“Ah, no miss. That was no drunk. He was parked, you see. Right there.” He points to his peanut cart. “Across from me. For an hour or more. When you cross the street, he gun the engine.”
“What do you mean? Like he was trying to hit us?” Cash stands, belligerent with his hands on his hips, ready for a fight with the unknown driver.
“Not you, sir, you headed the other way.” He shrugged apologetically and pointed to me. “He was after her.”
CHAPTER 5
The idea of going home to my apartment just to sit there holds no appeal. Cash hadn’t wanted to leave me, but no one had a license plate number. A small crowd had gathered and someone patted me on the shoulder, meant as comfort, I suppose. There wasn’t anything anyone could do and I had doubts that the car had really been after me. It seemed too random, too surreal. I figured it more likely that the driver had simply been careless or distracted, realized he was late, and in a panic ran a red light. I shooed Cash back to his office to write his piece. Reluctantly, he began his walk downtown but kept glancing back in my direction.
I walk uptown on Sixth Avenue, all twenty-two blocks, and stand uncertainly outside the glass and mirror front of La Fleur d’Elise. Even with the hike uptown my heart is still thundering from the near miss.
It’s been awhile since I’ve been back—almost a year—and my cheeks flush. I picture Lydia in the back room, prepping and cutting, and Elisa in the front, relaying celebrity gossip through the propped-open industrial steel door. La Fleur is primarily an event florist. Designer to the stars. Elisa has long held one of the top spots for floral design in the city.
I shake my hands at my sides and wriggle my shoulders to loosen them up. This is a completely terrible idea. But I have nowhere else to go. I have half a mind to just turn around and go home, or duck into a boutique, anything. I stare at the sea of taxis, a yellow tide, and my eyes glaze over. The decision is made for me.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” Lydia is standing in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest and her feet crossed at the ankles. Something glitters on her eyebrow.
“Is that a new piercing?” I squint at her and give her a friendly smile. I hope it works.
“Is that Armani?” She juts her chin at me. I hold my hands up, palms out. Her black spiky hair is tipped with blue. Long, dangling earrings. Black leather and lace get-up. Possibly fishnet stockings under a long black gauze skirt. Red lipstick curled around blinding white teeth. We used to sit on that stoop and smoke cigarette after cigarette.
She steps back, holds open the door. Her head jerks toward the front room. I walk through the door, and she bumps me with her shoulder.
The shop is bursting with color and I’m nostalgic. The front shop, small and exclusive, is open by appointment only. Castoffs and leftover blooms are sold to small corporate banquets or private clientele.
“The library looked incredible the other night. Thank you.” I dip my head, avert my eyes.
“Thank Javi, he did the designs, not me.” She walks ahead of me, waves me back into the back room, which looks typically chaotic. “He’s not here, though, although he’ll be sorry he missed you.”
Sorry like a hawk, I think.
Steel buckets of blooms littered with cuttings and flowers that had been deemed “not quite perfect,” although that to any passerby would look magnificent on the dining room table. I pick up a long-stem peach rose, fingering a single nicked and browning petal. There are more rejects than usual, which can only mean one thing.
“Wedding this weekend?” I gather a few velvety irises, their stamens a stark tiger orange against the deep purple backdrop.
“It’s the Slattery wedding.” Lydia is at the prep table clipping manically, her metal shears clattering on the stainless steel table. “We can’t do too much until Wednesday but some of the heartier types can be prepped now.”
I watched her splice stems on a bias with a knife, turn leaves back, and shape greenery. If I close my eyes I can imagine I still work here—Lydia and me side by side clipping and cutting with identically bandaged thumbs. I twirl my wedding band around my ring finger.
Landing the Slattery wedding is impressive. Mikael Slattery has been in the top half of the Ten Most Eligible Bachelors list for almost a decade. I’d seen him with a leggy brunette at receptions and parties with Henry. I forgot her name. Natalie? Natasha? Ah, Nadine something.
I resist the urge to touch one of the wayward blooms, position it back into place, suggest that the vibrant orange could be highlighted by peach, not yellow. These were the arguments of old Zoe and Lydia. We are new people, with a new friendship. If she’ll have me back.
“So, where you been, Zo?” She gives me a smirk and the corner of her scarlet mouth tips up. “I called you.”