The Art of Arranging Flowers by Lynne Branard

of coffee. “Who is he sending it to?” I ask before she has the chance to pass along what I’ve said.
    â€œJessica Roberts,” she answers.
    â€œIs it some kind of joke?”
    She shrugs.
    I reach out for the phone. She hands it to me.
    â€œStevie, it’s Ruby,” I say.
    â€œHello, Ms. Jewell.” Steven is always very polite and respectful.
    â€œSo, you want a Valentine’s Day special but don’t want it sent on Valentine’s Day, is that your order?”
    He stalls a bit and I can see he hates that he ever made this call. “It’s a joke,” he finally explains.
    I guessed right. “It’s not a very funny one,” I say. “Haven’t you and Jessica been dating a while?” I recall the high school prom from last spring. He ordered a lovely wrist corsage, tiny red sweetheart roses, and a matching boutonniere. She wore a red strapless dress. He wore a red bow tie. Maude brought pictures.
    â€œAbout a year,” he says. “But this is our first Valentine’s Day together and I always get dates for special occasions wrong.” He hesitates. “It’s like a private joke. I thought Thanksgiving was a week earlier. I missed her birthday by a day. I wanted to be a few days late for this holiday too. She thinks it’s funny.”
    â€œSteven, she really doesn’t,” I reply.
    He doesn’t respond, so I explain.
    â€œShe’s acting like she thinks it’s funny because that’s what girls do for the first year they’re dating somebody, they act like stuff their boyfriend does is funny, but trust me, nobody likes to think their significant other forgets important dates. See, it’ll be February fourteenth and all of Jessica’s friends will have gotten something—cards, flowers, candy, jewelry, something—and even though she might remember your little private joke, for three days she has to be hiding from her friends so as not to have to say you didn’t get her anything or she has to lie or she’s forced to try and explain this private but not very funny joke the two of you have. And Steven—” I wait to make sure he’s listening.
    â€œYes, ma’am.” He is.
    â€œMissing Valentine’s Day really isn’t funny.”
    â€œCould I send it the twelfth?”
    I sigh. “Well, it’s better than the seventeenth,” I say.
    â€œCan you deliver it to the school on the twelfth?”
    Nora is still standing next to me. She has folded her arms across her chest.
    â€œYes, Steven, we can,” I answer.
    â€œOkay, that’s what I’ll do then. I’ll send it early.”
    â€œOkay.”
    He sounds so confident, so sure of his decision, I don’t try to change his mind. I just take the credit card number, what he wants to say on the card—
Happy Valentine’s Day, Jessica
, not very original—and confirm once more his order. When I hang up the phone, Nora is shaking her head.
    â€œI thought he was the one boy in that household with some sense. I guess all Maude’s sons are missing a little something upstairs.” She taps her forehead.
    I know she’s referring to Maude Peters’s oldest child, who’s in prison for breaking into a church, and her middle son, who dropped out of high school to join a group of hippies who came through town last summer. I have to agree with her because I thought Steven was a smart boy, but now, I’m not sure he’s any brighter than the other two, just in college.
    â€œHe’s sending it early then?” she wants to know.
    I nod. “But I’m going to add another delivery for Jessica on the fourteenth. We’ll be going to the high school anyway and I like Stevie, even if he lacks a sense of humor.”
    â€œBut aren’t you creating a false sense of security for the girl, making her think her boyfriend knows more than he does?”
    I give her a look.