“I think it might be from Mr. Calvert’s sister.” I extended the plant to her.
“Is that so?” Truman said, looking up from his newspaper.
“Is it for the house, then?” Celine looked at the plant suspiciously, as if it might contain a family of aphids under its green, waxy leaves.
“I’m sure it’s meant to be enjoyed inside the house, Celine. It’s very pretty. And it was very thoughtful of her to have it sent.”
“Yes, I suppose. I’m just not a fan of plants in the house, Truman. You know it, and I thought she knew it.”
Truman folded the newspaper and set it down by his empty plate. “I imagine the last time Helen was here, you and she did not talk at length about having plants in the house.”
Celine retrieved the note attached to the plant, opened it, and then clucked her tongue. “This plant isn’t for us at all,” she said to Truman. Then she turned to face me. “Helen sent this for you, Rosie.”
“What?” I said, though I’d heard her perfectly.
“She did?” Truman said.
Celine handed the little teletyped note to me. I felt her and Truman’s gazes on me as I read it.
Dearest Rosie: It’s been a few years since I’ve written you, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you. I am especially mindful now of the loss of your sweet family and that this will be your first holiday season without them. I hope this bit of Christmas cheer will bring you comfort. See my letter to Truman and the family for how to care for the amaryllis.
With love, Helen Calvert
I read the note twice, stunned at her kindness. I didn’t know how to pronounce the name of the plant, and yet I loved how the letters looked on paper.
Truman rose from the table. “That was very thoughtful,” he said, but his voice sounded a bit wooden.
“Yes, very nice,” Celine said. “Well then, Rosie. Why don’t you take it into the kitchen so that you can enjoy it there.”
“Yes, Mrs. Calvert.”
I could scarcely believe the captivating thing was mine or that Helen Calvert had sent it to me. To me. It was so beautiful. And I didn’t deserve such thoughtfulness. I set it on the countertop by the sink, and I spent the rest of the day admiring its blooms andunable to feel worthy of them. Helen, too, would no doubt be appalled at what her brother and I had done.
•••
When Alphonse arrived at four o’clock to begin dinner preparations, he swept into the kitchen, set down his kit of knives, and noticed the plant.
He turned to me. “Whose is the amaryllis?”
At the sound of the word, shades of pink and red flitted across my mind like confetti. What an enchanting word.Amaryllis.
“Is that how you say it?” I said.
“Oui.”
“Truman’s sister in Austria sent it to me.”
“Ah. My brother grows those sometimes. You need a greenhouse to have them in wintertime, though. They are from Africa, where it’s hot all the time. They are not a winter flower.”
“Is that why they are called amaryllis?” I asked, gazing at the flower, which now had a name that I knew would forever be a kaleidoscope of delight to me. “Because they are able to bloom in winter?”
“That I do not know.” Alphonse slipped his apron over his white shirt. “But I do know what to do when it stops blooming.” He nodded toward the crimson petals. “The amaryllis is like a tulip or daffodil. There’s a bulb down in the dirt. You dig it up when it’s done. When you want it to bloom again, you plant.Voilà.”
“Voilà?”
“This means ‘there you go.’ The flower comes back.”
Alphonse set me to trimming asparagus, but I found my gaze traveling to the amaryllis as I worked. So beautiful in the present moment and containing the promise of beauty always. I was mesmerized by it.
