Chapter 3
Where flowers bloom, so does hope.
—Lady Bird Johnson
MaryBeth turned out to be an angel and here was why: When runaways turned up in Savannah, they were often lured by unsavory characters into the world of the supernatural and paranormal. Savannah, a beautiful historical place, enjoyed the reputation of being the most haunted city in America. It was said that someone was buried below every square inch of the city. Interior ceilings in houses were painted “haint blue” or haunt blue to trick the ghosts into thinking it was water or the sky, and not a home to settle into.
Ghost tours were big business in Savannah. Old modified open-topped hearses were unique to Savannah. In the evenings, they’d drive people around the historic district, telling ghostly stories. Besides ghost tours, Savannah was home to psychics and tarot card readers, spiritualists, mediums, and fortune tellers. All the work of the devil, MaryBeth explained to Claire, in great detail. Her church had started a ministry to provide shelter to runaways and give them job skills, with the hopes of keeping them far, far away from the devil’s work.
Frankly, Claire did not consider herself to be the kind of person who would be vulnerable to apparitions. Hardly that. But she did need a little bit of help—she was so hungry her stomach was rumbling—and this looked like a good chance to get it. So she did her best to look vulnerable and a little scared, like easy prey. Not a simple thing, especially as she thought of how the boy whom she had once loved desperately had described her as warrior looking. But she shook off that worry, the way she shook off thoughts of that boy. She had left Chris behind in Sunrise to face his due comeuppance.
Her vulnerable act must have worked. MaryBeth swept her under her wings and fed her breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast made right in that church kitchen. After Claire had eaten, the woman held out her cell phone. “Sugar, I’m sure someone, somewhere, is worried sick about you. Would you do me a favor and let that someone know you’re safe?”
Was there anyone worried sick about Claire? She didn’t think so. “The only person left in my family is my dad, and he’s in Germany, stationed with the army.”
When she heard the word “Germany,” MaryBeth slipped her phone back in her apron pocket. “An email, then?” she said. “It’s only fair to let him know you’re safe.”
Well, Dad knew Claire would be all right. He’d raised her to take care of herself. But MaryBeth didn’t know that, and Claire appreciated her concern. “I will. I promise. First, though, I need to find a flower shop that’s looking for a skilled floral stylist.” She was being modest. She wasn’t just a skilled floral stylist. She was a gifted one. All she lacked was years of experience. Even Rose had said so.
Then came the part that really put the shine on MaryBeth’s halo: Turned out that she and her husband owned a flower shop. Owned it! And they just happened to be looking for a new flower girl. (Claire held her tongue from correcting MaryBeth. She wasn’t a flower girl. She was a floral stylist.)
She’d been in Savannah for less than an hour, and she had a full stomach and a new job. Not bad, Claire Murphy! She had to give props to that weary bus driver who had sent her to the church to find MaryBeth. It made a body think that Somebody Up There was looking after her.
MaryBeth and Arthur were kind and caring employers. They knew of church interns who needed a housemate. They included her in their family holiday gatherings. Really, they were wonderful people. Claire’s only complaint was how stifled she felt as a floral stylist. Within the first week, she realized that MaryBeth had certain ideas about flowers and that was that.
In the industry, there were basic shapes to all flower arranging—some professionals said six, some said nine, some said even more. Whatever the number, every arrangement had recognizable shapes. Shapes like the arc, the circle, the oval, the curve, the right angle, the S curve, the triangle. Once you started to notice them, you couldn’t not see them.
But MaryBeth believed all floral arranging should take three basic shapes: the circle (her beloved pavé), the triangle (a shape she called the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost), and the oval (a big egg). She had a formula of colors and availability of flowers for each season, and those lists never wavered. Never. She was known for her single-stem arrangements, stuck in a block of green oasis. (No earth-loving florist used oasis anymore! Except for MaryBeth.) Master the fundamentals—that was MaryBeth’s mantra. Fundamental. It suited her in so many ways!
Sometimes Claire felt like she was working in an ice cream shop that only served one flavor: vanilla. A favorite for many, but not new, not exciting.
MaryBeth resisted all change. As hard as Claire pushed, MaryBeth did not budge. Not on flower selection, not on marketing tools. Same Day Delivery had no website. No social media. MaryBeth was a firm believer in word-of-mouth advertising. A recommendation from a trusted source, she insisted, was the best marketing of all.
Maybe so. But most of those customers were as old as Methuselah. Who was going to order flowers from Same Day Delivery when all those loyal but ancient customers had gone to meet their Maker?
It didn’t take long for Claire to see she wasn’t going to make much of a dent in MaryBeth’s thinking. After she’d been working at Same Day Delivery for a few weeks, she’d brought in some long stems of cherry tomatoes to add an unexpected pop in a bouquet. The most horrified look came over MaryBeth’s face. Like Claire had just added trash to an arrangement.
Anyhoo ... bottom line, MaryBeth was the boss. So Claire focused on learning other things. In fact, she decided she was going to learn as much as she possibly could about running a flower shop. As soon as Arthur gained confidence in her abilities, he let her do the ordering and manage the books.
The one freedom MaryBeth gave to Claire was permission to do whatever she wanted with remainder flowers each week from church orders for altars, weddings, anniversaries, baby showers, holidays, and funerals. Mostly funerals. Same Day Delivery was known in Savannah for being the go-to florist for funerals. The remainders, MaryBeth said, were hers to “fiddle with”—a description that made Claire wince. Floral stylists did not “fiddle.” They were artists. They created ephemeral art.
