“Ten buckets,” he repeated. “Gerberas, glads, sunflowers, lilies. No extras.”
Huh. Maybe he was right about that hearing. “Correct. It shouldn’t take longer than a half hour total if we don’t get caught up talking.”
“Keep it short. All business. Thirty minutes max.”
My phone rang then: Jilly, most likely wanting to catch up while en route from one KitKat activity to another. As I hit IGNORE, preferring to wait until I was alone, Ambrose said, “Wait, what was that? Your ringtone?”
“Nothing,” I told him.
“It sounded like this awful pop song—”
“Nope. Let’s go.”
I pushed open my door, getting out as he did the same, then followed me through the propped-open screen door. Inside, rows of plants sat on makeshift tables made of sawhorses and plywood, a row of walk-in coolers along one wall.
“Louna Barrett.” A woman’s voice came from behind a tall basket of ornamental greenery. “Right on time, as always.”
“Hey, Mrs. Kirby,” I replied. “How are you?”
She stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a tall and broad black woman with a melodic voice, and everything she said sounded important. “Very good, very good. Have some gorgeous peonies I want to show you, on special. Your mom’s favorite.”
“They are,” I agreed. “But space is tight.”
“You can always make room for a few extra blooms,” she replied, then noticed Ambrose. “Who’s this? A boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, a bit too quickly. “This is Ambrose. He’s working with us for the summer.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sure you can forgive me for getting hopeful that you might have found another romantic prospect.” She turned to him, shaking her head. “So heartbreaking what happened with that boy of hers.”
This was so unexpected that for a moment, I couldn’t even respond. Mrs. Kirby was a talker, always had been. The previous fall, I’d come out here to collect a client’s rehearsal dinner flowers and, in an unusual move for me—everything when it came to Ethan was different—mentioned I had a boyfriend. It was almost embarrassing, thinking back to how happy I’d been, how I’d worked this fact, and him, into just about any conversation. When she asked after him the next time I saw her, I was so raw I told the truth. Both mistakes. Big ones.
Ambrose was looking at me. This he couldn’t miss, even without the good hearing. I said, “We’re really kind of pressed for time, and my mom wants pictures before we pack up the car. Can we go ahead and look at what you have?”
Mrs. Kirby, like any long-winded person, was used to being redirected. “Of course, sweetie, whatever you want,” she said. “But you have to see these peonies. I can’t let you leave without at least a glimpse.”
She started toward the back, and I immediately fell in behind her, making a point of not looking Ambrose’s way at all. Whatever was on his face as he worked this out, or guessed at it—surprise, pity, empathy—I knew I did not want to see it. I would take annoying, instead, all day long.
Forty-five minutes later, we were pulling back onto the two-lane highway, eleven buckets of flowers strapped with bungee cords into the back of my banged-up Suburban. I’d caved on the peonies, mostly just because I didn’t have it in me to face down the hard sell. And they were beautiful, fragile and fragrant with lacy edges. They’d look gorgeous in the jars I’d be unpacking and cleaning later that day for Charlotte McDonald’s wedding, and if she didn’t agree, I’d eat the cost myself. They were my mom’s favorite.
I kept waiting for Ambrose to ask me about Ethan. While we waited for Mrs. Kirby to confer with her husband, who came in from the fields in overalls and a straw hat, about prices. As we carted the buckets to the car, arranging them like a puzzle to make everything fit snugly. And now, when we were finally alone and back on the road, the car around us so fragrant that I had to crack my window.
But he didn’t. Instead, he messed with the vents again, the seat belt, the radio. Also, he sneezed; it happened, especially when you weren’t used to so many flowers in such a small space. Over the course of about three miles, I went from dreading him bringing it up to just wishing he would. At least then, it would be happening and not about to happen. After another mile, I figured I’d just go ahead and tell him, to get it over with.
“Can we stop?” he asked suddenly, nodding at a little store that was just ahead. “I’m parched.”
Of course he couldn’t just say thirsty, I thought, annoyed. “Sure,” I said, glancing at the dashboard clock. “We have to be quick, though.”
The store was small and dusty, an older man behind the counter. As soon as we walked in, a dog approached us, quickly wagging its tail. It was skinny and small, its fur scruffy, poking out in wiry tufts above its eyebrows and around the snout. Kind of like a canine Brillo pad. Panting.
Ambrose immediately dropped down to greet it, which made it even more excited, its entire body twisting and writhing as it got petted. “Your dog is awesome,” he called out to the man, who was reading a newspaper, a pencil behind his ear. In return, he just grunted.
I walked over to the drink cooler, pulling out an iced tea. “What do you want?” I asked Ambrose, who was busy scratching the dog’s neck, making one leg bang excitedly against the floor.
“Something fruity with lots of sugar,” he replied. “I know, I know! You are a good boy!”
This time, the man looked over, irritated, and I was surprised to feel a wave of protectiveness. It was a fact Ambrose got on people’s nerves. But this guy had only been around him a few seconds. I grabbed a tropical punch that was bright pink, then took both drinks over to the counter, putting them down. Just as I did, a car beeped outside and the dog started barking, the noise sudden and high-pitched.
“Shut up,” the man growled as he punched a few buttons on the register. “Goddamn dog. Four seventy-two.”
I gave him a five, highly aware as the noise continued, a mix of a yip and a screech. “Hey, buddy,” Ambrose was saying, “it’s okay.”
“Barks every time he hears a beep,” the man said, pushing my change across to me. “And it’s like nails on a chalkboard.”
I said nothing to this, just took the drinks and started for the door. “Let’s go,” I said to Ambrose, who was still trying to quiet the dog down. “There’s bound to be traffic.”
Another series of yaps, one right after the other. The man pushed himself to his feet, grumbling under his breath, then came around the counter, walking with a noticeable limp over to a back door. “Out,” he said to the dog, as he pushed it open. “Go play in traffic.”
The dog got quiet and sat down. “Good boy,” Ambrose told him.
The man sighed. “Out,” he said again, this time snapping his fingers. Slowly, the dog stood, then walked out the door, and the man dropped it shut behind him. As he shuffled back behind the counter, Ambrose tracked him with his eyes.