“Come, I’ll tell you.” She turns to the girl behind the counter. “Stacy, honey, I’m going to be in my office. Only interrupt if one of the plants starts screaming, Feed me.” She glances back at me. “Ever see Little Shop of Horrors? Sometimes when I’m alone here at night, I can’t help but get freaked.”
Her office is cozy, more like a den, with a pink love seat and an embroidered slipper chair. On a coffee table, which is actually an old Louis Vuitton trunk topped with glass, she’s set out a plate of crackers, Brie so ripe it’s dripping, and an ice bucket with a bottle of chardonnay. She pours us each a glass of the wine.
“Cheers!” she says. “And welcome to the area.”
“Thanks so much. Did you grow up around here?”
She nods as she sips and then sets the glass down. “And except for college, I’ve been here ever since.”
“So tell me about the shop. How long have you had it?”
“Just five years. I admit it was a risk because we’re not exactly the typical florist shop. I won’t even let a carnation in the door. But we’re doing really well, especially during the racing season. I mean, no one’s going to buy me out one day for a ton of dough, but I love it. And it got me out of investment banking.”
“Investment banking?” I’ve guessed entirely wrong about her.
“I was with First Albany for years. But I woke up one day and realized I hated it. You work your fanny off in that kind of job and you never get to see your kids. I also realized I wanted something prettier. There’s nothing pretty about banking.”
A reinvention story, I think. She’s someone else I might consider interviewing for my book. If I could just finish the damn proposal.
“Well, this is as pretty as it gets,” I say. “I wish I’d known about your place before I bought the flowers for the other night.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I mentally kick myself. The last thing I want is her mind inching toward a certain question: Eve Blazer wasn’t your caterer, was she?
“Oh, your table was lovely,” Barb exclaims. “But if you’re ever doing a big event and want assistance, we’d be glad to work with you.”
“What kind of flowers are people most interested in these days?”
She toggles her head back and forth.
“It depends,” she says. “If it’s for an event at Skidmore College, they want elegant but understated. But the people who rent during racing season can be pretty extravagant. To them, a roomful of calla lilies is just another form of cock-blocking.”
I laugh at the comment, unexpected but maybe it shouldn’t be. Barb has a go-big style about her. I take a small sip of wine. The buttery taste is pure heaven, but because I’m driving, I won’t allow myself more than half a glass.
“Tell me about you,” she says. “I was sorry I wasn’t at your end of the table the other night. Are you working on another book now?”
“Sort of. Getting started at least.”
“I’ve ready Twenty Choices, of course—my whole book club has. Don’t kill me for asking, but is there any chance you could make a guest appearance at one of our meetings this summer? That would blow people’s minds.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to.” That’s overstating it, but it’ll be something else to focus on, like Derek’s class.
“Great. I was a little afraid that Kim might have beaten me to the punch.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, taken aback.
“I think she’d kill to have you at her book club. She’s read all your books, you know.”
I can’t be hearing straight. There is no way she can mean the same Kim who seemed intent on pushing my buttons between bites of chicken tagine.
“Are you and Kim friends?”
“Not BFFs, by any means, but our social circles intersect at times, and I ran into her right before the party. She hadn’t known until a few days ahead of time that you were Guy’s wife, and then she was all in a tizzy. She was trying to find out everything she could about you.”
Everything she could. That suggests a Google search, where surely she’d stumbled upon information about the accident, and the car exploding into flames.
“And did she? Find out everything she could?”
“Probably. That would be Kim for you.”
And what about dirty tricks? Would that be Kim for you, too?
“Funny, she never said a word about being interested in my book.”
“Maybe she felt intimidated once she finally met you.”
I let the subject drop, figuring I’m hardly going to get the answers I really need from Barb. She tops off her wineglass and offers to do the same with mine; I raise a hand, declining.
For the next thirty minutes or so, we hang in her office, chatting. Or rather she chats, and I listen. Barb seems to run partly on the energy of her own voice, but I don’t mind. I ask more about her decision to leave banking, how the dream for the shop evolved, as well as how she developed her terrific aesthetic.
At close to five thirty, I announce that, as much as I’ve enjoyed our visit, I need to be heading home. I want to allow enough time to fix a nice dinner tonight, which will give Guy and me a chance to really talk, as Dr. G suggested.