La Fleur de Blanc Read online

  “The Palms?” She wanted to add couture but didn’t trust herself to say it to Kerry’s satisfaction.

  “Oh, I’m sure the Palms is strange. You have to understand who runs things around here, and I don’t mean the leasing office or landlord.” Kerry pointed at herself and laughed as if making a joke. “But no, I meant Cielo.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Lily.

  “Are you on the beach?”

  “Yes.”

  “You managed to find an open house on the beach?” She’d slightly accented the word “you.” Lily assured herself she was hearing things.

  “No, it’s an apartment.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” said Kerry. “You’ve just arrived. I’m sure something better will come along.”

  “Sure.”

  Kerry sighed. “Well, I suppose I should be going. I have a thing.” She gestured vaguely. “I just wanted to come over and give you my thumbs-up.” She didn’t give a thumbs-up. “And to get my free flower, of course.” She smiled again. Her teeth were very white and very straight. “So really, Lily, you can come over any time to pick out the pieces you’d like for half off. I wouldn’t want you to have to make customers sit on those any longer than they have to,” she said, nodding toward the quaint chairs. “Just ask for me, okay?”

  “Of course.” Lily smiled, the mask hurting her face.

  Kerry stepped outside. Lily followed to lock up as she’d been about to after Dean, but Kerry placed her long-nailed hand on the glass before Lily could shut the door.

  “Oh, and honey,” she said, her hazel eyes meeting Lily’s. “Don’t worry about what anyone says about your shop, and don’t think about how many sales you’ll need in a day to make rent. I think what you’re doing here is very sweet.”

  “‘Sweet,’” Lily echoed. Her smile gained a hundred pounds.

  “And just because four other shops have failed here,” Kerry went on, “that doesn’t mean you will. They had totally different businesses. They had lots to choose from, whereas you don’t.”

  Kerry smiled wider. Lily made herself do the same, a strange hitching climbing the back of her throat.

  She nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Locking the door, Lily waved a goodbye through the glass, and killed the lights. With Kerry out of sight, she limped back into the shadows, to collapse into her inferior chairs and cry.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SLIPPING UNDER

  By the time Lily had put herself together, turned on enough of the overheads to see and sweep the floor, then attended to the details of shutting down for the night (and preparing for another long day), she decided that one of two things had to be true:

  The first was that she’d been imagining the tone of Kerry’s backhanded visit. Maybe Lily had — understandably exhausted after her long and emotional first day in a new place — simply read her wrong. After all, she’d come in friendly, smiled, acted cordial, and said a lot of things that were technically true. Californians were different. She’d seen that in Allison’s carefree beauty and loose lips (she hated her boss) and the girl’s brother, Cameron (who might help her pick out a new sink at nouveau house — from behind).

  The other possibility was, of course, that Kerry honestly might not like Lily and her shop. And if she didn’t — no matter the reason — then so what? There had been people throughout Lily’s life she didn’t like. It happened. Not everyone got along. Gram had always said, You can’t please everyone. And Grandpa, who used to listen to that Kentucky-fried motivational speaker Zig Ziglar in his rattling old pickup, always parroted something that went hand in hand with Grandma’s refrain: Your attitude determines your altitude.

  “Your attitude determines your altitude,” Lily told her reflection in the closed front door’s gleaming glass, seeing only a sliver of the Palms night outside through the glare, taking in the strings of soft white lights and even softer lanterns. This was a place that believed white was elegant. Hadn’t she anticipated the flowers they’d like? And although she hadn’t purchased the best blooms so far, hadn’t she come close, buying but a single tier down? And wasn’t it true that once La Fleur de Blanc turned a profit, she’d funnel revenue back into her store to purchase supreme stock, no matter the expense? If you wanted to be the best, wasn’t it true that you had to believe it first? Nobody was anointed the best. You had to fake it first, believing without reason. Only after that leap of faith could you catch up with your attitude and become what you’d claimed all along.

