I called yesterday to let her know I’m coming. Had to leave a message because I know her caller ID shows my number and she never answers. Her assistant will answer, of course, which chaps my ass as much as Rose not answering. But oh well. She can toss her silicone in my face all she wants, nothing will sway me from my single-minded focus. Which is Rose. She’ll be working today though, she always is. She lives and breathes that shop.
And, it’s Valentine’s Day. Every florist in the world is working today.
I know what’s going to happen. I walk in the shop. She’ll take one look at me, turn and swish that sweet ass into the back room.
Thirty seconds later her employee, Kandi, will come flouncing out, twirling her hair, wearing a smile that sets my teeth on edge.
But I live in the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, today will be different. That maybe today is the day I’ll finally get Rose to see me.
Really see me, the same way I see her.
Because I have plans for her.
I park and hop out the driver’s door. My worn black boots splash a little slush around in a spatter. My gray and black checked flannel matches the darkened sky. It’s February, and even during the day that means the sun has forsaken us. Now, as evening drops a desaturated landscape of Duncansville’s short Main Street sprawls in front of me.
I squeeze a hand down the course hair that covers my face as I work my way to the back of the truck. Inside the back storage area there are six roses in a crystal vase. Not just the cheap glass ones 1-800-FLOWERS throws out there with every delivery. Nope. My roses deserve the finest Baccarat crystal and so does Rose.
This is my gig with Rose and her shop. I drop off samples of my roses to her every thirteen days. Exactly thirteen. Don’t ask me why, except in my crazy head fourteen days was too long and anything less felt like I was stalking her. Which I am, she just doesn’t know it.
Except there’s one thing that gives me fucking nightmares. That damn ring on her finger.
Not just any finger. The finger. Ring finger.
Left hand.
Yeah I know what you’re thinking. Let this one go. She’s taken.
Fuck.
It’s been haunting me since the moment I laid eyes on her. I’m not proud, but I’m not ashamed either. I followed her home that first night after I walked into her shop with a few sample blooms. I watched her go inside her little bungalow on Market Street. I sat there all fucking night, watching for signs of a husband.
I had to know.
That was the first night. I did that for the next four fucking nights. Nothing. No sign of anyone else coming or going. It’s been a struggle but I only allow myself two nights a week to follow her home now. Again, two nights a week seemed okay. Any more was excessive.
And, okay, I get the creepy factor here is high but I don’t give a shit, I went through her damn mail too. More than once.
Less than twenty times.
Again, I counted. I stopped at nineteen times because, well, just because.
Nothing addressed to anyone else besides Rose Everhart. So since I’m no tech wiz, I enlisted Norman. Fucking hell he gave me grief, but he also did a full public records search on my girl. No record of a marriage license anywhere.
So I’m thinking she’s not married, right? But then, why the damn ring? It bothers the fuck out of me.
Oh well, I’ll find out what’s up with that at a later date, but today something’s going to change. It has to. I can’t live like this.
I stomp over the wet sidewalk as I make my way to the door of Ever In Bloom, her flower shop.
Her shop lights cast white light out onto the street. The weather is strange around here. I mean, it’s February. Gloomy is part of living in this part of the country, but the temps are nearly always mild. It’s perfect for my plants to thrive. See, my roses take five times as long to grow and mature as the standard commercial Franken-GMO roses you find at every corner gas station and grocery store.
Mine are heirloom hybrids. Originated from antique seeds. Unique. Then, over the years, I’ve spliced varieties together to create what are the best, longest lasting, largest, most colorful and fragrant roses in the world. And that’s not pride speaking. I’m not lying on any of that, no bravado, just facts.
Roses are my life.
Until Rose.
The irony is annoying.