Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Bishop
“Do you know what kind of flowers your mom likes?” My daughter and I stand in the middle of the florist shop, surrounded by dozens of bouquets, and I have no idea what she’d want.
If she likes roses or thinks they are overrated.
If she wants something simple or exotic.
I used to pick wildflowers for her sometimes at the ranch.
There were entire fields of them—blues, yellows, whites.
But I don’t know if she actually liked any of them or the gesture itself.
“Yes,” Fallon answers curtly.
“Would you want to share your thoughts?”
“You don’t want my thoughts today. Trust me.” She gives me a glance that cuts from across the aisle. I feel like I’m looking back in time at a young, furious Aspen, scolding me for something I’ve screwed up.
I clear my throat, staring at the flowers for a few moments to let my feelings settle before I speak again. The harsh reminder that I’ve never been good enough for Aspen is unexpected. But I need to focus on the task at hand.
“Would she like these wildflowers, or do you think she’d prefer roses? Or?” I look around at the multitude of options, hoping one of them, at least, could live up to Aspen’s expectations. Or at least Fallon’s expectations for her.
“My dad always got her roses for their anniversary. A huge bouquet. They had roses at their wedding, and for their tenth anniversary, he filled a whole room of the house with them,” Fallon shares.
“Wildflowers it is.”
“She likes wildflowers too.” It’s a curt response, but at least this one doesn’t feel like a stab to my chest. I’ll take any progress we can get.
“Do you want to pick out a bouquet for your great-grandmother before we go see her?” Aspen okayed the visit, and Fallon reluctantly agreed. I’m nervous for everyone involved. So I figure a bouquet of flowers could go a long way toward smoothing the waters my grandmother is sure to stir up.
“Does she have a favorite flower or color?”
“She likes oranges and yellows. But I’m sure she’ll love anything you bring her.”
“These are gorgeous.” Once we’ve gotten through the initial introductions, Grams grins as Fallon hands her the bouquet in a vase decorated with a burlap bow.
“Bishop said you like orange.” Fallon shrugs.
“Bishop, eh?” Grams flashes me a look, not liking that my daughter is on a first-name basis with me. I shake my head subtly, silently pleading with her to let it go.
“I have a dad,” Fallon deadpans in return.
“Seems like you have two now.”
“You’re my first great-grandmother.” Fallon dodges the discussion she’s not interested in having.
“Never met any of the others, did you then?” Grams places the flowers at the center of the table.
“No. They’re all dead.”
“Yes, well, some of us are made of sterner stuff.”
“Or stubborn stuff,” Fallon lobs back, not liking the subtle criticism of her extended family.
“Clearly, I’ve handed those genes down.” She eyes Fallon carefully, but I can see the flicker of respect in her assessment. “Do you play cards?”
“I know how to play poker and Canadian rummy,” Fallon offers.
“Don’t let anyone here know you play poker. They’ll have you running an illegal gambling ring before the day’s out. But Canadian rummy… I haven’t played that in a minute. Think you can remind me of the rules?” Grams pulls a couple of packs of cards out from the tote bag slung over her chair.
“I think so,” Fallon agrees, taking the decks and pulling the cards from their sleeve.
“You in on this, Bishop?” Grams challenges me.
“You’re gonna have to teach me.”
“Think you’re up for teaching the old dog new tricks?” Grams looks back at Fallon, and she nods, smiling a little that Grams’s teasing extends to me.
Maybe, just maybe, this is all going to go better than I imagined.