  She felt marginally better on her drive back down the shore, sensing the ocean outside her open passenger-side window rather than being able to properly see it. For a moment, in the near dark (nothing here was truly dark like in Kansas, she’d quickly realized), Lily wondered if she’d bitten too much to chew. She’d insisted on living by the water, because moving to California and being surrounded by land seemed like a sideways step rather than an attitude/altitude grab for greatness. But even at Dusty’s rates, Lily was paying more than her sensible side liked, just as she was paying more for her Palms Couture rent than she should. Fifty thousand dollars had felt like a fortune, but was already leaking like water from a rusted tub. And four flower shops had already died where she’d planted her flag, none of them filling their owners’ diminishing coffers with the profits she’d been so sure would fill her own.

  Feeling beaten, Lily parked in front of Dusty’s tiny beach garage, wanting nothing more than to slip into a warm bath before collapsing into bed for five or six skeletal hours. She didn’t like to park by the garage because it blocked Dusty in and meant he’d need to ask her to move if he wanted to leave, but there was nowhere else. And besides, it was getting late. She’d be up earlier than him to hit the LA Flower Market again …

  “Uh, hi, Lily.”

  Lily’s eyes closed, a hand on the railing to her apartment above the garage, one foot on the first step. She sighed, opened her eyes, and turned.

  “Hi, Dusty.”

  “You’re, uh, getting in a little late. I mean, not that I’m prying or anything.” Already he looked nervous, his mouth working, his mane of gray hair bobbing on his head. Dusty was an attractive man — or had been, in his prime — but somehow his appeal came from a clumsy manner rather than his actual appearance. He had a big nose and a fumbling way of speaking. But that might just be because he was talking to Lily.

  “It was a long day.”

  “I haven’t been waiting up. Really.” Dusty raised his right hand, filled with a small white kitchen trash bag, knotted at the top. “I was just taking out the trash.”

  “Maybe you waited until I got back to take out the trash.”

  “No! No, really. I just finished off a box of cereal five minutes ago and you know how it is when you can’t stuff one more thing in the can and—”

  “I’m kidding, Dusty.”

  “Oh. Right.” She shouldn’t have done it, though, because immediately most of the nerves fled his expression and he settled in as if invited. Lily liked Dusty fine, but she didn’t have energy to fend off his innocent advances.

  “How was your first day?” he asked, setting down the bag.

  “Tiring.” She looked toward the top of the stairs, where a small blue door waited to blessedly shut her off from the world. Dusty didn’t catch the glance, or the hint.

  “I’ll bet. I’ll bet. But tiring is good, right? Because that means you were busy. I’ll bet you were. New shop, nice flowers—” (Dusty had no idea what kinds of flowers she’d bought and didn’t seem to know a daisy from a daffodil) “—pretty girl behind the counter … I mean … you know what I mean … ”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s just that if I were going to buy some posies or something, I’d buy them from someone like you before I’d buy from that old guy down on … ”

  “Someone like me?”

  “Look, I’m just … ” He took a deep breath. “Did you have any trouble getting that dishwasher to work?”

  “It’s been working fine ev
er since I moved in.”

  “Oh. Sure. You need me to fix it, you just let me know.” Lily might have been imagining it, but she thought Dusty might have puffed out his chest.

  “I don’t need you to fix it. It’s not broken.”

  Dusty smiled a nervous smile. His teeth were very white and very straight. It would be easy to dismiss him as a fumbling but cute older guy who barely knew his ass from his elbow, but she’d seen the furniture he kept in his little house by the beach and knew what homes sold for along this stretch when they went on the market. He certainly didn’t need to be fixing dishwashers himself, but how else was he supposed to prove himself to his tenant?

  “Well. Okay. Fine. Did you get into traffic on the drive up today?”

  “No, it was fine. PCH was zippy.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I figured that—”

  “I’m really tired, Dusty. I need to get some sleep.”

