13 - It's All Greek to Me

“You still alive back here?” The swish of curtains accompanied Marilee’s dry inquiry as she boldly invaded Delaney’s domain.  “I haven’t seen you out of the work room all day.”

“Mhm.” 

Delaney furnished the stingy acknowledgement without disrupting inspection of her current work in progress.  She was happy with the content and quality of the flowers but needed one more pass to make sure the symmetry wasn’t off someplace.  Bit by bit, she gave a final rotation to the ceramic planter that she produced in the wee hours of the morning.

In the two nights since Jon Bon Jovi sent her and Petra home in a sleek black Escalade, sleep had proven impossible for Delaney.  

Part of that was due to an idiotic fear of waking up and have forgotten everything about that magical day.  It had her reliving every moment over and over.  From soundcheck to meeting David Bryan for a backstage tour, to dining with the crew, to an after-party and a gift of maracas, it was all a larger than life in her fertile mind.  She couldn’t escape the memories and wasn’t quite ready to make herself. 

The larger problem wasn’t something that could be controlled, no matter how hard she tried.   As many times as Delaney lectured herself, she couldn’t banish the gorgeous, silver-haired musician from her wickedly inappropriate dreams.   He doggedly lay in wait with his smoldering eyes and sexy smile, ready to rock her libido every… single… time… she closed her eyes.

And she hated it. 

Jon was an extraordinarily nice man, with extraordinarily nice children and a wife whose kindness would likely put them all to shame.  Delaney couldn’t know this about him and enjoy dirty dreams that completely disrespected that knowledge. 

That’s why, instead of sticking her hand down her panties and fantasizing that his quiet, “Come with me” held a drastically different meaning, she forced herself to think about his kids and wife.  She purposely focused on how those kids put her in charge of honoring their mother this year, and it’s what had Delaney hauling her sleepless butt out of bed at one this morning – to special-glaze a blue and green planter for Dorothea Bongiovi. 

Sleep and orgasm deprivation were better than her usual reasons for being a grump on Mother’s Day weekend.  Well, maybe not better, but it was a change of pace, anyway.

“Delaney!”

“What?” she grouched, finally transferring her attention from hydrangeas to the piqued blonde who was glaring daggers.  With both hands balled into fists and frown lines of steel, Marilee looked as irritable as Delaney felt.

“You totally spaced out everything I just said.  Where the hell were you?  Up Jon Bon Jovi’s ass or feeling sorry for yourself?”

The sharp words bordered on cruel, but they were the slap in the face Delaney needed. 

She’d hidden in the back room yesterday and today, working by herself to keep from snapping at her employees and customers.  That was the excuse she made to herself but not the real reason for her self-imposed isolation.  Reality was that fatigue made her want to play with flowers while she wallowed in both old hurts and the disappointment of being Cinderella after the ball. 

Even Petra’s call to rehash the ball and provide a fragrance analysis on the sweaty towel had been met with such a surliness that she hung up within a minute.  Feeling guilty, Delaney sent an apology text soon after, but the sisters still hadn’t spoken again.  Facing one another over Mother's Day dinner in their parents’ house tomorrow would be soon enough.

She’d also blown off Pearl’s two voicemails and five text messages, all demanding to know whether Jon Bon Jovi had noticed her in the crowd that second night.  After sharing in the first concert experience, Pearl would undoubtedly devour all the details with enthusiasm, but the combination of sleeplessness, post-Jovi blues and busy holiday simply stole Delaney's desire to supply them.

Get off your miserable duff and participate in life.  It’s meant to be lived, not re-lived.

Digging fingertips into insomnia smudged eyes, she let them drag down her cheeks as a sigh rose like steam from the soles of her worn leather sandals.  Hair that hadn’t seen a brush since early morning was shoved behind both ears to wearily face Marilee. 

“You’re right.  I wasn’t listening and I’m sorry.  What were you saying?”

Her friend’s mouth flattened with disapproval, but rather than taking another strip of Delaney’s hide, she miraculously stuck to business and repeated, “You need to hire someone else full-time.  Preferably two someones.  You, me and three part-timers isn’t cutting it anymore, especially the day before a flower holiday.”

It was something Delaney had been considering more and more since the shop began consistently turning a profit a couple of years ago.  She had resisted thus far because she loved having artistic control, but there were times when keeping up with the daily chores stole her time to be artistic.  Having a girl come in to help from time to time wasn’t the same as having a dependable presence to do the grunt work while Delaney created signature pieces.

Like the Bongiovi arrangement.

“Fine.”  Sweeping her work apron off, she tossed the neck strap over a wall hook.  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“That’s it?  No argument?”

