'Til Grits Do Us Part by Jennifer Rogers Spinola Page A

know how you work.” I kept my tone icy and detached. “Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing you didn’t send these. Because whoever did is going to be in big trouble. And not just with me.
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    I paused. “And don’t you dare say a word about me and the stupid cow. Got it?”
    And I hung up on the longest, most profound silence I’d ever heard from Carlos Torres Castro.

    So Carlos hadn’t sent them after all.
    I stared at the offending roses a few minutes, thinking, the quiet office swirling around me. Then I reached for the phone book and paged through until I found Rask Florist.
    â€œThis is Brandy,” said the woman who picked up. “Can I help ya?”
    â€œI need to know who sent me this rose bouquet.” I told her my name and information then turned the vase around, hunting for the card. “Did the card come typed already, or did someone at your store type it?”
    â€œI don’t know nothin’, hon. Sorry.”
    â€œNothing? You can’t tell me anything at all?” I tapped my pen on my desk in frustration. “Don’t you have any records? Receipts?”
    â€œI reckon, but I don’t know where they are. I’ll leave a message for Tammy to call ya. She’s the manager.”
    â€œWhen will she be in?”
    â€œUh…I dunno. This afternoon, maybe? Sorry.”
    I threw down my pen. For crying out loud. Even calling Carlos had been more profitable than Brandy at Rask. Sheesh.
    I dropped the phone in its cradle and pushed my chair back then strode through the cubicles and plopped the vase on Chastity’s desk. “There’s a mistake. These must be for you. Jeff’s always sending you flowers.”
    â€œWhat? These?” She looked up in surprise from her computer screen, which she’d plastered with photos of Jeff in heart-shaped frames. “No way. I never let Jeff get me roses this dark.”
    â€œBut they’re not from Adam.”
    Chastity squinted up at me. “Isn’t your name on the card?”
    â€œYes, but nobody else would send me a love message like that. It’s got to be a mistake.” I shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t keep them, Chastity. It’s weird.”
    Chastity reached out a perfumed arm, adorned by a gold charm bracelet, and turned the arrangement around. “I only accept roses from one shop in town.” Her nose turned up. “And it’s not Rask.”
    I put my hands on my hips. “Well, don’t you think Jeff might have…I don’t know, gotten you something different?”
    She turned frosty eyes to me like I’d suggested she wear Uncle Herb’s overalls to work. “Something…different. No.”

    I dumped the roses on a side table, which was still littered with the remains of Priyasha the marketing woman’s birthday cake, and tossed the card in the trash.
    â€œTo my angel. I can’t wait to share my life with you only, no matter what.”
    The words stuck in my head like a bad ’80s song: the singer’s long, puffy hair shivering on the last note. Not that I’d say that to Kyoko, who glorified everything ’80s. Especially if it came clad in black or pounding an angry British guitar.
    It felt…weird. Just a little bit. I dug the note out of the trash and tossed it in my desk drawer—just to be safe.
    The mail cart squeaked by, laden with FedEx packages, and I glanced up at Clarence. His frazzled white-and-gray head looked like he’d just stood in front of a high-speed fan and hair-sprayed the result.
    â€œYou’re sure you don’t know who sent the flowers, Clarence? You usually bring in the mail.”
    â€œDon’t look at me. Chastity took the delivery. I swear I had nothin’ to do with it.” He grinned and stroked his grizzled chin with a wrinkled, ink-stained finger. “But I did get a pitcher of you on my cell phone with some