Chapter 2
Abi
“And then slide the petunia in amidst the baby’s breath so it sits higher,” I instruct Luis, the intern who’s been working at SweetPea Boutique for the last four weeks.
He’s doing well so far, though he’s at a ‘watch and don’t touch’ stage of development for the most part.
I might let him cut a ribbon next week, if he’s lucky.
I’m free-spirited in my life at large, but my business is an entirely different topic. SweetPea is my baby and I’m fiercely protective of it, laying eyes on every single arrangement that bears our branding and trusting very few people to represent it properly.
“Slide. Sits higher,” Luis repeats like my words are his new gospel.
I nod approvingly.
My phone rings on the table, and nose-deep in the humongous arrangement I’m doing, I mutter, “Can you see who that is?”
“Sure…” Luis answers, putting his notebook down in favor of following the sound. He has to flip through a stack of papers to find my buried phone. “Uh, it says Karl.”
I drop the flower I’m holding, not caring that I probably just made it completely unusable for a display this important. Grabbing my phone, I press the answer button as quickly as I can, not wanting to miss this.
“Is everything okay?” It’s not the most polite way to answer an incoming call, but I can’t remember the last time Karl’s name showed up on my caller ID, so the first thing that pops to mind is that something’s happened.
Did Mom fall and break a hip? Did Dad have a heart attack? Is Karl quitting and moving to Fiji?
The old man’s answering chuckle slows my racing heart only slightly. “Yes, everything’s fine,” Karl assures me. “Well, I think it is…” he says carefully, measuring every word.
“What does that mean?”
He sighs lightly, as if the words don’t want to come, but finally says, “I was wondering if you might have time, if you’re not too busy, to make an arrangement for your mother?”
Not too busy? I don’t know the meaning of the words. I’m slammed, booked out almost two years in advance for big events and have not only every week, but every day filled with smaller orders. But wait…
My brows slam together as my mind starts racing. An arrangement for Mom? It’s not her birthday, it’s not my birthday, nor any of my siblings, it’s not her and Dad’s anniversary, there’s not a gala or women’s group luncheon, or anything else I can think of that would warrant Mom needing flowers.
“Of course, but why?”
“Oh, I just think they’d bring a smile to her face,” Karl explains. But that only brings more questions to mind.
“Is Mom not smiling? Why not? Is she okay?”
Oops, I meant for those to be inside-thoughts, but given the way Karl rushes to backpedal, I said all that aloud, and quite demandingly.
“Kimberly is fine. I’m sure of it. She’s just been a bit… distracted lately. And I thought some flowers might be a bright spot in her day.”
That is very thoughtful of Karl, who has taken care of the Andrews family for basically my whole life and even before that. He’s a fatherly figure to Mom and Dad and a grandfatherly one to me, Courtney, and Ross, so it makes sense that he’d want to ensure we’re as happy as we can be.
Still… there’s something off.
“Why isn’t Dad calling for flowers?”
That’s the issue.
Mom and Dad are an example of what love can and should be.
Not always perfect, not always easy, but deep and sure, a connection that withstands the test of time, not with drudgery, but with joy.
If Mom is ‘distracted’, Dad should be the first one to notice and do something to flip Mom’s frown upside down.
“I’m sure he would, eventually. He’s been so busy lately though.” Almost as an afterthought, he asks, “Did you know his pickleball duo made the quarter-finals in the club league?”
I had no idea. I try to think back to the last time I talked to Dad.
We texted a couple of weeks ago when I asked him about the new scotch he’d recommended to Lorenzo.
Wait… was that three weeks ago? It might’ve been.
The Wilson-Jenkins wedding has had me spinning circles and losing time with its scale along with an event planner from hell.
“That sounds like a big deal.”
“Oh yes. He’s quite excited about it. Been practicing non-stop, so I think Eleanor and him are a shoe-in to win.”
“Eleanor?”
Karl sounds confused by my questioning tone. “His pickleball partner? Eleanor? You’ve heard your father talk about her, right?”
No. No, I have not. Dad’s ad nauseum conversation about pickleball tactics and strategies, new shoes and paddles, and the politics of the league became a snoozefest I checked out on months ago, but I think would’ve tuned in at the mention of another woman’s name. I’m definitely checking in now.
Mom’s distracted and not smiling. Dad’s playing pickleball with Eleanor to the point of not noticing.
“Of course,” I assure Karl, lying through my teeth. “I’ll make Mom an arrangement and bring it by later this week. We’ll make her day so bright she’ll need sunglasses.”
He laughs in delight. “I knew you’d help. Thanks, Abi.”
“No, thank you, Karl.”
I hang up the phone and stare off into space, thinking through that entire conversation again. I don’t like it. Don’t like it one bit.
I’ve heard the saying, ‘there are two things for certain in life – death and taxes’, but in my family, there’s a third certain thing – Mom and Dad. They’re like peanut butter and jelly, perfect, especially when they’re all smooshed together to the point of being inseparable.
“Want me to write up an order form?” Luis offers, finger already poised over the tablet’s screen to do so.
“No,” I answer. “This one’s off-book. I’ll handle it myself.”