“Espresso fucking martinis then.”
I look at my wristwatch. “Cass, it’s two in the afternoon.”
“It’s happy hour somewhere,” she retorts. “You stay here, sweet cheeks, I’ll be right back.”
“Make mine with just a teeny bit of alcohol,” I warn, because my friend can be liberal with liquor.
Cass has a bar in her studio that she uses for exhibitions and events, which means she has all the ingredients to put together a drink or two or fifty.
After she leaves the shop, I head for the worktable, tightening my apron.
I like the rhythm of my work—the snip of shears, the soft rustle of petals, the way arranging flowers turns chaos into a gentle and contained art piece.
The bell above the door jingles, and a boy wanders in.
Sixteen, maybe. He’s holding a crumpled ten-dollar bill with both hands, like he’s afraid it’ll disappear.
“Hi,” I say gently. “What can I help you with?”
He bites his lip. “It’s my mom’s birthday. I, um…I only have this.” He holds up the cash.
My heart squeezes. “What’s her favorite color?”
“She likes pink,” he blurts out.
“Any flower she likes?” I ask.
He licks his lips. “Uh…I don’t know.”
“I think I have something for you,” I tell him.
“For…uh…ten dollars?” he asks, probably afraid he’s going to have to walk out of here empty-handed, or worse, be yelled at for not having enough money to pay for a bouquet.
“Absolutely,” I lie.
I gather a dozen pale pink roses from the cooler—my best ones, the outer petals still tight and unbruised, the centers just beginning to loosen.
I strip the lower leaves carefully, my thumb brushing away the thorns I’ve already dulled with habit, and cut each stem at a sharp angle so they’ll drink properly. I add a soft cloud of baby’s breath, tucking it between the roses, just enough to make the pink gentler, fuller.
I turn the bundle slowly in my hands, adjusting the balance until no bloom feels crowded, until each one has room to be seen.
“Yoohoo!” Cass walks in, pushing the door open with her hip, carrying two full martini glasses.
She gives the boy a once-over. “We’re allowed,” she tells the boy defensively.
“O-okay?” the boy responds, confused.
“It’s his mother’s birthday,” I tell Cass, who sets my drink next to me.
She sips her espresso martini and arches an eyebrow at the ten-dollar bill in the boy’s hand.
I bind the flowers with a pink satin ribbon, wrapping it twice around the stems, pulling it snug but not tight, and finishing with a simple bow I’ve tied thousands of times. I slide the bouquet into damp kraft paper, folding the bottom up to cradle the stems and keep them hydrated, then tuck a sheet of tissue around the blooms so they won’t bruise on the way home.
I hand him the flowers. “There you go.”
His eyes go huge. “That’s for ten dollars?” He holds up the bill in his hand.
I snatch it away from him. “It’s on sale.”
