As I turned left onto Turk Street, I thought of another possible buyer. Joseph Taylor’s son, Hunter, had taken over his father’s bookshop after Joe’s untimely death a few months ago. The charming old shop on Clement Street catered to a number of wealthy book lovers, so Hunter might have a client who would be interested in The Secret Garden.
A mile later, I crossed Arguello Boulevard where Turk became Balboa Street. This marked the beginning of the part of town known as the Avenues, so named because starting near the east end of Golden Gate Park, the streets running north and south were named numerically. Strangely enough, they began with Second Avenue. The avenues went all the way west to Forty-eighth Avenue, a block from the ocean.
When I got to Nineteenth Avenue, I started looking for a parking place and found one a full block away on the opposite side of the street.
I waited for traffic to clear before jumping out of my car and locking it. I crossed at the crosswalk and headed to Vera’s shop, wishing I had an excuse to buy flowers. It would be a waste, though, because I would be going to the studio after I met Vera and chances were good that the flowers would be wilted before I got home.
In front of Vera’s shop, a narrow patch of sidewalk was lined with planters filled with blooming flowers in every color of the rainbow. Two small café tables with wrought-iron chairs had been placed in the center of the space for customers to sit and enjoy a momentary pause in their shopping day. The setup was charming.
A tinkling bell above the door announced that I had entered the small, colorful shop.
“Vera, it’s Brooklyn,” I called as I stepped inside. I glanced around at all the intriguing floral arrangements and goodies and added, “What a pretty shop.”
I didn’t see Vera at the front counter, where the cash register was located. Behind the counter on the left side of the room was a tall, drafting-style table set up for cutting and wrapping bouquets of flowers. Rows of different-colored ribbons were lined up on dowels for easy access, and a large box of cellophane wrap was placed opposite the ribbons. Two pairs of scissors lay on the table, both tied with thick string and secured to the table through an eye hook screwed into the corner.
On the shelf below was a bright green canvas carrying case used to store gardening tools. It was spread open for easy access and eight pockets held different types of shears, a trowel, a small shovel, and other tools Vera probably used for potting plants and cutting thick stems.
One of the pockets was empty. I took that as a sign that Vera was off working on something.
On the right wall an industrial shelving unit contained rows of pots and vases in all colors and styles. The two bottom shelves held dozens of flower-themed knickknacks, garden gnomes, and clay animals.
A family of six green pottery turtles caught my eye. They descended in size from the papa turtle down to the baby, and I knew I had to buy them for my mother. She would love them for her vegetable garden.
The back wall held more shelves on either side of the doorway that was halfway open and led into some sort of storage room. The light was on and I could see rows of plastic buckets containing long-stemmed flowers waiting for the florist to bundle them together in colorful bouquets. There were sunflowers, delphiniums, cheerful gerbera daisies, deep red roses, white roses, and blue irises, along with several buckets filled with various types of greenery.
It occurred to me that running a flower shop, surrounded by beautiful plants and flowers every day, had to be a cheerful occupation.
“Vera?” I said loudly. “Are you back there? I’ve brought your invoice.”
There was no answer and I was starting to wonder if I’d miscalculated the time. I didn’t think so. I’d probably arrived just as Vera had dashed off to use the bathroom. Was there one in the back of her shop, or had she been forced to run over to another store?
I had a few minutes to spare, so I took the time to admire the flowers. There was a glass-covered, walk-in refrigerator case against the wall nearest the front door and I stared at the already-made bouquets that were waiting to be bought or delivered.
I was impressed with Vera’s flair for flower arranging. Some of the bouquets were Zen-like in their minimalism. One had a single bird of paradise emerging from a dish of smooth pebbles. Another massive display looked as if it might be a wedding arrangement: every flower was white or off-white, and the combination of pale shades was dazzling in its simplicity. I could identify many of the blooms because my mother, who had always had a garden, had drummed the names of the flowers into our brains. At least a dozen white roses mingled with pale baby’s breath, lilies, sweet peas, narcissus, anemones, and plump white peonies. White ribbon tied in a soft bow around the large, femininely curved vase completed the bouquet.
I glanced around to see if Vera had returned, and checked my watch. I was starting to get anxious.