Everlasting by Nancy Thayer Read Free Book Online Page A

perfect,” the woman said sniffily. She reminded Catherine of her mother.
    “In that case,” Catherine replied in her snootiest Miss Brill’s voice, “shouldn’t you have a corresponding arrangement in your entrance hall? And perhaps one or two in your living room or library, wherever you’ll be having cocktails?”
    From the other end of the line came a gasp of surprise. But Catherine’s mother and grandmother always had every room filled with appropriate flowers when they gave parties.
    Catherine noticed that the little woman was looking at her with dismay, shaking her head wildly, so that the strands that had escaped from her bun waved back and forth like antennae.
    “Yes, actually, you’re quite right, what a good idea,” the woman said, her voice slightly less chilly.
    “A large one for your entrance hall and two or three smaller arrangements to be set around your living room?” Catherine’s voice was proportionately more haughty. She knew what was right. That was the way Catherine’s mother always had it done.
    “Yes, fine, perfect,” the woman said, now almost friendly.
    Catherine double-checked the woman’s name, phone number, and address before hanging up. She smiled at Mrs. Vanderveld, who was now looking back at her, nearly trembling.
    “Oh, dear, did she cancel her order?”
    “Oh, no, she agreed she needed more flowers,” Catherine said.
    “Oh, my. Well, that’s good, that’s all right, then,” the little woman said.
    Catherine was surprised at how worried Mrs. Vanderveld looked when the phone conversation had gone so well. There had been something quite satisfying about telling the haughty woman on the phone what to do, even if it was only with her flowers. She was beginning to think she would like working here.
    “But I don’t want you to answer the phone any more, please,” Mrs. Vanderveld said firmly. Seeing Catherine’s expression, she continued hurriedly: “You did beautifully, yes, it’s obvious that you know a lot about what flowers people like for their dinner parties. But you don’t know what flowers we have available, or which flowers we will be able to get for which days—and still make a profit. So you see talking on the phone with a customer is not just a matter of helping him decide what he wants, but helping him decide that he wants what we can give him , what we have available or know we can get, and for a reasonable price to him and yet making some little money for us.”
    “Oh,” Catherine said. “I see. There’s so much I don’t know.” She felt her good spirits evaporate.
    “You will learn, my dear. You are a smart girl, I can tell you will learn very quickly. Now I am exhausted, all this talking! Why don’t you go to the back and make us a cup of coffee? It is getting close to five o’clock. Often we have a rush then, people leaving for work, on their way to dinner parties, wanting to pick up a little something. I always try to have a little sit-down and a cup of coffee around now.”
    Catherine looked at her watch. It was already four o’clock. Mrs. Vanderveld climbed onto a high cushioned stool behind the counter. Catherine pushed aside the curtain and went into the now clean, garden-scented back room toward the hot plate.
    The back doors flew open and a slender, dark young man entered, his arms full of bags of potting soil. Grunting, he bent to set them on the floor, then straightened and looked at Catherine.
    “Hello,” he said formally. His face was terrifyingly beautiful, classic, exotic, as if carved in high relief.
    “Hello,” Catherine said, equally formal. Her legs had gone weak.
    “I’m Piet Vanderveld,” the man said, holding out his hand.
    “Oh,” said Catherine, taking it. His hand was warm and hard and callused. “I’m Catherine Eliot. I’m … I guess I’m …” She didn’t know what she was. A salesgirl?
    “The new help,” Piet said. “Good. We can use you. I’ve got another shipment to bring in. Could you hold