The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh Read Free Book Online Page B

Renata and waited for her to look up. She glanced at the table where the full vases sat in a straight line.
    “Good,” she said, nodding her approval. “Better than good, actually. Surprising. It’s hard to believe you haven’t been taught.”
    “I haven’t,” I said.
    “I know.” She looked me up and down in a way I disliked. “Load up the truck. I’ll be done here in a minute.”
    I carried the vases up the hill two at a time. When Renata had finished, we carried the tall vase together, laying it down gently on the already-full truck bed. Walking back into the shop, she removed all the cash from the register, closing and locking the drawer. I expected her to pay me, but instead she handed me paper and a pencil.
    “I’ll pay you when I get back,” she said. “The wedding is just over the hill. Keep the shop open, and tell my customers they can pay next time.” Renata waited until I nodded, and then walked out the door.
    Alone in the flower shop, I was unsure of what to do. I stood behind the manual cash register for a few moments, studying the peeling green paint. The street outside was quiet. A family walked by without pausing, without looking in the window. I thought about opening the door and dragging out a few buckets of orchids but remembered the years I’d spent stealing from outdoor displays. Renata would not approve.
    Instead I walked into the workroom, picked stray stems off the table, and tossed them in the waste bin. I wiped down the table with a damp cloth, swept the floor. When I could think of nothing else, I opened the heavy metal door of the walk-in, peering inside. It was dark and cool, with flowers lining the walls. The space drew me in, and I wanted nothing more than to unpin my brown blanket petticoat and fall asleep between the buckets. I was tired. For an entire week I’d slept in half-hour stretches, pulled out of sleep by voices, nightmares, or both. Always, the sky was white, steam from the brewery billowing above me. Each morning, minutes passed before I pulled myself from panic, smoke-filled dreams dispersing into the night sky like the steam. Lying still, I reminded myself I was eighteen and alone: no longer a child, with nothing more to lose.
    Now, in the safety of the empty flower shop, I wanted to sleep. The door clicked shut behind me, and I slunk onto the floor, leaning my temple against the lip of a bucket.
    I had just found a comfortable position when a voice came muted through the walk-in. “Renata?”
    I jumped to my feet. Running my fingers quickly through my hair, I stepped out of the walk-in, squinting into the bright light.
    A white-haired man leaned against the counter, tapping his fingers impatiently.
    “Renata?” he asked again when he saw me.
    I shook my head. “She’s delivering flowers to a wedding. Can I help you with something?”
    “I need flowers. Why else would I be here?” He waved his arm around the room as if to remind me of my occupation. “Renata never asks me what I want. I wouldn’t know a rose from a radish.”
    “What’s the occasion?” I asked.
    “My granddaughter’s sixteenth birthday. She doesn’t want to spend it with us, I’m sure, but her mother is insisting.” He pulled a white rose from a blue bucket and inhaled. “I’m not looking forward to it. She’s turned into a sulky one, that girl.”
    Mentally, I scanned the flower choices in the walk-in, surveyed the showroom. A birthday present for a sulky teenager: The old man’s words were a puzzle, a challenge.
    “White roses are a good choice,” I said, “for a teenage girl. And maybe some lily of the valley?” I withdrew a long stem, ivory bells dangling.
    “Whatever you think,” he said.
    Arranging the flowers and wrapping them in brown paper as I had seen Renata do, I felt a buoyancy similar to what I’d felt slipping the dahlias under the bedroom doors of my housemates the morning I turned eighteen. It was a strange feeling—the excitement of a secret combined