La Fleur de Blanc Page 4
Again, Lily met the woman who owned the bakery she’d been smelling every morning when coming to clean and arrange La Fleur before opening. Buns had a magical scent, filling the air with sugar and cinnamon. It had drawn Lily forward by the nose a few times, despite her resolution not to indulge during times of stress, which she tended to do and which that first week definitely was. She’d been to Buns thrice already, and had come away twelve hundred calories heavier each time. She’d purged with a longer-than-usual run each time, wondering if she was being compulsive and building bad habits.
The baker’s name was Antonia Peck. She was buxom and red haired, with a healthy but not at all unattractive layer of padding that distinguished her from the other stick figures clacking high heels across the plaza while also making it clear that not even Antonia was immune to her amazing desserts. If nouveau house’s owner had felt to Lily like the Wicked Witch of the West, Antonia was Glenda of the North. Like Kerry Barrett Kirby, she seemed to be nearing 50, also long term at the plaza, also wielding some sort of unofficial power that seemed to accompany seniority. As with Kerry, Lily couldn’t help but get the impression that it would be a bad idea to have Antonia as an enemy. But unlike with Kerry, invoking the rage of sweet and kind Antonia seemed to be impossible.
Everyone received a single rose, unless they requested a different flower, which Lily always honored. She handed them out to everyone, even those she had to remind and chase down. If you were going to do something, you did it right. That’s what Mom had always said. She’d already bought the roses; she’d already mentally earmarked them as a loss spent in the name of making friends and attracting customers. She wouldn’t cheap out now, keeping those of the two gross she could still sell tomorrow. The only way she’d reserve any of them at all would be if fewer than 288 people (she broke twelve roses while cleaning) entered the shop — which, judging by the morning’s influx, as shoppers arrived at the Palm, already seemed woefully pessimistic. Buying so much product to give away had felt like overpreparation, but now Lily was thinking she’d run out and have to take her sign down early. If only she could run back to market at lunchtime! If only she had an employee, come to think of it, who could do it for her.
The Biancas dwindled. It didn’t matter. The more people she met and greeted with a rose today, the more goodwill she’d have tomorrow. She’d break into her selling stock if she had to. There were plenty of the larger-headed Virginia roses in bunches and bouquets throughout the store and cooler. Yes, giving them away would hurt. But everyone knew you didn’t do things halfway if you wanted to make it.
Most of the people who came into La Fleur were female, well dressed, and gorgeous. It was hard to believe these women simply walked around looking as they did — in fine clothing, with their hair shining and perfectly coifed as if fresh from the salon. Some were younger, and plenty were older, but even the women over 50 (and, often, over 60) managed to hold themselves with a much younger woman’s bearing. Their faces were tight and blemish free. They smelled fresh, wafting unobtrusive scents that complemented the flowers rather than warring with them. They wore jewelry that looked meant for someone younger, but which somehow still didn’t seem out of place. Their breasts were high but not obviously fake, possibly the work of phenomenal surgeons. Their fingernails were smooth and rounded at the ends of soft, delicate fingertips — not stubby and scuffed like Lily’s.
By evening, Lily had gone through her Bianca supply and fully a third of the more expensive Virginias she’d intended for sale. She’d be light on them now, and would be smart to rise before the sun tomorrow for another long trip to the market for more. That would hurt on three levels. For one, the lack of sleep would draw one long day into a second one. She’d already sacrificed nearly four hundred dollars. And finally, Lily really couldn’t justify spending more on additional stock despite having plenty in the bank, because the shop had already cost her many times what she’d expected, with only a handful of sales her first day. Owning her all-white flower shop had always been a dream, yes … but she’d still shutter the doors before Lily let it drag her under.
She sighed, but forced herself to smile despite her fatigue. Her first day had been too successful. Was that really such a terrible problem?
