You were in a bit of a hurry. I must admit, it felt a little bit like meeting Cinderella at the end of the ball, only instead of leaving behind a glass slipper, you left me with a flowery business card. The name on the card given to me said Amelia Woods, so I’m assuming you are the right person. If not, I apologize for the confusion.
You asked that I contact you regarding insurance information. I wanted to let you know that it’s not necessary. The bumper isn’t so much dented as minutely scratched. Nothing a little spit and polish won’t fix. There’s no need to worry, and I say this only because you seemed very worried during our brief encounter on Saturday. I hope your emergency wasn’t too serious and that everything worked itself out.
All the best,
Nate Gallagher
“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”
—C. S. Lewis
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Mon, Sep 14, 2015 6:23 a.m.
Subject: Re: Brief Encounter
Dear Nate,
I am incredibly embarrassed and really very sorry. I promise I’m not usually so scattered and frantic, nor do I make a habit of fleeing the scene of an accident. It didn’t hit me until later that what I did was most likely illegal. Saturday was . . . I don’t even know what to call it. An unusual sort of day. It’s probably best if I leave it at that.
Thank you for being so kind and gracious, but I insist on filing a claim. Despite being in a hurry, I did see the dent. I don’t think spit and polish will fix it. Please send me your full name and insurance information, and I will call. It would make me feel better.
My apologies,
Amelia
PS: The subject line of your e-mail made me think of that old black-and-white movie with Celia Johnson. Have you seen it? So many people think it’s a romantic movie. I happen to think it’s depressing.
Inhaling the tantalizing scent of pumpkin muffins one last time, I waved good-bye to Eloise over my shoulder and exited her bakery. Overhead, the sky was every bit as blue as the flower my store was named after—the Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop, located on the corner of Marietta and Main, directly across the street from the gazebo in the middle of Mayfair’s town square.
Taking a sip of hot coffee from my thermos, I unlocked the front door and flipped the lights. Most people dreaded Monday mornings, but not me. I, Amelia Rose Woods, loved the beginning of a new workweek. Because I, Amelia Rose Woods, loved everything about my job. Meeting with brides about their big day, designing corsages and boutonnieres for high school dances. Arranging bouquets for birthdays and anniversaries and apologies and just-because-I-love-yous. Receiving the fresh flowers that arrived each morning in the back of Wally’s van. Even coming alongside the grief-stricken as they bid farewell to a loved one.
I turned on the glue guns and the glue pans, set my coffee and the bag of goodies on the front counter, and looked up at the picture hanging behind it—my mother and me standing in front of this very shop before my first day of kindergarten. We shared the same copper hair, the same fair skin, the same spray of freckles over the same small nose, except I had gray-blue eyes instead of brown and a pointier chin. In the picture, I wore a jean skirt with pink hearts stitched into the hem, my hair in pigtails. One of my small hands clutched onto my mother’s. The other held a small bouquet of daisies for my new teacher. Earlier that morning, Mom had let me put the bouquet together all by myself. Warmth filled my chest. The deep-down-in-your-soul kind of warmth. She’d be so happy if she could see me now.
With a smile on my face and thanksgiving in my heart, I printed the orders that came in overnight. A bouquet that needed delivering by noon and one more that needed delivering by six. And then there were the four centerpiece arrangements for the annual book club meeting at the public library in Apple Creek. There were no funerals today, and while I had a wedding this weekend, I’d already placed the order. We wouldn’t start putting the actual bouquets and arrangements together until midweek. I picked up the phone and dialed my part-time assistant, Astrid. She had worked at Forget-Me-Not for two years now, mostly on an as-needed basis. I left a message explaining that she didn’t need to come in, then got to work on the arrangements in the storefront cooler while waiting for Wally and his flower van to arrive.
He came every morning at nine fifteen, leaving me just enough time to clean up and arrange the flowers before opening the doors at ten. I pulled out bad stems, added new ones, refreshed the water, then cleaned all the shelves and doors. By the time I finished, Wally had pulled up outside on the street.
“Morning, Wal,” I said, meeting him by the rear hatch. “How are the flowers looking today?”
“As fresh and as pretty as you.” He smiled his snaggletoothed smile. He was a rough-looking fellow. Not at all the type you’d expect to drive a flower van.
I shooed off his compliment and handed him the bag from Eloise’s, a giant-sized chocolate chip–pumpkin muffin tucked inside.
He opened the bag and took a big whiff.