Chapter 32 The Heroes of Troy
“Nahla Crump!” Betsy Wright called out from her shop door.
The skinny twelve-year-old stopped typing into her phone and ducked behind a Volkswagen.
Mrs. Wright’s laugh made Nahla think of apple pie bubbling up through its crust. “I saw you peeping in through my window just now,” she said. “Thought maybe you were bored and could use a job.”
Nahla stepped out from behind the car. People thought she was shy ’cause she didn’t say much. Nahla was not shy in the slightest. When she wanted to be seen, she showed herself. When she had something to say, she said it. “How much does it pay?” she asked.
Betsy Wright seemed to approve of that response. “Five dollars and a red velvet cupcake.”
“Three cupcakes,” Nahla haggled. “No dollars.”
“Only have two cupcakes left. It’s been a busy day, and your father took one when he stopped by with the mail this morning.”
“Two is fine.” Whatever the job was, Nahla would have done it for one. “My dad says your cupcakes are the best he’s ever eaten.”
“Your daddy ain’t wrong,” Mrs. Wright said. “Come on in for a moment.”
Nahla kept a straight face, but inside, she was beaming. Two cupcakes and a chance to check out Fairview Florist? Days didn’t get any better than this.
Nahla was eight the first time she visited the shop with her mother. As soon as she left, she constructed a replica in her mind. Whenever Nahla was bored, she’d pay the florist a visit and spend a few hours crafting bouquets like the ones Mrs. Wright made. As soon as she was old enough to wander through Troy on her own, the flowers called to her like sirens. But they weren’t the reason she’d been lurking around outside the florist that afternoon. Nahla was investigating. She needed details for the story she was writing about Betsy Wright.
It had been a while since Nahla had been inside the florist’s shop, and she was delighted to find it exactly as she remembered. The air inside was cool and layered with fragrance. She picked up top notes of rose, eucalyptus, and lily. Dozens of other scents blended together into a magical perfume. A refrigerated case lined one wall of the shop, and behind its glass doors lay Eden. Lush ferns and flowers of every imaginable color. Clouds of hydrangeas and fluffy pink pillows of peonies. Giant monstera leaves pressed against the windows and vines probed the crevices.
The walls of the shop had been painted a rich forest green. On the white marble counter, Betsy Wright’s latest creation was taking shape. It wasn’t even half done, but it was already a wonder to behold. Nahla caught a whiff of the giant white magnolias, and they pulled her to them with a heavenly scent.
“How old are you now, Nahla?” she heard Mrs. Wright ask. “Last time I saw you, you dressed up for Halloween like a mini Black Panther princess with your hair in Bantu knots.”
“I turned twelve in May.”
“You’re going to look just like your mama when she was in high school. You know there were boys who’d drive all the way from Alabama just to come watch her cheer?”
Nahla shrugged and continued to examine the arrangement. Besides the flowers, there were saw briars, wild strawberries, moss, and an empty wasp nest. “Being pretty’s overrated.”
“Is that right?” The way Mrs. Wright said it made Nahla wonder if she’d passed some kind of test. “Then what would you rather be?”
“A force to be reckoned with.” She’d once heard her father refer to her mother that way. He’d said it with such awe and respect that Nahla had decided right then and there to follow in her mama’s footsteps.
Mrs. Wright chuckled. “Well, you got that in your blood, too.” Everyone in Troy knew her mother basically ran the whole courthouse. Nobody dared mess with Wanda Crump.
“Who’s this bouquet for?” Nahla asked.
“Bernice Hutton,” Mrs. Wright said. “You know her?”
“Nope,” said Nahla.
“Well, this is a special commission. Her gentleman friend wants a bouquet that will take her back to the days when they first fell in love.”
Nahla turned to face her host. “How is it going to do that?” she asked.
“Sam told me a story about their first walk in the woods together. I’m translating his tale into flowers. And that’s where you come in.” She reached down below the counter and pulled out a wicker basket. “I need you to run over to Jackson Square and gather some supplies for me.”
“Supplies?” Nahla asked.
“Leaves, acorns, fallen branches. Don’t pick living things. Just grab anything interesting you find on the ground,” Mrs. Wright told her. “I’ll know what will work when I see it.”
It was June first. School had just let out for the summer, and kids from all over Troy were making their way to the town pool, beach towels thrown over their shoulders and flip-flops slapping their heels. Nahla shouted hey to a group of girls from her class, but she didn’t stop to chat. She’d been given a job, which she took very seriously. When she got to the square, she found the fountain had vanished beneath a tower of glistening soap bubbles. She took a few seconds to admire the prank and then got down to business. There were only so many hours in the day. She wanted to finish her task, watch Mrs. Wright work her magic, and start writing her book all before dinner.
Nahla had come up with the idea for her project in the last week of seventh grade. With summer around the corner, the other kids had been going stir-crazy, but Nahla stuck to her routine. Every day after school, she headed straight for the library, turned in any books she’d finished, and checked out enough to replenish the stack she kept on the nightstand next to her bed. She considered it a terrible omen if the pile ever stood less than three books tall.
