“How could you not?”
“I guess I never thought about them that much at all,” Esme said.
“My mother used to tell me sunflowers grow toward the sun because it’s what they’re made to do.” I picked up another stem and cut it at an angle. “Think about how resilient a sunflower is. Its stalk grows and grows—four, five, six feet. For weeks it’s just a tall green stem with a bud on top that hasn’t opened yet. A person might look at it and think nothing’s happening. But everything’s happening. It’s just not time for the big reveal.”
“That’s the truth. They take forever to bloom,” Esme said. “When I was a kid, it seemed like years between planting and that first open flower.”
“That’s because the best things can’t be rushed. And when a sunflower finally opens, it’s the most joyful plant in a garden. Big and bright. A perfect mimic of the sun itself.” I set down the shears. “And then, when it’s done blooming, it gives away its seeds. Hundreds of them. To feed and nourish whoever needs them the most. Beautiful and life-giving all at the same time.” I looked at her. “Just like you.”
She tilted her head to the side, her eyes misting. “I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Pleased, I picked up another stem and got back to it. Waxing poetic was something Esme brought out in me.
We’d been working for about an hour when the door flew open and a woman hurried in, heels clacking on the tile floor. She was in her twenties, with dark hair in a high ponytail. White jeans, camel coat, and a leather planner clutched to her chest emanated wealth. A woman who had the luxury of worrying about every detail of what was probably a very expensivewedding. That was not Esme’s world. Even though it should have been.
“Esme. Hi. I know I should have called.” She stopped in the middle of the shop, eyes sweeping the room, clearly taking in the buckets, half-finished centerpieces, and the stems and ribbon everywhere. Then her gaze landed on me, standing behind the worktable with floral shears in one hand and a half-stripped rose in the other.
“This is my friend Grady,” Esme said. “He’s helping me prep.”
“Nice to meet you.” Courtney Morrison barely registered me. She was already moving toward the row of finished centerpieces lined up on the counter, her planner pressed to her chest like a shield.
“Oh, how pretty.” She leaned in close to the nearest one, examining it the way a jeweler examines a diamond. “These are perfect. Just like I asked for.”
“They’ll be slightly more open by Saturday,” Esme said. “Right now they’re about seventy percent, which is exactly where we want them for a Saturday wedding.”
“I’m sorry to barge in.” Courtney pressed her planner to her chest again and took a breath. “I just needed to see them. My future mother-in-law called this morning and asked if we should have gone with peonies instead, and I started spiraling.”
“Peonies aren’t in season,” Esme said. “And even if they were, these are what you envisioned. Don’t forget, it’s your wedding, not hers.”
Courtney sighed. “I kind of can’t wait until it’s over.”
“Don’t say that,” Esme said. “Just enjoy the next few days and trust that the people you hired will do what they said they would.”
Courtney nodded, her eyes bright. “Okay, I’ll try. Thanks for the reminder.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Esme said.
After Courtney left, looking much calmer than when she’d arrived, I turned to Esme. “I didn’t realize being a florist had elements of a therapist.”
“Me and bartenders.”
Robbie arrived then, backpack slung over one shoulder. Trevor rose to greet him, wagging his tail, pressing against his boy’s legs to enjoy a scratch behind his ears.
“Hey, Grady, are you helping?” Robbie asked.
“I’m not allowed to do anything artistic. I’m just the cutter,” I said.
“Thank you for helping her. That’s extremely kind of you. She’s been worried about this wedding,” Robbie said without obvious emotion. But I knew he meant what he said. Despite his analytical mind, he was extremely protective of his mother.
“How was school?” Esme asked.
“Fine. We started nonlinear regression in stats. Mr. Hall let me skip ahead to the multivariate section.” He set his backpack down and walked over to inspect a finished centerpiece. “These are geometrically balanced, Mother. Well done.”
“I’ve been doing this long enough, my hands just know where things go,” Esme said modestly.
“Unconscious mathematical competence. Impressive.” Robbie picked up his backpack. “I’ll be upstairs. I’m working on a probability set.” He headed up the stairs, leaving us to our work.
“Unconscious mathematical competence,” Esme repeated, shaking her head. “Only Robbie.”
