Elly was overwhelmed by exhaustion and the emotion of the moment. She blinked back tears as she lifted her head to look past Kim, to see the sun streaming in through the windows. Suddenly she was back in her car, the sun rising, sitting in front of her house, trying to breathe. She was walking down the stairs in her house, hearing two voices, muffled through the door….
She wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t go back. Not yet. And maybe, if she waited long enough, he would come for her. By then, she would surely be mended.
“So … where are we again?”
“Clayton, Missouri. St. Louis.”
Elly smiled and repeated the name to herself. “Clayton. Okay.”
And so she had decided to stay. And it was almost two years ago to the day.
Elly snapped her mind back to the present in Ada’s Coffee. She grabbed her drink with her free hand, gave the barista a smile, and headed back to Posies. As she stuck her old-fashioned gold key into the large brass lock and opened the door, the bell chimed and Cadbury, her English sheepdog, trotted down from upstairs. He nuzzled her feet as she closed the door with her hip and pushed play on the stereo. Cadbury emitted a high-pitched whine as she ignored him to set her drink down.
“That’s enough. I’m right here. It’s not like we didn’t spend the last eight hours together. Remember? When you kicked my stomach?” Cadbury licked her elbow. “Oh love,” she said scratching behind his ears, “you are the worst dog in the world.”
“Good morning!” chimed a voice from somewhere in back. Elly set her hot chocolate down mid-grin. Her loyal staff was already here, hard at work for tomorrow’s wedding. She headed for the back room, where dozens of buckets held flowers that were being processed. Elly stepped over a mound of dried leaves and twigs and looked over at her assistant manager.
“This one’s a no-greenery. No surprise there.” Kim stood, arm halfway down an ambiance rose stem, its dewy cream petals blushing to a bright pink at the tip. “What? You know she is.”
Elly sighed. “You think everyone is a no-greenery bride. You have a low tolerance for needy women.”
“Why am I friends with you then? I’m just saying, she e-mailed me twice this morning to ask about whether her roses were really blown open or just blown open, that put her into the no-greenery bride category,” Kim retorted. Elly grunted. She was probably right.
There were two types of brides that came to Posies, their high-end flower studio. Greenery brides were easygoing, laid-back, daisy kind of girls. No-greenery brides were antichrysanthemum, antifoliage, antieverything.
Kim continued her ranting. “If they had their way, we would all be carrying white-rose bouquets with pearl flower accents, a white wrap, and NO greenery to enhance the bouquet whatsoever.” They also called eight times every day to have lengthy conversations about the boutonnieres, thought Elly. They were a handful, but Elly loved them anyway. Most of them. She paused. Okay, some of them.
With a triumphant flourish, Kim finished stripping the flower and plopped it into the bucket. “You deal with her then!” She looked over at Elly. “Wow, you’re really sweaty.”
Elly nodded and wiped her face with her sleeve. “Thanks. It’s nice of you to notice.”
Kim, she noted, was simply glowing, her perfectly freckled skin radiating light and warmth. Elly mentally punched her. “Well, at least I don’t have tulip dirt in my hair.”
Snarky Teenager, her other employee, walked into the work area, grabbed some marguerite daisies out of Elly’s bucket, and left.
“You’re welcome,” Elly called after her.
Snarky Teenager poked her head around the corner. “You’re welcome for what? For doing my job? I should thank you for letting me do my job? Whatever.” On her second day on the job, Kim christened the girl “Snarky Teenager,” and it stuck.
She stomped to the back, her bright pink bra blazing through her sheer shirt. Kim rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Boyfriend drama.” Elly shook her head, exasperated, and wandered to the front office where she sank heavily into her oversized chair. Her damp blond hair stuck to her face. It was only April, but it already felt like the hottest month ever. The back room of the shop wasn’t air-conditioned. Even with fans blowing every which way (which resulted in having make-out hair—though everyone knew there was none of that going on), the heat seeped into her body like a steaming lotion. She never got cool and sweat trickled like a stream between her breasts. Wonderful. Boob sweat. It felt like walking in a warm, living womb.
Kim had threatened many times that she would quit if they didn’t buy air-conditioning for the back room, but they were empty threats. Kim would never leave. She loved the flowers too much, as Elly did. And Elly loved flowers, and her store—her little piece of heaven. The front of the store was painted pale yellow with antique white accents, not unlike cake piping. English ivy snaked down bookshelves filled with wedding and flower books: The Language of Flowers, Your Unique Bouquet, Martha Stewart Weddings, and others. Her dark cherry wood desk had very little clutter on it besides a photo of her mom, a computer—a complex machine that she barely understood, and a ceramic mug with “Love” blazoned on its side and pens jammed into it. Elly grimaced at the irony of what was clearly lacking, but that mug was one of the few things she brought from Georgia. There was no reason for it; she loved her love mug. Everything was placed in the right spot on her desk, simple and clean. While looking effortless, it took a lot of work to maintain.
To the right of the desk was a huge cottage window. It peeked out onto a tiny courtyard that faced Wydown Street. Elly and Kim had tried their hardest to decorate the barren, overgrown area—they put topiaries in the corners, rose bushes tucked into a raised brick seating area, white lights in the trees—but it still looked a little … ugly. It would always be a little ugly, but Elly liked it anyway.
She sighed and took a sip from her water bottle, delighting in the cool liquid trickling down her throat, into the wrong pipe. Elly wheezed and choked. Just when she was feeling sexy, it all fell apart. Oh well, it wasn’t like anyone was looking anyway. She shrugged; at least her store was beautiful. Tall ribbon holders stretched across the walls, displaying a pastel rainbow of satin. Two coolers hummed all day long and added a much-needed sense of urgency to all projects. Posies had a variety of walk-ins every day—from older women, who lived in the grand mansions lining the street, to awkward high school boys buying single roses for their girlfriends. The boys were Elly’s favorites. Other than that, it was mostly brides. Ah, the endless brides.
They would come in, their faces flushed with the excitement of their upcoming wedding, mothers, sisters, and friends in tow, clutching various wedding books and magazine cutouts. She would greet them at the door, seat them at her table and proceed to talk about such lovely things that they always left a little dazed. She had a large glass covered table, and under it were the thank-you notes from dozens of brides, all grateful and gushing. There were a small handful of brides over the past two years who didn’t like their flowers—“too earthy” was always their complaint—but the vast majority of Posies’ brides loved their flowers and couldn’t refer them fast enough.
Elly would spend a couple of minutes every day running her fingers aimlessly over the notes. Her brides, her girls. She would often become more than a florist to each of them—a friend, a confidant, a trusted wedding advisor. This was her favorite part of the job, besides the designing. Elly loved creating her organic magic, a
