Chapter 5: One Stem

Chandler sat back in his chair, visibly relieved.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, Uncle August."

August didn't look at him.

He was still looking at me.

I let go of the chair.

"Enjoy your dinner, Truman."

"Juliet. Sit down."

"I brought your flowers," I said. "That's what I came for."

I walked out past the housekeeper and the gravy boat.

Behind me I heard Truman say "son" again, hard, and August say nothing at all.

On Monday morning a bride called.

Forty tables at the Duke Mansion, a week from Saturday, all white and green, her original florist down with shingles.

"I know it's crazy short notice," she said. "I'll pay a rush fee."

I did the math on a sticky note while she talked.

It was three months' rent.

"Yes," I said. "Absolutely yes."

Annabeth came in at ten with two iced coffees and found me surrounded by forty glass cylinders.

"We're doing a wedding?"

"We're doing a wedding."

"Whose?"

"A woman who's going to pay our rent until Christmas."

"I love her. Is she marrying a liar?"

"A dentist."

"Same thing, sometimes." She put down the coffee and tied on her apron. "Okay. Put me to work, boss."

At eight the next morning the bell rang before we opened.

August Radford stood inside the green door in a gray suit, holding his car keys.

I put down my knife.

"We're closed."

"The door was open."

"Because I was taking out the trash."

He looked at the buckets along the wall: ranunculus, garden roses, stock, eucalyptus.

"One of those," he said, and pointed at a white tulip.

I wrapped it.

I charged him four dollars.

He paid with a hundred-dollar bill and walked out without his change.

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