The Art of Arranging Flowers by Lynne Branard Page A

“Richard Dell, Kevin Watson, Stan Marcus . . .”
    She interrupts. “Okay, okay, I get your point.”
    I was naming the men whose wives and girlfriends have gotten flower arrangements before an order was made. The men count on me to remember what they so often forget.
    â€œYou know that you spoil the men in this town,” she notes. “There isn’t another florist in this state who can be given credit for keeping marriages intact. You’re better than Dr. Phil.”
    â€œYeah, well, it’s a shame I don’t make his money.” I add Steven’s order to my Valentine list. I think about Jimmy and how I’m going to make all these deliveries next week.
    Nora reads my mind. “I can drive the van,” she says.
    I take a sip of my coffee and turn to her.
    â€œHe phoned me after he talked to you. They let him make two calls.”
    I raise my chin. I can’t think of what to say.
    â€œWe don’t usually talk about these things, but you should probably know,” she says. “I’m Jimmy’s sponsor.”
    So that’s it
, I think; that’s why the two of them seem so close. I knew Nora was an alcoholic too, but I had never considered that she was his sponsor. It does make perfect sense now, though, because as I recall, when I was thinking about hiring Jimmy, she had mentioned that she thought it was a good idea. I guess she figured it would help her keep an eye on him. And yet, thinking about the way things turned out, I’m not so sure it all worked out exactly as she had hoped.
    â€œDo you know what happened?”
    She shakes her head, walks over and picks up the broom, starts sweeping. “What always happens, I imagine.”
    I wait and I lean in. I realize I’ve waited for this answer all my life.
    â€œHe got thirsty.”
    I feel my eyebrows knit together. “That’s it? That’s what always happens?”
    She shrugs. “That’s what happens to me,” she answers.
    I’m about to ask her something else, something more, when the chime on the front door rings and we both turn to see who’s coming in so early.

• N INE •

    R UBY , I need some plants to take to an open house.”
    Kathy Shepherd walks in the door. I feel my backbone straighten. Kathy Shepherd is a real estate agent. She was the one who sold me the shop. She’s also my yoga instructor and she is always reminding me a string is pulling on the top of my head. “Up, up,” she says, lifting my posture every Saturday. She’s a little bossy in class but she’s all we’ve got in Creekside. There’s a gentle stretching class for seniors, but they’re real strict about the age limit because too many people were signing up and the old people complained. Kathy’s yoga class is the only one that those of us under fifty can join.
    â€œNothing too exotic,” she says. “It’s the Buckley place.”
    I know which house she means. It’s a traditional Colonial Revival style and sits on a large lot on the west side of town. Wade Buckley was the town veterinarian until he sold his practice and moved out to Waits Lake at the end of last year. He got ordained on the Internet and does weddings and pet funerals.
    â€œSomebody’s looking to buy Wade’s house?” Nora asks, and I wait for the answer.
    â€œThe new guy who bought his practice. John Cash is his name and I hope he’s got a lot of it.”
    â€œA lot of what?” Nora asks. She’s not always quick on her feet.
    â€œCash,” I say.
    â€œOh. His name is John Cash, like Johnny Cash?”
    Kathy shrugs. “He’s from the southern part of the state, near the Oregon border,” she tells us. “Recently divorced, I heard.”
    Nora glances over at me, giving me that hopeful look.
    â€œHas a lot of dogs,” Kathy adds.
    â€œWell, he is a vet,” I respond. “They’re