  Dusty nodded briskly, seemingly annoyed at himself for having waylaid her. He picked up the garbage bag. “Right. Sorry. You just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Good night.”

  “Night, Lily.”

  Dusty didn’t look back as she ascended the stairs, then turned pointedly when she was at the top and he surely thought she couldn’t see him. Lily unlocked the door, then closed it behind her.

  She drew a bath in the large tub, then settled into it and tried to forget her day and focus on the sensations: warm water, porcelain under her back and hips, a relatively cool breeze through the open window cooling her face.

  She slipped under, wetting her hair, sighing as she emerged. The day had been a torrent of sensations as contrasting as the water’s heat and the air’s chill: the kindness of Len and Silas, the subtle petty vibe from the old woman, several of the snootier customers, and of course Kerry Barrett Kirby. The soft Australian accent of the food cart’s operator and the soft Italian accents of the father-and-son owners of Bella by the Sea as they wafted toward her store on the courtyard breeze. The calm oases of Len Farrell’s eyes, the smoldering, deep-ocean blues of the dark-haired young man who others called Matt, but who she’d heard his father call Amadeo. The Italians hadn’t come in today. They hadn’t received their free welcome flowers. Perhaps she could use it as an excuse, circling the fountain tomorrow with a pair of stems like a fairy tale maiden hoping for a prince’s hand.

  Lily slid down until her ears were underwater, the room’s small ambient noises now muted as if by wads of cotton. Her hands trailed the deep tub’s interior walls, then along her legs, up across her chest. Her hands paused and settled, and again she gave a tired sigh. The schoolgirl’s fantasy was nice, but Lily was exhausted. And she had an early day tomorrow.

  She slept like the dead, with no dreams to soothe her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BECAUSE YOU'RE WORTH IT

  Lily woke to her cell phone’s soft bong, then found Dusty’s question about traffic the previous night echoing in her head as if it were important. It wasn’t. Except that as she pulled on clothes Lily realized that she was hours late for Market.

  She rushed to get dressed, brushed her teeth and hair, and was in the car sweating the ticking clock before realizing she’d forgotten deodorant. She’d need to get some from the small sundry store in the plaza up the street from the Palms. She’d stopped there twice for coffee before buying her Keurig because coffee at the Palms shops cost three times as much, and the owner (a small, quiet Indian man) already knew her. Now she’d go in and buy only deodorant. Perfect.

  Someone must have been looking out for Lily, though, because her drive to Market was relatively clear and quick for it being already light outside. She felt rushed (traffic on the way out might not be as forgiving, and she still had to stop on her embarrassing errand), but allowed herself enough luxury to appreciate her task. And if dawdling left her a little late in opening shop, so be it.

  Lily stopped with her hand on the front door. She closed her eyes. The first time buying stock she’d been in a rush, and barely able to appreciate what she was doing. Today she’d take more of her time. Another slow, deep breath. Before she finished the door opened outward, and a short man emerged, looking at Lily with a curious expression.

  “Sorry,” she said, trying on a smile. “It’s really something in there, isn’t it?”

  The man blinked, said nothing, and moved past her.

  Lily stepped through the doorway.

  The market’s interior was an even blend of beauty and practicality, like lush gardens colliding with a swap meet. Lily found it entrancing. Unlike her own shop, the space itself wasn’t arranged for beauty. There were no decorations on the warehouse walls, no kind lighting, no creature comforts like sofas. All the coffee looked like mud, and the music was loud and obnoxious. Shoppers were all florists rather than end buyers, so their manners were businesslike rather than thoughtful. The flowers themselves, rather than being arranged into bouquets or attractive displays, had been dropped into endless rows of large buckets or stacked in long boxes and left in massive coolers.

  And yet, despite its sterility, the flowers themselves somehow managed to triumph enough to bring a brightness to Lily’s spirit that she felt few other places. Many of Aunt Bev’s customers had been men buying for women, but many others had been women buying for themselves. Those customers were always Lily’s favorites, and birthed her vision for La Fleur: a place where you went to feel good and treat yourself, rather than just a place where romance was purchased by the stem.