With eight o’clock nearing, Lily was preparing to close shop for the day when a wiry man with a thin frame, square jaw, and feathery, light-brown hair came in wearing a tan suit and a thin black tie. He almost knocked the black iron stand down outside as he bustled in, apparently less interested in a free flower than an urgent purchase, like a thirsty man finding a convenience store in the desert.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re a chick.”
Lily blinked.
“If a guy was to give you a big bunch of flowers with the intention of, say, getting you to have sex with him, what would do the trick?”
Lily blinked again.
“Hello?”
“I’m sorry,” Lily said. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.” But that was the biggest lie ever. He couldn’t have been more plain.
“Look,” the man said. “It’s not like I’m a stranger to buying roses for ladies. I just sometimes like to recalibr … what the shit?”
The man’s head was jerking around the shop like a bird’s.
“Have I gone colorblind? Or did you really decide to stop stocking, you know, anything at all?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everything in here is white. What the hell happened to this place?”
Lily forced a smile, because the man’s behavior was so oddly manic, not because she was annoyed. Despite his arrogant bearing, she found herself amused. Maybe she really was tired.
“You must be an old Petal Faster customer.”
“Yeah. Of course. I’m Dean. Where the hell is Laura?” He was looking around again, now for someone to ask about everything that had gone wrong in his world. Someone had to be steering this crazy bus.
“I don’t know Laura, but Petal Faster shut down a few weeks ago.”
Dean’s head was still jerking around. From place to place and back again, as if trying to convince himself he could see things differently if he just kept trying.
“Oh. Well. Hell.”
“But maybe I can help you.”
“You don’t seriously only have white flowers. Tell me you don’t only have white flowers.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. … ”
“Moreno.”
“I’m Lily.”
“Well that’s great, Lily, but maybe you can tell me how I’m going to get Frances Porter to spread her legs with a bunch of white flowers?”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on. You know the business you’re in. You sell keys. Keys to chastity belts. Now seriously, I don’t know what to do here. Am I supposed to buy her a watch or something now? Girls don’t want watches these days. What are you doing to me here … Lily?”
Lily looked down, catching a glint of something in the room’s lights. He was wearing a gold ring on the third finger of his left hand.
“Maybe your wife would actually like an all-white bouquet. How are you so sure she won’t?”
“My wife?” The word came out like something Dean had found in his nose. He followed Lily’s gaze and held up the hand wearing the ring. “Oh, that’s a prop. Works great. If you were to make a Venn diagram of hot girls who are willing to do freaky shit and girls who like the challenge of seducing a married man, they line up nicely.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been coming into this shop for years, and … Well, okay, I guess not this one. I just got a bunch of flowers for Olivia like … a month ago?”
“Frances,” Lily corrected.
“White fucking flowers. Really,” said Dean. “I don’t know what to do here. Do you know how many girls I’ve bought flowers for in here? And do you know my conversion ratio? It’s like 95 percent. But I’ve never tried it with a handicap. Tell me. Would you open up for a guy who brought you an all-white bouquet?”
“Um … ”
“Maybe I should just see this as a challenge. I guess I can try, what the hell. But you’ll have more stuff when I come back, right? They were just out of the other colors or something.”
“This shop is called La Fleur de Blanc,” Lily said.
“Right, sure, le blah de blah, I get it. So what’s, like, the most fuckworthy bouquet, as far as whatever you do have?”
She watched Dean as his gaze flitted around the shop. His suit looked bespoke, with a high thread count. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine. He had a bizarre confidence, despite his average appearance, that had to come from getting his way more often than not. Lily found herself liking Dean Moreno the way she’d admire a pet alligator, but she also found herself liking his potential. He clearly had money, and she doubted he’d flinch at spending any of it.
“Six dozen roses threaded with ivy and wrapped in satin,” Lily blurted. If Dean was trying to get laid, Lily, as a self-respecting woman, doubted that flowers could do the job alone. But as far as romantic tools went, six dozen roses was the biggest one she could imagine. If Frances Porter was the kind of girl who could be plied with a bouquet, her proposed three-hundred-dollar arrangement would be like hunting squirrels with a bazooka.