Delaney scraped disorderly hair into a ponytail and used her teeth to remove the elastic band from her wrist.  Habit had the wild mop twisted into a presentable bun in seconds.  “No argument.  You need an assistant manager and I need a junior designer.  If you know somebody, have them come in to see me.  If you don’t, then put an ad… wherever the devil you put want-ads nowadays.”

Owlish eyes blinked twice as the shop manager’s confrontational pose melted into her normal stance.  “Wow.  That was way easier than I expected.”

Marilee could do whatever she wanted, because Delaney honestly didn’t care.  This delivery was the only concern she had for the moment.  There would still be last minute calls and customers today, but nobody was going to come in and place another order as large – and thereby, as important – as Dorothea Bongiovi’s.

“Your timing was good,” she conceded and hoisted the arrangement close to her chest.  “I’m going to Greenwich Village.  I might not be back today, so text or call if you need anything.”

One designer eyebrow popped up above the rim of Marilee’s ever-present reading glasses.  “And if you take your phone, you might even get my messages.”

“Freep a duck.”  She was doomed to be the absentminded florist for all eternity.  Shifting the flowers to one arm, Delaney slid the phone off the table and into the back pocket of her favorite ripped jeans.  “Thanks.  What else am I forgetting?”

“Van keys?”

The yellow daisy keyring mocked Delaney from the hook right next her apron, and she snatched it down with a huff that would’ve blown a little pig’s house down.  She was in dire need of some dreamless, alcohol-induced sleep. 

Delivery first.  Then the liquor store and home.

“Uh, one more thing, Del.”

“Oh for the love of Great Aunt Tilly… Now what?”

A newborn babe couldn’t be any more innocent than a round-eyed Marilee with both hands shooting in the air.  “Hey.  If you want to go out with coffee splattered all over your boobs, be my guest.”

Letting her chin fall, Delaney inspected the caffeinated Rorschach blots that stood out like beacons on her lavender tee.   A clumsy Starbucks moment would’ve been no big deal on any other day – or even as a standalone problem in this day – but as the third proof of her idiocy in as many minutes…  It was the latte straw that broke the frustrated camel’s back, and she started calling herself every name in the book.

“Ilithios!  Chazos!  Vlakas!  Gamó tin tréla mou gamó!”

“You don’t say?” Marilee drawled, folding her arms over her Dandelion Dreams apron with a smirk.  “I’d ask for a translation, but it’s obviously something you won’t say in English.  You save Greek for the hard-core swearing.”

The planter connected to the tabletop with a ‘thunk’ so that Delaney could shrug on a denim work shirt that stayed in the shop for just such an emergency.  Frustratedly shoving buttons through holes until the coffee was no longer visible, she glared at the other woman.  “Áei sto diáolo ki akóma parapéra.”

“Ah, now see.  That one I recognize, only because it amazes me how many words you use to say a simple ‘go to hell’.”

“And beyond.  Don’t forget that part.” Scooping up the flowers and hugging them to her chest with one arm, she used her free hand to seize the keys.     

“I stand corrected, but do me a favor and don’t come back today.  And do the shop a favor by not biting off that Bon Jovi woman’s head off when you make the delivery.”

Marilee’s laughter wasn’t making it any funnier for Delaney, and it became painfully obvious that one bottle of wine wouldn't be enough.  She crammed the rubber daisy keychain in her mouth to keep from inappropriately venting her frustration, and a sharp twist of the doorknob primed the way for her escape.

“Oh, and Delaney?” 

The lilt of that beckoning held enough singsong to forewarn that whatever came next wasn't going to make Delaney any happier.  She'd almost made it into the alley and was half-tempted to pretend she hadn’t heard, but she had better manners than that, despite Marilee and Petra's opinions.

That reminder was enough to enable a placid, “What?”

“Do yourself a favor, honey.  Get drunk and get laid.  You’ll feel better.”

There’s only one man on my mind, and that ain't happening.

“The liquor store is my first stop after this delivery,” she assured Marilee before pressing on and letting the door swing shut of its own momentum.  Being heavy and metal, it made a jarring ‘clang’ that was inexplicably satisfying. 

One delivery.  That’s all she had left to do today.  She could get through this with the knowledge that there was wine and a DVR full of Rocky movies waiting at the end of the tunnel.  They would distract her from everything else until she fell asleep on the couch for a good night’s sleep.

Securing her cargo into the unmarked delivery van, she could almost get excited about the thought.  A smile was even trying to dance at the corners of her mouth when she put the key in the ignition – and it lasted until she turned the key and got nothing but a funny clicking noise.  There was no roar, purr or even meow of the van’s engine, just ‘click, click, click’.

“Bastarde!”