1 - The Flowers

People swarmed along the length of West 28^th Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, buzzing like bees. Spring was finally in the air, and New York City’s Flower district was in full bloom, with wholesale shops unable to contain the bounty of Mother Nature’s finery.  All manner of plants, sapling trees and fresh cut flowers spilled onto the sidewalks and trickled toward the random hotel entrance, making for a lush visual display that permeated the air with a scent like none other in the city. 

The unique fragrance varied from day to day according to the floral offerings, but it was always sweet and aromatic enough to mask the stereotypical city stench of exhaust and garbage.  Today’s breeze was infused with groves of potted palms, forests of ferns, bevies of cherry blossoms, and scads of seasonal blooms packed into five-gallon buckets for freshness. 

A Parisian perfumer wouldn’t be able to recreate this scent.  Maybe they wouldn’t even want to, but the pungent floral mecca was one of Delaney Gardener’s favorite places in the world.

Regardless of the countless times she’d pulled into her favorite wholesaler’s loading zone during the last five years, the hum of excitement and anticipation hadn’t dulled for her.  Happiness danced in those five-gallon buckets, just waiting to join an arrangement that would brighten someone’s day.

She got to do that.  She choreographed happiness by directing a daffodil and cajoling a carnation into beautiful poses with a tulip troupe, and in the process, fulfilled her dreams of artistic independence. 

That awareness never failed to conjure a smile, and elongated dimples creased both cheeks as she threw the delivery van into park on this beautiful Wednesday morning.

“Got anything good for me today, Yamir?” She cheerfully inquired of her regular guy, pushing sunglasses into dark hair that caught the sun’s rays.  Her first gulp of Starbucks went down easily while she waited to see what his theatrical sales pitch would be today.  The man had really missed his calling by not pursuing a Broadway career, in her opinion.  He was that over-the-top in his efforts to sell his inventory. 

“Tulips.  Beautiful tulips,” he presented with a wide smile, hand sweeping over the array packed into buckets at his feet.  “Standard.  Double bloom.  Rembrandt.  Fringed.  I have them all.  And for you – my best customer – I make a good deal.”

Delaney smothered a grin in her latte and rolled silvery gray eyes at the song and dance.  There were days when he laid it on a little too thick, but she’d learned to appreciate the showmanship during her tenure of owning Dandelion Dreams.

Her midtown Manhattan flower shop was thriving, and she didn’t hesitate to rub her ex-husband’s nose in it at every opportunity.  Geoff Gardener, the arrogant mud sucker that he was, had thought she’d wither and die when he left her for the clichéd younger secretary.  Delaney was amazed that fifteen years of marriage hadn’t taught him that she wasn’t the withering type, but the gross misjudgment just proved that he’d never really known her. 

The daughter of a stubborn Greek immigrant and a spiteful Irishwoman, she was more inclined to fight her way from a pile of organic fertilizer and come out smelling like a rose for spite.  Thus, the flower shop.

“Easter burned me out on tulips, Yamir.”  She nodded her chin toward an assortment of paper wrapped bundles scattered along the curb.  “The peonies look good.  So do the hydrangeas.”

In her head, she was already marrying the blood-red peonies and spring green hydrangeas, tossing in some of the berry sprays at the shop for a little dimension.  Cream roses could work as a contrasting accent, but she’d really rather have…

Delaney squinted an interrogating eye at the man lounging in his open storefront door.  “Are you hiding any black baccaras in there?”

The black baccara rose was more of a deep burgundy than black and would complement the murky undertones of the peonies. 

She had no idea what she was going to do with the opulent arrangement that was living in her mind’s eye, but this was one of those days that being the owner was a perk.  She could indulge a flight of fancy with the flowers, and her store manager would talk someone into buying them.

Mocha eyes went innocently wide as Yamir shook his head.  “Delaney, you’re looking for specialties in a bulk world.  Why would you think I have baccaras?”

“Because you like pulling rabbits out of hats,” she returned evenly as heavy pedestrian traffic continued to flow around her.  “I don’t need a lot – maybe half a dozen – and if you give them up without acting like I’m removing your spleen with a dull knife, I’ll take some of the stinkin’ tulips.  Toss in a gross of peonies, some cherry blossoms and hydrangeas.  Jasmine, too.”

“You.”  A dirty-nailed finger waggled at her as he unsuccessfully tried to bite back a grin.  “You are a shrewd negotiator.  For you, I go look in back.  Maybe I forget what’s there.  Who knows?  I might even find some gerberas.”

