Bloom of love, p.12
Bloom of Love, page 12
“We always want what we can’t have,” Carla agreed with a light laugh. “I was just thinking that earlier today, ironically enough. There they are. Hey Christian! Declan!”
The men turned as one and began hurrying towards them. “We couldn’t figure out where you went,” Declan said as they got closer. “I was thinking we were going to have to call out a search party for you two. Is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Carla answered breezily, lest her friend not be able to lie convincingly. “We found a nice bench in the shade and sat for a bit. Figured we’d let you two talk out every bit of the harvest and get it out of your systems so we didn’t have to listen to it.”
Christian chuckled. “Very sweet of you,” he said dryly.
“I know!” Carla shot him a saucy grin.
They all paused for a moment, that awkward moment when no one was quite sure if they were going to stay together or split apart, and then Declan broke the silence.
“We were just about to go check out more food vendors. I heard there’s frozen huckleberry yogurt this year, and elephant ears with huckleberry syrup. Do you guys want to join us?”
Christian looked at Carla, who grinned happily. “I can always be persuaded to eat an elephant ear.” She slipped her arm into Christian’s and together, the four of them began heading towards the elephant ear booth, run by the local Boy Scout troop.
Carla squeezed Christian’s arm against her side and sighed happily. Iris was right.
She had found her Westley, and she was never going to let him go.
Chapter 17
Carla
You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
~Inigo in The Princess Bride
With an economy of movement, Carla pulled the two bouquets out of the display case, quickly rearranging the other flowers to help fill in the gap, and then carried the wilting flowers to the back. For the millionth time, she wished she could figure out what to do with old flowers. Simply throwing them away seemed so wasteful. This was the part of the job she’d hated since high school when she’d worked at the flower shop in Franklin, and then at Boise State University when she’d worked at the Toadstool.
Unfortunately, it was one part of the florist industry she had yet to solve.
She heard the front doorbell tinkle, and hurried back out front, wiping her hands dry on a towel slung over her shoulder.
“Oh, hello Mrs. VanLueven! Mrs. Zimmerman. How are you?” She sent them a genuine smile. Two middle-aged women who did a lot for the community, she’d worked with them on a few projects, and was always happy to help with more. Like every small town in America, Sawyer was a better place to live because of their community volunteers.
“Well,” Mrs. Zimmerman said officiously, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about all of the issues that returning military men and women are having after serving in war zones, but Carol and I read an article a month ago about soldiers with PTSD, and we’ve decided that this is what we’re going to focus on now. We’ve put together a plan on how to tackle this, and are reaching out to businesses around the valley to make it happen.” Carla pasted a smile on her face as the flood of words washed over her, hoping she didn’t look as overwhelmed as she felt. “You know how we were sending care packages to our Long Valley service members? But then we realized everyone does that, and the real hard part is when they come home. That’s when they need our support.”
“Nancy, what do you think about these?” Mrs. VanLueven called out, pointing to a mammoth arrangement of flowers that’d normally be at home at a statesman’s funeral. But before her friend could respond, she turned to Carla, who mentally braced herself for whatever was coming. “We need your help decorating for these meetings.”
“They’re going well!” Mrs. Zimmerman put in brightly.
“No, they’re going terribly,” Mrs. VanLueven said bluntly. Carla covered her mouth with her hand, doing her best to hide the laughter bubbling up inside. Carol VanLueven had a reputation for saying it the way it was, but still, seeing it up close and personal was a bit overwhelming.
She wondered for just a moment if Michelle and Mrs. VanLueven liked each other, or hated each other. Two people with such strong personalities…
It would be the Clash of the Titans, but in real life.
“Well, the gift boxes we sent the soldiers went well,” her friend pushed back feebly.
“Yes, of course. Those were easy, though,” Mrs. VanLueven said dismissively. “Paperbacks, beef jerky, lip balm, playing cards…it’s not hard to gin up a nice box for a bunch of soldiers. But we’ve found that it’s a lot harder to get them to come to meetings and talk. You know, about their feelings and things.”
“So we need your help!” Mrs. Zimmerman said, turning back with a pleading look to Carla. “We need flowers that will help the men and women relax. Talk. Open up about what happened to them.”
All laughter drained away at that, bubbling panic quickly replacing it. Sure, Carla was someone who believed wholeheartedly in the healing power of love, and of course, flowers helped someone know they were loved, but they weren’t magic.
Even flowers had limits.
“Ummm…” she stalled, trying to think of how to tactfully say any of that, especially to a powerhouse like Carol VanLueven.
Everyone in town knew two things:
1) Carol got things done; and
2) Standing in her way was a really bad idea.
She was Kylie Whitaker’s mother, of course, and although the vet’s wife had some of her mother in her, she wasn’t nearly as…opinionated.
Which was good. A small town like Sawyer couldn’t handle two Carol VanLuevens.
“Ummmm…” she said again, flailing around blindly. “Did you two have any particular flowers in mind?”
“Happy,” Mrs. VanLueven said.
“Welcoming,” Mrs. Zimmerman put in.
“Let the men—”
“And women!” Mrs. Zimmerman cut in.
