Secrets of the Tulip Sisters

By ten she’d finished with email, had played three games of Solitaire and was wondering how on earth she was going to get through a whole summer with nothing to do. Her dad had long since left for work. Everyone had somewhere to be but her. She grabbed her bag and walked out to her car. The air was cool, the sky cloudy. She had a feeling it might actually rain. Up here that wasn’t anything but ordinary. If she stayed long enough maybe she would start to take the rain for granted, just like everyone else.

She drove to the end of the street, then merged onto the main road. The town had grown just enough to be slightly unfamiliar, as if it had somehow shifted out of focus. She saw a few new stores. The library had been refurbished. What had been an old grocery store was now a bowling alley and some kind of music school. She kept driving until she reached the edge of a huge field, then pulled to the side of the road.

For as far as the eye could see was flat, groomed earth. She wasn’t sure how many acres her family owned, but it was a lot. Murphy Tulips were sought after all over the country. They were known for quality blooms, delivered on time. The main crop was traditional tulips in a variety of colors, but the company also had a small but growing exotic collection. If you wanted Russian Princess tulips for a dinner party, Murphy Tulips was the one to call.

Even though she’d never been interested in the family business as a kid, she couldn’t help learning a few things by virtue of where she’d grown up. She knew that every fall bulbs were planted in the fields and come spring they would grow and blossom into beautiful flowers. Once they were harvested, the bulbs were dug up and sorted. Those deemed healthy and hearty could be reused, a process different from hothouse tulips.

Olivia pulled onto the road and drove back toward the highway and turned into what looked like a big antiques mall. They had a couple similar malls in Phoenix and she’d always found them a great place to shop for staging projects. She could often find unusual pieces at a great price.

She parked in front. Despite the fact that The Dutch Bunch had been open for a couple of hours, there was only one other car in the lot. That wasn’t good for business, she thought.

She walked inside and was immediately overwhelmed by several large, busy displays with too much information. There were notices about activities, posters for a couple of local hotels and restaurants and a corkboard covered with business cards. Flanking the disarray were mock room settings filled with ugly furniture and too many decorations in a tulip theme. There were tulip pictures and tulips slipcovers. Wooden tulips on a table covered in a tulip-print tablecloth. A tulip rug, tulip stenciled bassinette. Even someone who loved tulips would find it all overwhelming. No wonder there weren’t a lot of customers—Olivia imagined most of them had turned and run in terror.

She walked past the horrible tableau and went down one of the main aisles. Here things were more like she expected. Different booths featuring different items for sale. Some were craft-based while others were antiques and a few had nothing but junk.

She stopped in front of a booth filled with quilts. The work was lovely—beautiful and well-made, but the display was terrible. Only two quilts were hanging. The rest were stacked, with only a bit of the design showing. Olivia would guess the owner wanted to display as much of her work as possible, but nothing about this was working. She should hang three or four quilts, then have a binder with high-quality pictures of her inventory. A pretty chest could hold several dozen of them, so a customer had choices.

She continued wandering the aisles only to find herself forced to make a sharp right turn that ended in a blank wall. She went back the way she’d come and realized she’d missed several rows of booths. The flow of the mall was all wrong, she thought. There would be booths and vendors that no one would see. There had to be a better way. She wondered if there was someone she could— “Don’t bother,” she murmured to herself as she headed back to the front of the building. As her mother had told her countless times, no one cared what she thought. They never had.

*

The scent of blueberries and sugar and something baking filled the café. Helen’s stomach growled, despite the fact that she’d managed to grab a salad at eleven, before the big lunch rush. Still, it had been small and dressing-free and whatever was happening in the kitchen needed to be tasted.

“What are you doing, taunting me like that?” she asked as she walked in back.

Delja stood at the stove with Sven by her side. They were each stirring a large pot. Here the delicious smell was intense to the point of being heady but what really caught her attention was the contrast between the two friends.

Sven topped Delja by at least a foot. He was broad-shouldered and chiseled, some from his job and some from working out. Delja was short and round. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed. Delja had dark hair and eyes. He was Nordic, she was Russian, but they came together over their love of cooking.

Sven had shown up in the diner’s kitchen shortly after he’d moved to town and asked if he could use the large stove. He’d been so charming, no one had thought to tell him no. Every few weeks he would arrive with interesting ingredients. Together he and Delja would create something amazing for the following day’s special.

“You’re killing me,” Helen said as she peered into the pots and saw early blueberries simmering in a thick sauce.

“She’s on another diet,” Delja said, rolling her eyes.

Ack! Did her friend have to choose this moment to start speaking in more than single words?

“Sven doesn’t need to know that,” Helen said quickly, hoping she didn’t blush. After all, Sven was the poster boy for physical perfection.

“You’re beautiful,” Delja told her. “Don’t change.”

“I agree.” Sven held out a spoon coated in thick, dark purple sauce. “Try this.”

She hesitated for a second before taking the spoon and putting it to her lips. The explosions of flavors—sweet blueberries, something tart and a hint of butter and brown sugar had her groaning.

“You’re the devil.”

“So I’ve been told,” Sven said with a grin. “Tomorrow you’ll have blintzes and crepes on the menu.”

Helen held in a whimper. How was she supposed to exist on plain salad while surrounded by blintzes?

“I have a meeting at JML,” she said. “You two will lock up when you’re done?”

Delja nodded. She motioned for Helen to move close, then hugged her tight.

“Beautiful girl.”

“Thanks. You’re always good to me.”

Delja smiled.

“Come here, you,” Sven said, surprising her by pulling her into his embrace.

Helen didn’t have time to wonder if Sven had decided to see her as more than a friend. Before she could gather any thoughts at all, he’d squeezed all the air out of her and then ruffled her hair.

“You’re fine. Stop trying to change.”

“Thanks,” she said between clenched teeth. “Great advice.”

Ruffled her hair? What, was she five? Apparently no one saw her as a sexual being. It was incredibly disappointing. Not that she wanted Sven but still.