Or am I?
I did sell some roses and two of the ikebanas I’d made for Jake’s. A minimalist one with a cutting from a Camellia, a single pink blossom and an unfurled bud with just a few of the dark leaves. And a much more intricate ikebana featuring chocolate, lavender, and white cosmos, delicate Tartarian aster, golden cockscomb, and both the plumes and the fronds of pampas grass.
The little family took that one, and it’s probably for the best that it found a different home. I think it was too tall and showy for one of the bistro tables at Jake’s anyway. I should probably focus on more compact arrangements for that space. Bud vases would do nicely.
I do love a good ikebana, though.
The bells on my door chime again, and I glance up to see the most adorable older couple enter my shop. Like the little family that just left, this couple is dressed in attire I associate with church—a suit for him, a dress for her. I love the way she rests her hand in the crook of his elbow, moving closer to him as they walk, and how he smiles at her warmly as they approach the counter together.
It’s endearing.
“Beautiful place you’ve got here, Miss,” the gentleman says, taking his wife’s hand from his elbow and putting his arm around her. “I’m David Chadwick, and this beauty is my Helen.”
The woman blushes, gazing up at him with radiant love, and I can’t help smiling at the sweetness of it all.
To be that old and still besotted is a gift.
They’re old enough to be my grandparents, but there’s a sparkle in the man’s eyes that hints at youthfulness. The woman looks put-together but tired, and completely smitten.
“I’m Holly,” I share, happy to meet more locals. “Welcome to The Enchanted Florist.”
“Such a lovely name,” says Helen, shaking my hand.
I smile at her praise, but my heart sinks as her reality registers.
This sweet woman is sick. There’s a cancer in her body. The same thing that ultimately took my mother’s life.
“Do you have any peonies?” Mr. Chadwick asks, pulling my attention to him. “They’re my Helen’s favorite.”
“Yes,” I tell him, blinking back tears. “In the greenhouse out back. It’ll take me a bit to collect them. What color would you like? And would you like them wrapped or in a vase?”
They order a dozen in a vase, letting me choose the color, and I let them know it will take some time to complete.
“We’ll just go have our lunch then,” Mr. Chadwick says cheerfully.
“Enjoy,” I say with a smile I don’t feel. “I’ll have your arrangement ready by two-thirty.”
I see them out with a new appreciation for the way Mr. Chadwick guides his wife. The careful yet confident way he walks with her. How he puts himself between her and the street as they stroll down the sidewalk together toward the heart ofdowntown.
I close and lock the door after I see them off, my heart aching at the battle ahead of them. I wonder if they even know yet?
That’s one of the trickier things about my gifts. I’m so attuned to Earth-based cycles of growth and life force energies, I often pick up on things like pregnancies and illnesses, and I never know if it’s okay to say something or not.
In this case, definitely not.
I hardly know these people, and that would be weird, wouldn’t it?
‘I’m sorry you’re sick. Have you considered mistletoe therapy? I hear early intervention can be useful.’—Yeah, I don’t see that going well.
I ensure the sign on the door is flipped to closed and head through my shop to the back, rubbing a palm over my aching heart.
Maybe I can’t talk about it or fix it, but I can do my part to help alleviate her suffering, just like I did with my mother. It’s with a tender heart that I make my way to the greenhouse. By the time I’m done harvesting the peonies though, I’m feeling brighter.
This is what I do. How I use my gifts.
In service to others.
I’ve selected the most exquisite blush-colored peonies for Mrs. Chadwick. Thirteen of them. I know they only ordered twelve, but thirteen is a lucky number. A reminder of cycles and seasons, of grounding and harmony, transformation, and alignment with Nature.
