and it’s an inescapable part of his genetic makeup. Ed’s father has never forgiven him for abandoning what has been the family profession for the past three generations. When Ed began his apprenticeship at Kowalski’s he had to regularly defend his decision—and, in turn, his sexuality—to his father, who considered men who worked with flowers to be gay by definition. Even when Ed moved from Kowalski’s to work at Charters, one of Manhattan’s most respected florists, Mr Steinmann refused to be impressed. I wonder sometimes if this is why Ed dates so much—still publicly asserting his heterosexuality to prove his father wrong.
He never told his father he was unhappy at Charters, even though most of his five years spent working there were impossibly miserable as, time and again, he was denied the opportunity to progress in the company. In fact, the only person he confided in was Mr Kowalski, who had remained a friend throughout, which was why Ed ended up accepting the position of my co-designer. Mr Kowalski not only offered the fatherly advice denied Ed by his own father, but was also instrumental in affirming Ed’s work and worth. Yet another reason why we all love and miss Mr K so much.
‘So,’ Ed said, resuming work on a hand-tied bouquet of roses, asters and Asiatic lilies, surrounded by deep green banana leaves, ‘Mimi Sutton—what kind of vibe did you get about her?’
‘Quite businesslike. Difficult to tell that much about her, really.’
‘Rosie, turn off the optimism gene for one second and tell me what you honestly thought. I won’t tell. Scout’s honour.’
I thought for a moment. ‘OK, the vibe was—strange.’ I confessed. ‘It feels like something’s missing there.’
Ed looked up from his hand-tying. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I dunno…I mean, she’s very polite, very friendly, but I can’t tell how genuine she is. It’s like all the fire and individuality that she must have had before she got successful has gone somehow. I’m not sure what’s left in their place.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Ed, nodding. ‘Heart replaced by a dollar sign. Soul replaced by a resumé. She sold out.’
Ed is always able to condense an entire conversation into a three-line conclusion. I keep telling him he should be writing tag lines for Hollywood movies. He’d make a fortune.
‘Shame,’ he said, picking up a pale peach rose and spinning the stem between his fingers absent-mindedly, ‘I’ve always liked her books. Just goes to show that the person you think you know from their writing is only the person they want you to see. And what about the other guy—Brent, was it?’
I smiled immediately. ‘Yes, Brent Jacobs. He’s fab. I like him. You’d like him.’
‘Always a good sign. Why?’
‘Because he used to be a criminal psychologist.’
Ed laughed. ‘Uh-oh. Better not let us meet then. I may have been a case study in his former career. I’ve a checkered past, you know.’
‘Oh, I forgot. Ed Steinmann, criminal mastermind. Must be why you fit in so well here.’
‘Hmm, because I’m not the only one with an intriguing hidden history.’ The comment sliced through the humour like a knife through butter. ‘I’m still here if you want to talk, Rosie.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ Instantly I saw hurt narrow his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…I’m fine, Ed, really. But thanks for caring.’
His expression instantly changed and his eyes twinkled.
‘Someday I’m going to write a book about you: Rosie Duncan—One of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of the Modern Age. A surefire hit!’
People often tell me they sense about the team at Kowalski’s a closeness they don’t see in other shops. Sometimes customers ask if we’re related—and you should see the look of horror on Ed and Marnie’s faces—as we are every inch the typical family: fighting occasionally, bickering sometimes, but always there for each other. And we have Mr Kowalski in common.
One thing Mr K said again and again was that we were a family. ‘You are children to me. And like a good father, I worry for you. We are a family at Kowalski’s—it is the heart of everything we do.’
I’ve tried to keep the same feeling at Kowalski’s since it became my business. And, odd though it sounds, I sense him here still—five years after his death—that broad, crinkly smile lighting up his lovely old face as he watches the ‘Kowalski’s kids’ with pride.
‘What are you doing Thursday evening next?’ Marnie asked later that afternoon, poking her head round the workroom door. Ed and I looked up from the red, white and gold-themed table centrepieces we were working on for Mr and Mrs Hymark’s Ruby Wedding party. Mrs Hymark worked for Mr K as a Saturday girl in her teens and has trusted Kowalski’s with her floral orders for every occasion since—from her own wedding to the birth of her children and grandchildren, birthdays, anniversaries and funerals.
Ed, obviously unwilling to commit, deferred to me. ‘Uh, Rosie?’
‘Don’t look at me, Steinmann, I don’t manage your diary. I’m free, Marnie.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Although I was planning a quiet one…’
I smiled firmly. ‘Ed and I are both free, Marnie.’
Marnie gave a little whoop and clapped her hands. ‘Great!’
Ed groaned the groan of dread-filled experience. ‘What have we just agreed to?’
‘The opening night of my community theatre play, of course!’
A look of panic washed across his face. ‘Oh—wait—I just remembered, I have a…a…thing next Thursday.’
Marnie’s face instantly fell. ‘What thing? Oh, Ed, can you reschedule? It’s really important that you guys come. It’s the world premiere, you know.’
Ed opened his mouth to protest but I got there first. ‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Marnie.’
A week later, Ed and I stood in the small queue outside Hudson River Players’ tiny studio theatre. To call it a theatre was lavishing high praise indeed: in truth, it was an old dock warehouse that had been converted ten years ago into a theatre space for the local neighbourhood. Nevertheless, for all the effort and care the drama group’s members had gone to for the ‘world premiere’ of their new play, it might as well have been Radio City Music Hall or Madison Square Garden.
‘Welcome,’ boomed a stony-faced, wiry-framed man clad entirely in black, who was handing out programmes like they were death warrants.
‘That’s debatable,’ muttered Ed as we passed into the shadowy heart of the black-curtained warehouse space.
‘Would you stop complaining?’ I hissed under my breath as we found our seats—or rather, wooden bench.
‘So, remind me again why we’re willingly inflicting this torture on ourselves tonight?’ Ed remarked, looking round at the other, equally unenthusiastic members of the audience.
‘We’re here for
