’ll arrange a big fat bouquet with dozens of different flowers if you want, but I prefer smaller, tidier arrangements.”
Mark listened, fascinated.
“I’ve actually thought long and hard about that,” she went on, snipping a healthy chunk from each stem.