Dean had his credit card — a black Amex — out and waving at Lily before she had time to tell him something smaller would suit his purposes fine. Ethics forced her to give him the price before swiping it, but he acted like he couldn’t hear, or couldn’t be bothered.
The last thing Dean said as he staggered out the door under his ridiculous burden of blooms was, “I’ll let you know how this works and if she’s willing to finally … ” But Lily didn’t hear the end of his sentence because she’d closed the door behind him, wishing him good luck she wasn’t sure he should have.
But Lily wasn’t quite able to turn the deadbolt before one final customer pushed her way into La Fleur: Kerry Barrett Kirby, from nouveau house.
CHAPTER FOUR
KERRY BARRETT KIRBY
Kerry was slender, with long black hair that thinned her further. She radiated a mature breed of beauty and poise, and it was easy to see how stunning she must have been in her youth. She’d clearly had cosmetic work done — expertly and well— along with toned arms and shoulders that told tales of many resistance workouts, Pilates sessions, and hours spent chasing a fuzzy yellow ball across a tennis court. To Lily, who’d watched the women in her life grow old reluctantly but more or less gracefully, Kerry’s appearance roused feelings of both respect and sorrow. She admired the woman’s tenacity and her refusal to lie down as a matron, but couldn’t help but pity the woman’s obvious refusal to become the person she was inevitably supposed to be. She’d be dying her hair free of gray and dressing young into her seventies, without ever managing to recapture what she’d lost. You couldn’t stall time. At some point vanity turned on you, because there were many colors of beauty … but people like Kerry — in Lily’s mind, anyway — seemed to only recognize one.
“Hello,” she said, meeting Lily’s eyes as if checking a necessary box of acknowledgement before moving her gaze elsewhere. “We haven’t met.”
“We parked next to each other out back the other day.” They’d said a few words, too — mostly hellos, how-are-yous. But Kerry had known that, of course, and Lily had stepped right where Kerry had meant her to go.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said dismissively. “You drive that little blue car. I didn’t make the connection. I assumed you were an assistant when I saw you lugging all that gear. My mistake.”
“No problem.”
“I’m Kerry. Kerry Barrett Kirby.” She extended a hand. Her arm was firm, but the hand almost limp. Lily took it, forced by her position to grab only two fingers.
“Lily Whistler. And I know you. You run nouveau house.”
Kerry waved a hand, setting a bejeweled bracelet to jangling. “Oh, yes. But it’s not like it takes much running nowadays. I’ve been here long enough to leave the business on autopilot. People come in, dump their money, and leave. You know how it is.”
Lily tried to return Kerry’s smile. She didn’t know how it was at all. Dean Moreno had just dumped a significant chunk of money, but chances were the day would leave her at a loss. Without a Dean tomorrow and the next day, she’d be underwater. For about ten seconds — between the time Dean had left and Kerry had entered — Lily had felt buoyantly optimistic, as if things would work out after all. But that was already gone, and it was hard to say why. She only had a day under her belt and couldn’t fairly judge anything about her seedling business, but all those old doubts had come rushing back, along with everything she’d been imagining Palms shoppers and tenants saying behind her back this past week:
An all-white flower shop? Who does this pretentious little hayseed think she is? It’s okay, she’ll fail soon enough. Four other florists in the same spot already have.
“So,” said Kerry. “A flower shop. I’ll say, I really admire you.”
“You do?”
“It’s bold. Brash.”
“You mean the hook. The all white.”
“I actually just meant opening a flower shop. Here. I’d have said it was crazy. After four others failed? I wouldn’t have had the guts. But that’s what all great things look like in the beginning, don’t they? They all look like stupid ideas.”
Lily blinked. She wasn’t sure if she’d been complimented or insulted.
