Chapter 11
ELEVEN
CALLAHAN
The glass doors of the florist refrigerator reflect myself back at me.
I have no idea what I’m doing.
The roads cleared up a little, and I didn’t have any afternoon classes, so I took the Volvo down into Sarrasford.
I knew there was a flower shop in town, but I’d never actually been there—never actually been to any flower shop, actually—and now that I’m here, I’m kind of overwhelmed.
For one thing, it’s hot, like actually humid in here, the windows fogged up against the cold and everything, so as soon as I step inside in all my winter gear I’m sweating.
For another thing, there’s just…a ton of flowers. Of plants, really, ones in three-foot pots with big heavy green leaves like a rainforest, smaller fuzzy mossy ones on the shelves leading to the part of the store with all the cards and gifts, a few skinny-stemmed things I recognize as orchids.
The display I’m looking at seemed simplest. Bouquets arranged by occasion. Puffy pink and white blossoms in a vase that says IT’S A GIRL. A bunch of yellow, orange, and blue with a GET WELL SOON card tagged to the outside.
Easy. Except that whatever occasion I’m shopping for probably isn’t in here.
“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asks. She’s short, a lot shorter than me, with gray hair held back in a clip, her sleeves rolled up, and a canvas apron on. She could be my mom. Hell, she’s probably the same age as my mom.
As my mom was, I mean. Would be.
I look from her to the flower refrigerator. Sweating.
“Um…”
A knowing look comes over the shopkeeper’s face. “What’s her name?”
I swallow. Am I that obvious? “Gwenna,” I answer.
She smiles and gives a little nod, like she’s proud of herself for guessing correctly. “Uh-huh. And do you know what kind of flowers Gwenna prefers?”
“Um,” I say again. “I know she had some roses she liked. Red.”
I’m not trying to outdo Lanz or anything. Even if I am basically copying off of his paper. If I’d seen him recently I would have invited him to come along.
But he’s not…
“Ah, of course.” The shopkeeper nods again. “Classic. Very romantic.” Except then she pauses, and I feel like there’s a but coming.
“But?” I offer.
“Well…” She wrinkles her nose. “Forgive me for saying it, but they’re bit cliché. Don’t get me wrong—no girl doesn’t like getting red roses. And if I stopped selling them, I’d be out of business. But…” She looks me up and down. “You strike me as someone more unconventional.”
Unconventional? What’s that supposed to mean? If anything, I’ve only thought of myself as conventional. But I guess I can’t really claim that’s the case anymore, not truthfully. Self-conscious, I shove my hands in my coat pockets.“I guess so.”
“Here.” She beckons me away from the refrigerator a little, to where some flowers are sitting in pots wrapped with colorful foil, and points to one with burgundy-colored blossoms on thin stems. “Lenten rose. Not a cut bouquet, but it’ll last longer.
Bit of a spin on your usual rose, and they grow well in winter, which…
” She shrugs in the direction of the gloomy street. “Very nice, overall.”
I study the pot. Five deep red petals around a warm yellow center, like little stars.
I like it.
“Great.” I nod. “I’ll take it.”
“Fantastic.” The lady picks up the pot and brings it across to the counter for me. “Will that be all?”
“Actually…”
I drift back to the refrigerator, to the Get Well Soon bouquet. Not that. But maybe something like that.
Something to show him I’m thinking about him.
“No,” I finish. “I’m getting two, actually.”
“Okay.” She nods. “Perfect. Same recipient, or--"
“No.” My face gets very hot. “It’s, um.” I swallow again, again again. "I need..."
"Something less feminine, maybe?" she supplies. “But equally thoughtful?”
Is this lady clocking me? My stomach clenches, and I glance around the shop—a few other browsers looking at gifts and cards in the main store area. No one looking over here.
“They’re for me,” I say quickly. “Just to…have around.”
She nods smartly. “Well, I think that’s lovely. You know what they say: the first time most men get flowers, it’s at their funeral.”
They say that? God, that’s bleak. “Oh.”
“Did you have anything particular in mind?”
I really don’t. “Just something nice.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Here.” Sliding the door back open, she leans in over the canisters, pushing things around until she emerges again with some long, spindly branches of something, some dotted with little white flowers and some with red berries.