With fresh reading material tucked under her arm, she walked to Grandma Martin’s house, where there were always freshly baked cookies waiting on the stove. In previous years, her older sister, Jasmine, would have been there, too. But Jasmine was a vegan now and had to keep a safe distance from Grandma’s cookies.
“Grandma puts lard in everything,” Jasmine told Nahla.
“Good,” Nahla said. That just left more treats for her.
She’d eaten at least five cookies the day her epiphany arrived. She was seated at her grandma’s kitchen table with a book from a series called The Heroes of Troy open in front of her. Fifty pages in, she slammed the book shut in disgust.
“Something wrong?” Grandma Martin looked up from the sink, where she’d been peeling Yukon Golds to go in her award-winning (and decidedly non-vegan) potato salad.
Nahla held up the book cover for her grandmother to see. “Did you know there was another place called Troy?”
“Mmm-hmm,” her grandmother said. “It’s the setting for one of the most famous stories of all time. As I recall, it’s chock-full of gods and heroes and blood and guts. I would have thought all that would be right up your street.”
“Me, too!” Nahla agreed wholeheartedly. “But none of the heroes are girls. Couple of the goddesses. But none of the heroes. Not a single one. Can you believe it?”
Her grandmother wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, sugar. Ain’t none of them Black, either.”
Nahla sat back in a huff with her arms folded across her chest.
“You really going to get bent out of shape over all that?” Grandma Martin lifted an eyebrow. “Those stories were written by Greek men for other Greek men. We have heroes, too, you know. Difference between ours and theirs is our heroes are real.”
Nahla perked up and slid to the edge of her seat. “What’s the name of our book?” There might be time to run back to the library before she went home.
“Truth is, most of our stories have never been written. But they’re out there—tons of them—just waiting for someone to put them down on a page. Maybe you could be the one.”
Nahla felt her flesh tingle. “Who are the heroes? Where can I find them?”
“They’re all over,” her grandmother told her.
“Here in Troy?” Nahla asked.
“Absolutely. Our world isn’t all that different from ancient Greece in some ways. We have our big-name goddesses who live up high on the mountain. Those would be your Serena Williamses, Michelle Obamas, and your Beyoncés. Then there are the demigoddesses who walk among the mortals. I’m thinking Stacey Abrams. But even in little towns like Troy, there are heroes all around us, working wonders every day and just waiting for their stories to be told.”
“Like who?” Nahla was suddenly skeptical. She couldn’t think of anyone in Troy who was capable of working any wonders.
“You don’t think your mama has ever fought the forces of evil?”
Nahla shook her head. Her mother was one of a kind. “Besides Mama.”
“What about your sister? She’s working her rump off to save all those whales.”
“And getting nowhere.” Nahla shook her head again. “A real hero should be clever like Odysseus or invincible like Achilles.”
“Invincible?” Grandma Martin pointed at Nahla’s book. “You need to finish reading. But listen—why are you letting a bunch of old Greek men tell you what a hero ought to be? They’ll have you thinking you got to go to war and kill people to prove yourself. Women have always known better than that. Most of us get what we want without slaughtering anyone. In fact, now that I think of it, the best hero story I ever heard was all about flowers.”
“Flowers?” Nahla asked. She had a hunch where the tale was headed.
There was a reason Troy had so many Black girl heroes, Nahla’s grandmother informed her. “Round these parts, you had to be strong to survive. If you were a woman, didn’t hurt to be a genius, too. So every generation got stronger—until it started to become clear that the powers that be couldn’t hold us back anymore. That was about the time that Betsy Wright decided she deserved her own shop.”
As far as Nahla knew, Betsy Wright had always owned Fairview Florist. But her grandma set her straight. Betsy had spent her first fifteen years out of high school working for a man named Homer Johnson. (At the time, Troy was home to three Homers, two Hectors, a Nestor, and an Ajax.) Like most people, Homer wasn’t particularly bad or good. He paid a fair wage and he never got mean or did anything nasty. But he believed in doing things the way they’d always been done. As a florist, he was partial to red roses, pink carnations, and yellow chrysanthemums. As a person, he believed in a world where everyone had their place. White men were meant to lead the way. Black women got to pick up after everyone else. That was the natural order of things, according to Homer Johnson.
Betsy knew that was the order in Troy, too. But there wasn’t a damn thing natural about it. She was the reason Fairview Florist was thriving. Her ready-made bouquets outsold Mr. Johnson’s three to one. There were customers who made a point of coming in on his off days, just so they could be sure Betsy was the one who’d handle their flowers. And she was the one who’d convinced Mr. Johnson to order the new varieties that had proven so popular. In the spring and summertime, she even got up early to pick her own wildflowers.
So when Homer Johnson decided to retire, it seemed perfectly logical that Betsy would buy the business. She and her husband lived frugally, and they had enough saved for a down payment. But they couldn’t afford to buy the business outright. They needed a loan from a bank.
