“Marian,” he warns, his voice low, “are you sure about that?”
“Do you remember what it’s called?” she says tersely. “The White Rose? I think I may have their card somewhere. It came with one of the arrangements.”
He is silent for a moment. “All right. I have one.”
“That’s it.” She is breathless with strain. “Bring it out and say good-bye, then we can do a bit more before you have to leave.” She puts down the phone. Expectantly, the other two turn toward the kitchen.
The office door opens and closes. They hear footfalls, Oliver in unaccustomed heels—just as well they aren’t high heels—approaching.
Then he is there, her strangely lovely girl, smiling shyly, with the white business card in one hand. Valerie stares, uncharacteristically silent, her lips pursed in concentration. “Oh,” Oliver says. “I didn’t know someone else had come.”
“I am Valerie Annis,” says Valerie, staring.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” says Oliver politely. “My name is Olivia.”
“Olivia…” Valerie shakes hands, but lets the name linger. She is angling for a surname.
“I work with Professor Kahn.”
“That must be fascinating.”
Oliver smiles but doesn’t answer. He has gleaned that Marian wants this cut short. He is helping.
“I understand you have something for me, Olivia,” says Barton.
Oliver extends the card.
“And do you approve of this place?” He glances: “The White Rose?”
“Yes, they do very nice work. Professor Kahn gets flowers from them sometimes.” His pride is now engaged. Marian watches him look past the group to the roses. His roses. “I think…,” he says pointing, “aren’t those from the White Rose, Professor Kahn?”
“I think so,” she agrees reluctantly.
“Of course, I don’t know anything about flowers,” Olivia continues with becoming modesty, “but I think they’re the most beautiful roses I’ve ever seen.”
Marian gives him a brief look. Brief, but pointed.
“Well, that’s quite a recommendation,” says Barton. “Perhaps one day someone might send you some flowers from the White Rose.”
“Oh,” Olivia says, “I doubt that.”
“We’ll see.” He raises an eyebrow and nods meaningfully. “I’ll tell you what. May I put you in charge of this errand for me? I would like to have some flowers sent to a young lady. Some roses I think. And they must be white.”
“Oh,” Oliver gives Marian a brief, uncertain look. “Well, I’d be happy to.”
“You’re very sweet,” Barton says. “And, may I say, very charming.”
“And very busy, ” Marian says pointedly. “Really, Barton, can’t you take care of this yourself?”
“No, no,” Oliver smiles. “It’s fine. I’m glad to do it.”
“Well, I’d be appreciative,” Barton purrs. “Next Friday will be fine. I’ll write down the address.” And he reaches into his jacket for a pen and one of his own cards. Marian watches him write: Sophie Klein, 1109 Fifth Avenue. No apartment number, no zip code. And no instructions about payment, she notes.
“How should Olivia arrange the bill?” Marian says shortly, and he makes a dismissive gesture as he hands over the card.
“Oh. Have it sent to The Retreat. That will be fine.”
Fine for you, she thinks. Bills sent to The Retreat probably all disappear into the same black hole of nonpayment. Perhaps this one will even be absorbed by some trumped up “restoration” project to be delineated as part of Barton’s prenuptial agreement. Sophie Klein, in other words, will end up paying for her own flowers. Well, thinks Marian, she’d better get used to that.
Barton’s hand lingers for an extra moment in Oliver’s hand. Then he leaves his card behind. “You’ll take care of it for me?”
“I will,” Oliver says amiably.
Well, what is she worried about? Marian thinks with resignation. This is a good development for Oliver and his shop, possibly even a great one. It’s an expensive order, or will
“Do you remember what it’s called?” she says tersely. “The White Rose? I think I may have their card somewhere. It came with one of the arrangements.”
He is silent for a moment. “All right. I have one.”
“That’s it.” She is breathless with strain. “Bring it out and say good-bye, then we can do a bit more before you have to leave.” She puts down the phone. Expectantly, the other two turn toward the kitchen.
The office door opens and closes. They hear footfalls, Oliver in unaccustomed heels—just as well they aren’t high heels—approaching.
Then he is there, her strangely lovely girl, smiling shyly, with the white business card in one hand. Valerie stares, uncharacteristically silent, her lips pursed in concentration. “Oh,” Oliver says. “I didn’t know someone else had come.”
“I am Valerie Annis,” says Valerie, staring.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” says Oliver politely. “My name is Olivia.”
“Olivia…” Valerie shakes hands, but lets the name linger. She is angling for a surname.
“I work with Professor Kahn.”
“That must be fascinating.”
Oliver smiles but doesn’t answer. He has gleaned that Marian wants this cut short. He is helping.
“I understand you have something for me, Olivia,” says Barton.
Oliver extends the card.
“And do you approve of this place?” He glances: “The White Rose?”
“Yes, they do very nice work. Professor Kahn gets flowers from them sometimes.” His pride is now engaged. Marian watches him look past the group to the roses. His roses. “I think…,” he says pointing, “aren’t those from the White Rose, Professor Kahn?”
“I think so,” she agrees reluctantly.
“Of course, I don’t know anything about flowers,” Olivia continues with becoming modesty, “but I think they’re the most beautiful roses I’ve ever seen.”
Marian gives him a brief look. Brief, but pointed.
“Well, that’s quite a recommendation,” says Barton. “Perhaps one day someone might send you some flowers from the White Rose.”
“Oh,” Olivia says, “I doubt that.”
“We’ll see.” He raises an eyebrow and nods meaningfully. “I’ll tell you what. May I put you in charge of this errand for me? I would like to have some flowers sent to a young lady. Some roses I think. And they must be white.”
“Oh,” Oliver gives Marian a brief, uncertain look. “Well, I’d be happy to.”
“You’re very sweet,” Barton says. “And, may I say, very charming.”
“And very busy, ” Marian says pointedly. “Really, Barton, can’t you take care of this yourself?”
“No, no,” Oliver smiles. “It’s fine. I’m glad to do it.”
“Well, I’d be appreciative,” Barton purrs. “Next Friday will be fine. I’ll write down the address.” And he reaches into his jacket for a pen and one of his own cards. Marian watches him write: Sophie Klein, 1109 Fifth Avenue. No apartment number, no zip code. And no instructions about payment, she notes.
“How should Olivia arrange the bill?” Marian says shortly, and he makes a dismissive gesture as he hands over the card.
“Oh. Have it sent to The Retreat. That will be fine.”
Fine for you, she thinks. Bills sent to The Retreat probably all disappear into the same black hole of nonpayment. Perhaps this one will even be absorbed by some trumped up “restoration” project to be delineated as part of Barton’s prenuptial agreement. Sophie Klein, in other words, will end up paying for her own flowers. Well, thinks Marian, she’d better get used to that.
Barton’s hand lingers for an extra moment in Oliver’s hand. Then he leaves his card behind. “You’ll take care of it for me?”
“I will,” Oliver says amiably.
Well, what is she worried about? Marian thinks with resignation. This is a good development for Oliver and his shop, possibly even a great one. It’s an expensive order, or will
Similar Books