  Still, as Lily walked the aisles with her cart, not yet buying but merely daydreaming, she realized she’d never bought flowers for herself. She’d received plenty from boyfriends, but that wasn’t the same. Most men bought flowers the way Dean Moreno bought them: either out of a sense of obligation or as a quid pro quo designed to buy sex. They didn’t know why they did it, or what the recipient was supposed to feel. They only knew that “women like flowers,” and that if they were to be good boyfriends and husbands — during the courting stage, on anniversaries, and on Valentine’s and Mother’s Day — they had to give them.

  Most men didn’t understand that buying flowers was about giving a part of themselves. And now that Lily thought about it, maybe that was why she’d always admired the women who took their flowers home: they were gifts from them to them, declaring their self love, willing to be vulnerable enough for a statement in whisper that no one would hear.

  Lily picked up several dozen cream-colored daffodils, then another three bundles of Biancas to help replenish her overrun from the prior day. She stopped herself from buying orchids. They were beautiful, but a bit too delicate for her Camry. Daisies. Hydrangeas.

  Lilies.

  With a self-conscious look around to see if anyone was watching, Lily inhaled the pale flowers’ scent, then scooped a bundle into her cart despite knowing she had plenty already at the shop. These were different: Le Reve they were called, pale blush, and close enough to set beside white, and different than La Fleur’s Casa Blancas.

  What did it say that she found the lilies most beautiful of all? Was it somehow conceited: Lily loving lilies? What did it mean that not one of her boyfriends — not even Jason, who’d cracked her like a walnut when they’d parted — had thought to give her lilies? Every man had given her roses. Red roses, sprinkled with baby’s breath and surrounded by leather fern. The most predictable of bouquets — and, to a girl with floral chops, decidedly out of style. And what did it mean that, despite loving the lilies in Aunt Bev’s shop and never receiving them as a courting gift, that she’d never bought a single bloom for herself?

  Lily kept pulling the phone from her pocket to keep an eye on the time, staying on task and gathering her needs via the most efficient path through the massive space. She wanted to dawdle, and touch each variety in every bucket. She wanted to load her cart to overflowing, spending too much and playing chicken with her customers’ appetites to buy before they died. But she held herself in check, feeding herself with Grand
pa’s sayings about how God’s delays weren’t His denials and that good things came to those who waited.

  As she left, Lily took a final look back into the warehouse, the lilies catching her eye as if calling. Was it unreasonable to expect Jason to have known her favorite flower? Or had it been a sign of things to come that he’d never known? She’d known his favorite foods, his favorite movies, his favorite things she’d done in bed.

  If even Jason hadn’t given her lilies, who would?

  She drove back to the Palms, the 605 to the 405, then PCH the rest of the way, catching predictable traffic, feeling oddly melancholy. Why was she thinking about Jason? Why was she suddenly siphoning all of life’s lessons — both the things she should have done and things others should have known to do even if they hadn’t been told — through the LA Flower Market’s filter?

  The line of cars slowed to a crawl, then stopped. Lily turned on the radio. After a few upbeat songs and a few dozen feet of forward progress, she’d shaken most of her mind’s cobwebs. Today was a new day. Kansas was far behind. Lily’s old life — from feeding the barn cats to baling hay to her Midwestern social life to her few sweet-but-long-gone Midwestern romances — was behind her. Like it or not, she was a California girl now. A California blonde. Like Allison, who hated her boss. Or like Allison’s brother, Cameron, who Allison said wanted to bend her over a sink.

  Lily laughed. Looked at the line of cars, smelled the abundant fragrance from the back seat, the passenger seat, and the trunk. Maybe good flowers didn’t have strong scents, but she had a bulk force. She’d surrounded herself with beauty, like a fairytale princess. And she’d be that way until traffic thinned, and she was a shopgirl again, ready to sell her blossoms to those who could afford them.