Skeptically arching one eyebrow, Delaney stared him down.  He knew she loved the gerbera daisies in their rainbow of colors.  Their flexibility at bringing a splash of vibrancy to a snooty high-society bouquet as well as being a perky stand-alone made them easy to work with and one of her favorites.  In a couple weeks, when they were in high season, she could use a free hand with them instead of being winter conservative.

That made her happy and would also kick today’s work of genius up another notch.

“Why don’t you find some red ones?” she suggested, knowing that the shyster salesman wouldn’t have mentioned the daisies if he wasn’t hoarding them, and he confirmed it with his smug grin. 

“Red the lady wants.  Red the lady gets.”

{{{

Sheer perfection, Delaney thought while humming along with the third Bon Jovi song to stream from her phone this afternoon.  With their show at The Garden tonight, the local radio station app was favoring the band in its lineup, and that was okay by her.  Bon Jovi was one of her favorite groups, and she tapped her toe to the beat of “Rollercoaster” while giving her work a final, critical eye. 

The hydrangeas hadn’t worked as well as she’d hoped in the rainbow of reds, but the maroon tulips Yamir foisted on her were the perfect substitution.  For just a touch of the exotic, she’d stuck a black knight into the fray.  It was in the same burgundy family as the baccaras and tulips, and a smattering of berry sprays bridged the gap between those rich hues and the bright red gerberas.

All in all, she was pleased with the finished product.   

Okay, so maybe a tad more than pleased.  She’d rocked this. 

“Are you finished playing Barbies with the flowers yet?”

Dry sarcasm had been long-established as Marilee’s default tone of voice, and Delaney was completely unfazed by it.  She simply smiled at the pixie-haired blonde who was an old, yet younger, friend as well as her shop manager.    

“You’re just jealous because you only get to sell the Barbies instead of playing dress-up with them.  I need this creative outlet before I try and balance the books every month, or I’d lose my mind.”

They should probably hire an accountant, but her father had ingrained financial distrust in her from a very early age.  As a Greek immigrant, his trust and lack of savvy had gotten him screwed over too many times.  It left a bitter taste in his mouth and a psychological scar that he didn’t want his children to inherit, resulting in checking accounts for she and her siblings at an early age.  Stelios Giannopoulos was determined to instill fiscal responsibility in them.

It was a lesson she’d hated at the time but came to appreciate through the years.  She still believed her accountant cousin could be trusted to balance her books, though.  Sooner or later, she would muster the courage to endure Papa’s tirade and pass her headache off to Dimitri.

“Well, you think you could unplug from the outlet long enough to come up with something extravagant for the Garden?”

Using one hand to sweep the excess clippings into a compost bag, Delaney remained outwardly composed while butterflies danced in her stomach.  It was only last month that Dandelion Dreams was added to the supplier list for Madison Square Garden, and getting an order from them still gave her a thrill. 

Granted, it wasn’t like her shop was the only one supplying flowers for the Garden.  There were half a dozen other florists in midtown who could boast the same contract, but it didn’t lessen her sense of accomplishment at having landed that contract – even if Uncle Benny had put in a good word for her. 

“How extravagant?  We talking eight foot trellises for a corporate event or a dozen daisies for someone’s birthday?”

Nails speckled with flaking blue polish stroked one of the baccara petals while Marilee peered at her over the rim of leopard print reading glasses.  “I’m guessing somewhere in between.  Bon Jovi’s playing the first of two sold-out shows tonight, and Garden management wants to thank-slash-congratulate them.”

The butterflies pumped their winged fists in the air. 

Bon Jovi.  I’m doing flowers for Bon freakin’ Jovi.  Bada-bing!

The thrill of Delaney’s contract took a back burner to her surge of excitement.   She wasn’t one of the psycho stalker fans, but she’d kept up with the music and highpoints of the band member’s lives for the last thirty years.  Getting the opportunity to bestow her “art” on someone whose art she’d admired and appreciated for so long was even better than her tenth-row seat for tonight’s concert.

Not that the head heartthrob would probably ever see the flowers personally, but the mere idea of it had Delaney grinning like the Cheshire Cat. 

She tossed her chin toward the creation on the worktable.  “What do you think, Marilee?  They sing about a bed of roses, blood red nails and a red, red rose.  My Barbie project should do the trick, right?”

