Chapter 5: The Girl Who Does the Flowers

Porter did not call me all week.

On Saturday night he sent one text.

Porter: Mother's lunch is tomorrow at one. She expects you to do the flowers. Don't make this awkward.

For four years I had arranged the flowers for Ingrid Aspinwall's Sunday lunches.

I had never once been seated at them.

I looked at the message for a long time.

Then I put on a green dress I had bought for myself and went.

The Aspinwall townhouse on the Upper East Side smelled of lilies and floor polish.

A housekeeper opened the door and looked at my empty hands.

"The flowers?" she whispered.

"I didn't bring any."

Ingrid Aspinwall stood in the dining room doorway, sixty-one years old, with pearls at her throat and her back very straight.

Behind her, six women in pastel jackets sat around a long table set for eight.

"Natasha," Ingrid said. "You've forgotten the flowers."

"I didn't forget."

"Well, the kitchen can use a hand with the soup. You know the way."

She turned to go.

I crossed the room and pulled out one of the two empty chairs at the table.

I sat down.

The women went quiet.

"Dear," Ingrid said, with her smile fixed, "that place is for my guest."

"Then I'll move when she comes."

Porter's mother looked at me for a long moment.

Then she lowered herself into her own chair at the head of the table.

"Girls," she said brightly, "this is Natasha, who does my flowers. She's been with Porter's office for some years."

"Four," I said. "And I do his proposals."

One of the women raised her eyebrows into her hair.

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