"Hawthorn,” she explains. “Usually won’t bloom until spring, but I had a winter wedding who wanted the blossoms, so I forced them under grow lights. Then they decided to elope." She shrugs. “Her loss. Very striking, the red and the white.” She eyes me. “Protects the heart, too, or so they say.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She thinks I’m buying these flowers for myself. Maybe she’s trying to look out for me, like in case Gwenna doesn’t like what I got her and dumps me, I’ll take it less hard if I have whatever this is protecting me. Hawthorn.
We head to the counter and she rings me up, and I’m just thumbing the bills out of my wallet when I hear my own name behind me.
“Callahan O’Brian?”
I turn, frowning, to see one of the other customers who’d been poking around.
“I thought that was you.” The man smiles, his creased cheeks pushing up his glasses. “Father Mendez. From St. Ann’s.”
“No, of course.” I duck my head, take his hand and shake it when he offers. “It’s good to see you.” Damn. I haven’t seen Father Mendez since graduation, maybe? I can’t even remember. Ever since I moved into Camlann House, joined the team, I don’t really go back much.
I haven’t been back at all, actually.
“Eighty-five dollars and thirty-six cents,” comes the shopkeeper’s voice, pulling me back in the other direction.
Is that how much flowers cost? I think. Not that I wouldn’t spend it. Of course I would.
“Right. Thank you.” I quickly count out five twenties and hand them to her, then turn back to Father Mendez. “What brings you out here?” I ask, trying to be polite.
“Spring retreat for the parish,” he replies. “We were awarded a grant,” he adds, like he’s proud of himself, “specifically to come out here from the city and do some development work, design some new social outreach programs.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “Um, you’re enjoying it out here?”
“Well.” Father Mendez heaves a sigh. “We were meant to get some hiking and fishing in, but…” He points a mittened thumb at the gray sky and frozen Main Street just outside the shop window. “God had other plans.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I don’t really like the idea of God having plans, if I’m being honest. If God has everything planned out, then what does it mean when bad things happen anyway? Bad weather. Or bad anything.
“You know, I was wondering if I’d run into you,” Father Mendez goes on.
“I did remember hearing you were at Caliburn. I hope you’ll forgive me for not reaching out—I wasn’t sure if we’d have time away.
But now that I’ve seen you...” He trails off, studying me.
“As it happens, one of the things we’ve been working on is a garden.
A memorial garden,” he clarifies. “For those we’ve lost to violence. ”
My mind goes blank.
“Ordinarily, you know, we name these things for the, ah, benefactors of the financial gifts.” He gives an apologetic smile. “But after this grant came in, anonymously…well, I suggested we name the project in memory of those we lost, instead.” His smile warms. “In honor of Sean and Margaret.”
“Oh,” I say. “Wow.”
I don’t know what else to say. Thanks? I’m not ungrateful. Of course I’m not. It’s just…
Honor the memory.
What I have I ever even done to honor their memory?
Run here and never come back?
My stomach feels like a block of ice.
“We only just made the decision,” he’s saying. “I was going to write you, or call. But now, here you are!” Another laugh. “God truly works in mysterious ways.”
“Yeah,” I agree. I don’t much care for that idea either, even though I know it’s true.
“We were hoping you could be there,” he says. “For the dedication ceremony.”
“Oh,” I say.
“You’re busy, of course,” he rushes on. “You know, I did bring that up. Reminded everyone that you’re at Caliburn, for goodness’s sake, that you’ve got studying to do, and that’s on top of your athletics. And I said, well, if he wanted to visit, he would have been back at least once by n—”
“No,” I interrupt. “No, of course. Yeah. Of course I want to come. Please. I’d…be happy to.”
It’s not that far. Two hours, two and a half maybe. I could do it in a day, assuming the Volvo doesn’t die on me. The season’s over. The other guys can hold down the fort.
I grab a pen from by the cash register and hand it to him, along with my receipt, which Father Mendez uses to scribble down the details.
“All set,” says the shopkeeper from behind me. I turn, and take the wrapped-up flowers, the potted roses and the long branches of hawthorn. “Hope she likes them.”
“Um, yeah. Thanks.”
I turn back around, and Father Mendez is smiling again. “Oh, my. Well, don’t let me stand in your way.” He winks, stepping to the side. And as he does, he glances down at my right hand. At my parents’ wedding rings. Then back at the flowers in my arms. “It’s good to see you happy, Callahan.”