The shop manager’s mouth slanted into in an apathetic frown as she shrugged beneath the green work apron that was her uniform.  “If we were talking about Poison or Motley Crue, I might have an opinion.  Bon Jovi is one of the hair bands I never got into, so I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

“Hair band?”  Delaney’s brow lifted high enough to shift the messy knot of hair piled atop her head.  “Are you freepin' kidding me?  You realize they still put out new music?  Like, all the time?  Number one albums, number one tours and the whole works?  They aren’t some nostalgia act with spandex, eyeliner and Cousin Itt wigs, you know.”

Marilee let her hand fall away from the flowers so she could plant both palms flat on the table when she cocked a judgmental eyebrow.  “I’m aware they put out new music.  What I didn’t realize was that you were their damn press secretary.  Get a little defensive, why don’t ya?”

“I’m not defensive; I’m stunned that you called them a hair band.”

“Mhm.  Don’t you have tickets for tonight’s concert?”

“Yeah?”

“What row?”

The brow that had skyrocketed toward her hairline a moment ago, now drew in consternation.  “What difference does it make?”

“What row?” Marilee insisted evenly, eyes glittering with suspicion.

“Tenth, but Ma bought them for my birthday.”

“Because your infatuation with them goes way back, is my guess.”  Removing the leopard spectacles and shoving them into her messy pixie cut, she clucked her tongue.  “I had no idea about this side of you.”

“What side of me?  What the freak are you talking about?”

There was no “side” to Delaney.  She bought the new albums and sometimes went to concerts to hear the songs performed live and enjoy a little eye candy in the process.  It wasn’t like she stalked YouTube for videos from every tour stop, or even knew the tour schedule.  Jon Bon Jovi and his buddies happened to be good looking and she liked their music.  So what?  She could say the same about a dozen other bands.

Maybe half a dozen.

Okay, three, but still…

“What about tomorrow night?  Are you going to that one, too?”

Delaney’s mouth drew tight.  “Marilee, you’re off your meds again, aren’t you?  The schizophrenic paranoia is starting to show.  Go text Julio.  Tell him there’s a delivery to the Garden waiting and to hustle his keister in here after class.”

Julio was one of three part-time college kids that worked for the shop.  Typically, he worked the evening shift at the register, but Wednesdays were his regular afternoon to ferry floral fantasies around the city. 

“Julio has finals.  You gave him the day off, and you’re avoiding the question.”

“Crap.”  Sighing, she reached for a floral pick from a vase full of them and pushed it into the arrangement.  A plain white card would be best for this delivery.  “What’s the note supposed to say?”

“I already did the card.”

“Well, I’m doing it again.  Nobody can read your handwriting.  What’s it supposed to say?”

Angling a defiant chin in her friend’s direction, Delaney refused to back down.  She would never admit it out loud, but this was her work of art and she wanted to be the one who inscribed the sentiment.  It was a florist’s way of signing the piece, and if it wasn’t…  Well, it should be.

“Jesus.  You know that the loop of a ‘G’ never got anybody invited to an after-party, right?”  Sarcasm dripped from the question like humidity in the rainforest, but Marilee begrudgingly recited the information.

“Thank you.” Smiling with satisfaction, she wedged the message into the card holder while theorizing,  “And I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

With the flowers ready to go, she extracted the elastic band that held her messy bun together.  Dark hair with the faintest sheen of eggplant – courtesy of her weekend hair experimentation – tumbled free to settle around her shoulders, and she combed the fingers of both hands through it.  Experience told her the heavy mass would settle into place without much fuss, even after pulling the apron over her head.

“Where are you going?” Marilee asked upon seeing her scoop up the flower urn.

“You said Julio isn’t coming in, so I’m going to make a delivery.” 

It was a wise decision to wear her “good” jeans in anticipation of her evening plans.  She applauded herself for both that and the choice of a soft plum top that complemented her hair.  The broken-in Skechers weren't exactly en vogue, but Delaney would still represent her business well on this quick trip.

“I said Julio isn’t coming in, but Macie will be back from her delivery any minute.”

They were talking about the Madison Square Garden contract, and it was already four in the afternoon.  This arrangement couldn’t simply sit here waiting, and her footsteps didn’t falter as she strode toward the back door.

“It’s only a few blocks, and I’ve been cooped up all afternoon.  I’m going to deliver it.  Back in twenty.”

She almost escaped without having to endure any more sarcasm from Marilee, but the door didn’t close fast enough.  Delaney plainly heard her accuse, “You’ve got front row seats tomorrow night, don’t you?!”

No, I do not, Ms. Smarty Pants.

They were third row.

Center.

Next Post: Thursday, August 2nd