“—know that they are loved,” Mrs. VanLueven finished.
“Well,” Carla said, thinking fast, “what about sunflowers? White daisies? Nothing says welcome and happy more than those flowers.”
“Oh, I like it!” Mrs. Zimmerman said with a delighted clap of her hands. They turned to look at Mrs. VanLueven, the real decision maker.
“Good,” the middle-aged woman said thoughtfully. “Yeah, that might work. Maybe now we can get more than Gunner Nash to show up.”
“And Carol practically had to twist his arm off to make that one happen,” Mrs. Zimmerman said confidentially to Carla. “Do you know Luke’s younger brother? He’s been in the Navy with my boy for years now, but his time is up and he’s come back home. We think if we can get him to come to the meetings, he’ll convince some others to attend too.”
“Yes, sunflowers and daisies should help,” Mrs. VanLueven said decisively. “Okay!” She clapped her hands together, clearly done and ready to tackle the next item on the list. “Carla, you deliver three vases next Wednesday to the event room down at the senior center and send me the bill. Nancy, we need to go to the bakery next. I think donuts will help.”
“Oh yes!” Mrs. Zimmerman said, her eyes lighting up as the two women headed for the door. “My boy loves donuts, especially with sprinkles on them. We should get—”
The door closed behind them, cutting off the rest of her sentence. Carla sagged against the counter, staring sightlessly out the glass front door. She felt a bit like she’d just lived through a human tornado.
Sunflowers, daisies, and donuts with sprinkles are supposed to help soldiers relax and talk about trauma, while two women with coffee pots hover around the edge of the room, occasionally barking things like, “Share more!” “Talk!” “Open up!”
Wow.
She knew Carol’s reputation, of course – she was a woman who got things done – but she was beginning to get the vaguest inkling that the formidable woman didn’t quite understand how group therapy worked.
Just then, her cell phone began to play the opening bars to Mama’s Song by Carrie Underwood.
Mama, you taught me to do the right things
So now you have to let your baby fly…
“Hey, Mom!” Carla said cheerfully, tucking her cell phone between her cheek and shoulder as she perched her reader glasses on the end of her nose to see as she scribbled herself a note about the flowers. Heaven forbid she forget.
“Hi, dear. How are things down at the shop?” They chatted for a moment, and then her mom got right to the point. “At Knit Wits the other night, Mrs. Crofts asked me what I thought about your new boyfriend, and I had to admit to her that I hadn’t met him yet – no one has. I’ve invited your sisters and brother over for Sunday dinner, and I want you to bring Christopher—”
“His name is Christian,” Carla cut in. Her mother knew that, of course, but was apparently happy to take the guilt-trip route during this conversation.
“—Christian with you and introduce him to everyone,” she continued smoothly. “I’ll make my specialty – pot roast and potatoes. See you at three?”
“Uh, sure,” Carla said, biting down hard to keep from pointing out that they lived in Idaho – everyone’s specialty was pot roast and potatoes.
“Good, good. Love you!” And with that, she hung up.
What is it about women of a certain age feeling like they are the boss of the rest of us?
Switching over to iMessage, she quickly sent Christian a text. She could only hope he wasn’t actually busy on Sunday at three.
Chapter 18
Christian
Anybody want a peanut?
~Fezzik in The Princess Bride
Could someone die of nerves?
Christian was about to find out.
The cauldron of snakes he’d apparently swallowed when he wasn’t looking were writhing around in his stomach, and he was a little afraid that if he didn’t die first, he was going to puke up his guts instead.
What on earth made him think that he could meet Carla’s family? When she’d asked him, he’d said yes because of course he’d said yes – telling Carla ‘no’ wasn’t an option. But still, it was one thing to say yes to meeting her family; it was another thing to actually do it.
He gripped the neck of the wine bottle that Jennifer had told him to bring like a man clinging to a life preserver. He’d panicked when she’d asked him what gift he was going to bring to the party, and sensing that his answer was going to be, “Uh, a gift?” Jennifer had steered him toward the wine aisle, even telling him which kind to get.
He hadn’t always been a fan of Jennifer – he felt like she could see deep into his soul with those piercing green eyes of hers, and that he was failing the test she was silently administering.
But the more dates he went on with Carla, the more he began to appreciate Jennifer. She was much too skinny for his taste, but after she’d helped him plan and decorate for his first date with Carla, Christian had decided that Stetson had won the Wife Lottery. All of the help she’d given him since just reinforced that belief.
Leo wrapped his way around Christian’s feet, loudly meowing his demands to be petted, but Christian just shook his head at the cat. “I fell for that once,” he told the feline. “Never again.” The last thing he wanted was to break out in hives while trying to chat up Carla’s family.
Just then, Carla appeared at the top of the stairs to the attic, wearing a flowy colorful dress that made her look like a million bucks. “Sorry!” she called as she hurried down the creaking stairs. “I didn’t mean to take so long.”
“Did you get dressed up there?” Christian asked, peering past her and up the stairs. He’d never actually been up there, and was curious if she only stored a change of clothes, or had a full closet, or—
“I just freshened up,” she said and leaned over to give him a kiss hello.