Betsy Wright tried all three banks in the county. Only Wachovia would grant her an appointment. The new president, Corey Pruitt, had been quarterback of the football team when she was in high school—and she’d been the tutor responsible for making sure he passed math. When Betsy arrived at the bank, he greeted her warmly at the door. She felt like a VIP when he’d ushered her past all his employees and back to his office.
She’d come prepared with a business plan, a portfolio, updated logos, and sketches of the renovated interior. She laid the documents out on the desk and Corey made a show of looking them over, though he didn’t pick any up.
“This is all very impressive,” he told her. “I’m sure the next owner will be more than happy to keep you on.”
“You’re not going to read my materials?”
“I don’t need to read anything to know a loan’s just too risky. Customer retention could be a serious problem. The people who bought from old Homer might not buy from you.”
Because she was Black.That part went without saying.
Betsy stood there, stunned. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would you even see me if you knew you weren’t going to help me?”
He looked at her as though it should have been obvious. “For old times’ sake!” he said warmly. “It’s been fun to catch up!”
It just so happened that Lula Dean stopped by the shop that afternoon with her twins in tow and found Betsy weeping.
“So you’re just gonna take no for an answer?” Lula asked when she heard what had happened.
“What else am I going to do?” Betsy asked.
“Fight like hell!” Lula said. “You knew Corey back in the day, didn’t you? Don’t you have any dirt you could use?”
“No, and even if I did, I wouldn’t resort to blackmail.”
Lula shook her head at Betsy’s scruples. “That’s ridiculous. You know what I’d do? I’d call Angela McGee, the Pruitts’ housekeeper. I bet she knows a thing or two you could use.”
It was just like Lula to assume all Black women in Troy were friends. Betsy and Angela had never been close. Fortunately, they were second cousins. And as it turned out, Angie did know a thing or two.
That evening, Betsy had James make the boys dinner while she worked late at the shop. By midnight, she’d completed three bouquets. First thing in the morning, she sent them all out by messenger.
The first bouquet arrived at the home of Pamela Pruitt, Corey Pruitt’s mother. Betsy knew from listening to Lula’s gossip that Pam had grown up on a horse farm near Newnan. Though she’d married a wealthy man, she’d never been accepted into the rich ladies club. Which appeared to be perfectly fine with Pam. Betsy used every last wildflower she had in Pam Pruitt’s bouquet. It was as untamed and colorful as the woman herself. And Betsy made sure the entire arrangement could be fed to a horse.
The second bouquet was delivered to Maisie Pruitt, Corey’s devoted wife. Betsy found photos of their wedding on Maisie’s Facebook page. She built a stunning arrangement using the same orchids and freesia Maisie had chosen for her bridal bouquet, the white honeysuckle that had decorated the pews in the church, and the purple hydrangeas from the centerpieces at the wedding reception.
The last bouquet arrived later that day at a house in Macon—an address Angela McGee had found on a delivery slip she pulled out of Corey Pruitt’s pants before they went in for cleaning. He’d sent a pair of diamond earrings. Betsy chose a dozen bloodred roses. It was completely clichéd—but so was having an affair with your bank’s stationery supplier.
None of the bouquets bore a note—just a tag stamped with Fairview Florist’s new logo.
The next morning, Betsy got a call from a woman at Wachovia informing her that her business loan had been approved. By the end of the week, the papers were all signed. Fairview Florist was finally hers.
“So Mr. Pruitt was cheating on his wife?” Nahla had asked.
“Maybe I should have started with a G-rated story,” her grandmother said.
“Please. I’m twelve,” Nahla reminded her. “You think I don’t know how the world works? I’m just glad Mrs. Wright got the loan she deserved.”
“Not only did she get her loan, she also got a contract to supply all the floral arrangements for the bank. Maisie Pruitt made sure she was hired for every fancy wedding in town. And Pam Pruitt is still her best customer.”
“Genius,” Nahla marveled.
“I’d say Betsy is every bit as clever as Odysseus, wouldn’t you?”
“How did she know what to do?” Nahla wanted to know.
Her grandmother shook her head. “Why don’t you ask her?”
Nahla returned to Fairview Florist with a basketful of beauty. Freshly fallen magnolia leaves, perfectly round acorns, and scarlet magnolia seeds.
“How do you decide what to use?” Nahla asked as Betsy sorted through the basket, picking out all the things she might need.
“I think of every bouquet as a little story,” Betsy told her, “and stories are the most powerful things in this world. They can mend broken hearts, bring back good memories, and make people fall in love.”
“Or convince them to do the right thing,” Nahla added.
Betsy Wright shot Nahla a look. “Sometimes. But the trick is getting to know people well enough to tell their stories. You can’t just assume you know what they’re like. You have to pay attention. You got to watch and listen.”
“I can do that,” Nahla said.
“So you think you might grow up to be a florist?” Betsy Wright asked her.
“Maybe. But I’m going to be a writer, too,” Nahla told her. “In fact, I’m already working on my very first book.”