As the weeks turned into months turned into years, Claire’s own style emerged. She had always been more inspired by texture than color, with movement and air over tightness. Foliage became her trademark, the more uncommon, the better. She became a shameless forager. She never went anywhere without her clippers. Savannah’s natural beauty had taught her that.
The many urban parks in Savannah were boons for unusual foliage. This city might be known as the most haunted city in America, but it was also famous for its gardens and parks. It was the first planned city in America, the oldest in Georgia, and city parks lined the historical district. Forsyth Park was the most famous of the urban parks, with a beautiful fountain in the center. Lovely, but it was in the little pocket parks that she found the best foliage for arrangements. Sometimes, from even the private gardens that could be spotted from the sidewalks. Window boxes overflowing with luscious greenery. She had learned, after being caught red-handed, to always ask the homeowner before foraging. Homeowners weren’t always understanding about that. The thing about foraging was that you needed to clip long stems. You could always edit later, but you needed plenty of stem to start with.
Spring and summer dressed Savannah in her full glory. Early mornings and early evenings, Claire scoured the city to take advantage of all she had to offer, nature-wise. Some of her favorites were feathery pampas grass, buttonweed with seed pods, lacy Amaranthus, fuzzy lamb’s ears, statice, brunnera, and stems of rosemary or eucalyptus. Actually, seed pods of any kind might be her favorite foliage: Scabiosa, echinacea, chestnut, poppy, Craspedia, and fern curl. They added unexpected touches of texture and variation.
Away from work, she spent time studying Pinterest and Instagram photos of floral stylists, eager to learn the latest trends. She thought of them as her floral heroes. Whenever there were remainder flowers, she’d stay late in the shop after closing hours to create her own recipes, happily shrugging off MaryBeth’s predictable arrangements. During those evenings, she found and fine-tuned her own style. Claire discovered she liked air in an arrangement. Negative spaces. Movement. Asymmetrical instead of symmetrical. Less was more. Completely the opposite style of the Same Day Delivery shop’s fondness for tight, dense bouquets.
Claire would put her arrangements in the cooler to show MaryBeth in the morning. Surely, she thought, MaryBeth would see the magic that came with variety and innovation. She hoped she might let her sell her creations in the shop, but that hope quickly fizzled. After getting a less-than-lukewarm reaction (“But, sweet pea, aren’t those weeds?” or “Sweet pea, why would you reflex the tulip petals? Tulips are just fine the way God made them.” Or she’d tilt her head to match the asymmetrical design line. “But, sweet pea, everything is cattywampus. Just a little bit off, wouldn’t you say?”), she stopped showing her work to MaryBeth and just took the arrangements home with her. Sadly, her housemates weren’t flower savvy. “Pretty,” one would say. Or “Cool.”
Seriously? That was no way to express the wonder of flowers.
In a notebook, Claire recorded her recipes, tweaked them, added photographs to document the arrangements. It was all part of her preparation to become the owner of Same Day Delivery. The name would be the first thing to go. She hadn’t decided what would replace it, though she did keep a running list of possibilities in her notebook.
She had so many ideas for her future flower shop! Workshops, for one. She’d seen other floral shops host workshops in the evenings. Customers would pay a basic fee; the shop owner would provide the flowers, food, and drink, and demonstrate a basic recipe. That, she had learned through many trial-and-error moments as she honed her design skills, was the key to mastering floral design—following a process. Then, in her mind’s eye, the customers would create their own arrangements, and Claire would act as a roving teacher, helping them improve their bouquets. To point out beginner’s mistakes (Don’t choke the flowers!). To gain confidence in their own style (Give it a try!). To not be afraid to follow their gut (If you love it, go for it!). Recipes were meant to guide, not to stifle, innovation. There was plenty of room for experimentation with flower arranging.
Now and then, Claire practiced teaching the workshop as she imagined herself with the attendees in the class—reminding novices to always cut stems at an angle, to start with foliage because it gave structure to an arrangement. Then add the focal flowers, the larger blooms. Next came the fillers. She promised herself that she would never criticize anyone’s creation. She would suggest ways to enhance their work, but it was their work of art. And all art should be respected.
That’s what Rose Reid had taught her, and she’d never forgotten.
Two years ago, working late on a warm June night, Claire finished an arrangement—assorted dahlias, snapdragons, Astilbe, yarrow, and red gaillardia for a pop of texture, all arranged in a bright orange ceramic vessel. She took a picture, studied it, stood back to look at the bouquet, and felt a spiral of pleasure deep into her bones. Stunning. So beautiful, so appealing. Someone, besides her housemates who really didn’t appreciate flowers at all, should see this.
So she entered the photograph into a local floral contest ... and she won! It was something she’d never thought she’d do. Truth be told, she used to make fun of Rose for entering so many contests. Rose would tack her awards on her front window display, and now Claire wished she could take back all those snarky comments about what she called Rose’s trophy shelf. After Claire’s first win, she got hooked. Competition fired her up. She entered another and another, increasingly competitive contests, and she kept placing, if not winning. And now she was a finalist in the Savannah Blooms contest—the best and biggest one in all of Georgia.