What was probably meant to be a peck on the lips quickly turned into a whole lot more. He missed Carla in every way possible. Ever since their trip up to the mountains, Christian had been busy scheming, trying to figure out how to get Carla to another horizontal surface – or hell, even a vertical one would do at this point – as long as it gave them privacy.
Well, any horizontal or vertical surface not within the walls of his single-wide. He wasn’t that desperate. If only she’d take him back to her place, but it never seemed like the right time for her in her busy schedule.
Many more kisses like this, though, and he was going to throw caution to the wind and make love to her on the counters of Happy Petals.
“Whoa,” she said finally, pulling back and staring up at him with lust-glazed eyes. “Hello to you, too.”
He sent her a cocky smile, and leaned forward to kiss her again when the allergies hit.
Like a spigot turned on full blast, his eyes began watering, his nose itchy, and he began sneezing again and again, hardly able to draw in a breath between.
“Are you okay?” Carla asked, patting his shoulder. “Do you need to go home? Are you getting sick—”
He opened up the front door of the shop and charged outside, gasping in deep breaths of clean air, free of cat dander while Carla locked up the shop.
Finally, he turned to her, pasting on what he hoped was another cocky grin and not the drowned-rat look he was afraid he had going on.
“Sorry about that,” he said breezily. “I guess I just got something in my eye. You ready to go?”
She cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him, but slipped her hand through his elbow and let him escort her to his truck. Once inside, he pulled the Benadryl chewables out and quickly tossed one into his mouth, hoping the antihistamine would kick in fast. He didn’t want to show up at the Grahame household with red-rimmed eyes. He could only guess what they’d think about that.
He should just tell Carla already, but he’d gone this long without telling her, and now, he just didn’t know how to broach the topic. He couldn’t ask her to give up her babies. He’d seen her coo and love on her cats – they meant the world to her.
He’d gone to the doctor last week, who had referred him to an immunologist. This seemed like code for “stupidly expensive,” but he didn’t have a choice. He had to figure this out.
Sitting next to him in the passenger seat and giving him directions as they went, Carla made it hard to keep his eyes on the road. Would she notice if he drove up into the mountains and made love to her there instead?
Somehow, he thought she might.
“Turn left here – the one with the white van in front of it,” she said, pointing. He pulled in behind the van and turned the engine off.
The sudden silence was stifling.
“Do I look okay?” he blurted out. This is not a good idea. They are going to know I’m not good enough for their daughter. Run. Run now—
“You do!” Carla said with a reassuring smile. “You look handsome in that button-up shirt. Don’t worry – my family will love you!”
His chest tightening, Christian reluctantly got out and went around to the passenger side, helping Carla out and down to the ground. With her hair pulled up into an elegant bun and long earrings swaying hypnotically, she was any guy’s dream girl, and the desire to help her right back up into the truck and drive away before he could screw this whole thing up was overwhelming. Right now, no one knew if the Grahame family would like him or not.
Better not to know than to open your mouth and remove all doubt, right?
Wasn’t that some saying by Abraham Lincoln? Or Benjamin Franklin? Maybe it was Mark Tw—
“Carla! Christian!”
They turned to find a woman who looked exactly like Carla but 25 years older standing on the front step of the house, waving energetically at them. “Come, come!” she called out.
“C’mon,” Carla said, tugging at his arm. “We can’t stand out here all day.”
Shoes filled with concrete, Christian moved as slowly as he dared towards the middle-class home, a brick structure with large windows overlooking the street. It was a nicer home in a nicer part of town, and suddenly, Christian was very, very sure he was in over his head. He was the son of migrant workers. He was just a farmhand himself. He couldn’t afford something like this. He needed to run—
“It’s so good to meet you,” Mrs. Grahame said, enfolding him in an embrace that said without words that she meant it. “I’ve been excited to clap eyes on you for a while. You’re just as handsome as Carla said you were.”
“Moooommm,” Carla said, and Christian was sure she was embarrassed to the tips of her toes, but he couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face. Carla had been telling her mom that she thought he was handsome, eh?
He walked into the house with a bit more spring in his step.
“Hi, I’m Samuel Grahame,” an older man said, sticking his hand out to shake. “You can call me Samuel.” Carla may’ve been the spitting image of her mother, but Christian could tell at a glance that it was her father from whom she’d inherited her arresting blue eyes with hints of green. Mr. Grahame’s eyes had faded a bit with time, but they were Carla’s, all right.
“Hi, Samuel,” Christian said, returning the firm handshake, the name feeling strange on his tongue. Mr. Grahame seemed much more appropriate. “I’m Christian Palacios. Nice to meet you.”
“Come in, come in. We shouldn’t all crowd in the entryway. Let me introduce you to my son, Sammy, and my other daughters, Vanessa, Kate, and Jackie. Just warning you now: There are a lot of us. It’s probably going to be quite overwhelming.”
Christian shrugged. “I’m the only boy in my family, too, but I have six sisters. At four, my mother was only getting warmed up.” He winked at Samuel, who let out a roar of laughter.