“But yes,” Kerry continued. “The all-white motif as well. It’s like if I stocked only sofas. Or Belgian shelter arm sofas. It’s gutsy. Like I said, nothing but respect. But I can’t imagine it myself. Someone comes in and asks for a chair, and I say, ‘We only sell sofas.’ Then they ask for a Kensington sofa, and I say, ‘Nope, I only have Belgians.’ And so then they say, ‘Okay, show me a roll arm. A petite roll arm. A slope arm. A track arm.’ And I say, ‘Only shelter arms.’”
Lily tried on a nervous smile. “It’s not that cut and dry, fortunately. I still have daisies and lilies and orchids and … ”
Kerry raised her arms, interrupting. “I still have three-cushions! Two-cushions! Love seats!” She laughed. “Yes, of course. I’m sure you’ll do great. Me, I figure I’ll stick with what works.” Her laugh trailed off, a smile still on her face as she looked around. Her gaze settled on a charming set of chairs left by the previous owners before settling on the Keurig surrounded by paper cups.
“Oh,” she said, her smile falling. “It’s too bad you weren’t able to get replacement furniture in time. I know how rushed you must have been — and believe me, you’ve done a respectable job at maximizing what’s possible with this space in the time I’ve seen you working over here. And alone? Well, that just makes it harder to take care of it all.” She put a strong hand on Lily’s upper arm and then added confidentially, “Tell you what. If you promise to keep it to yourself, I’ll hook you up. You can have any two pieces in my store for half off. I take a loss at that price, but I don’t mind. Business isn’t exactly hurting.”
“That’s very generous,” said Lily, “but I can’t let you … ”
Kerry waved it away. “Stop it. There’s no use protesting. It’s done. I insist. After all, you offered me a welcome gift.” And with this, she plucked a white rose from a display. She looked at it for a second, then swapped it with another. “Is this a good one? I can’t tell the difference.”
“I like it.” Lily felt strangely unsettled for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Kerry laughed, looking from the rose she was holding to the one she’d put back, then around at Lily’s store full of white. “Feel free to look at any furniture you’d like. You don’t have to restrict yourself to Belgian shelter arm sofas.” She switched the flowers again, pi
cking up her original rose with a confounded shake of her head.
“Okay.”
“By the way,” said Kerry. “Thank you for changing your sign earlier in the day to take in that yard sale thing. I was going to come over and offer you one of mine, but I see you found something else. I know you had to make do with what you had, but it was sort of gauche. Not that I had a problem, you understand. Just that there are some people who might have, because a public eyesore affects all the shops.” It was almost dark outside, but Lily could see where Kerry’s eyes strayed as she finished her sentence: toward Hit N’ Run under the big tree in the courtyard, where Len sold gourmet food from a spot that was technically a trailer.
“No problem,” Lily said.
Kerry turned and paced, holding the rose to her shaped nose. Her other hand trailed over displays and surfaces like an animal leaving traces of scent. She touched the flowers still in buckets. The cart in the store’s center. The cooler. The inferior furniture. The coffeemaker.
“So have you made yourself at home? Settling in around Cielo del Mar?”
“I … ”
“Because when I overheard you earlier, I could tell by your accent that you weren’t from here. Where are you from? Kentucky?”
“Kansas.”
Kerry clapped, bouncing the rose. “Oh, that’s precious. When you came out to SoCal, tell the truth. Did you ever think of it as going ‘somewhere over the rainbow?’”
Lily forced a laugh. She had, actually. Not that she’d ever admit it to anyone, ever.
“I’m sorry,” said Kerry. “I’ve just never been to Kentucky.”
“Kansas.”
“I’ve lived here all my life. And by ‘here,’ I almost mean it literally. At the Palms Couture.” She said couture with a heavy French accent. “Over thirty years now. Since I was in high school and working at The Gallery. That’s what was in nouveau house’s location before The Gallery went out of business. Back when the Palms itself was a baby. Is it strange for you?”