Buying Her Flower

Chapter 1

Sheila

“My grandson sends me petunias on my birthday. But that’s about all he’s good for. He forgets about me all the other days of the year!”

I nod my head patiently, and keep the big smile that’s plastered on my face still, trying not to grit my teeth.

Today has not been fantastic.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy working here at the Love in Bloom flower shop. It’s the kind of place I’ve always dreamed of owning. For now, though, I settle for being employed here.

I have always tried my best to be a professional and helpful worker, especially at times like these when the owner of the store is watching me, of course. Right now, though, my attention is on the elderly lady standing in front of me and it’s rather strained. I’m having to do my best to stay patient.

“What are some flowers I could get that I haven’t mentioned yet?” she demands.

She’s gone down the list of all the people in her life to whom she has ever given flowers and why. Then she started in on listing all the people who have ever given her flowers, what type they were, and why they did so. Now, she at least seems to be moving on to asking me different questions about various kinds of flowers.

“Well, some of the easiest flowers to take care of, among those you haven’t mentioned, are daylilies and cosmos,” I politely explain to her, glad to have a way to hurry the conversation along.

She looks around again.

“I’m just not sure….” she replies. “Can I have a few more minutes to decide?”

“Of course, take as much time as you need,” I answer her.

She’s probably just a tire kicker, a lonely lady here to talk and not really to buy, but it’s still my job to help her out.

She smiles at me, then walks around, picking up various plants and shaking her head at each one before putting it back down. I watch her for a second, wanting to smile and shake my head but also not wanting to be too obvious about my reaction to her.

I decide to go back to my task of watering some of the other flowers. They face the window, so I can smile without anyone seeing me.

Marsha, the owner and manager of the flower shop, walks by me; she had been standing nearby and watching me with the customer. I turn around to greet her and see that she’s carrying a file of papers under her arm.

“Good morning!” I greet her, happy now that I’m free of the lonely old lady customer.

Marsha’s a little weird but we’ve become friends and I’d way rather talk to her than hear about a niece named Becky who was sent daffodils for graduation but was too rude to write a thank you note in return.

“Good morning, Sheila!” she replies.

She sets the file by the register and looks at me.

“Sheila, I just wanted to compliment you on your professionalism. I overheard you helping that customer, and I really admire your patience,” she says to me.

Her words fill me with pride.

“Thank you! I really like my work here. Actually, it’s always been a dream of mine to own my own flower shop like this,” I confess to her.

She goes to the register, checking the cash and change in the drawer.

“If you keep working as hard as you have been, I have no doubt that you’ll be able to accomplish that,” she replies, with a smile, before walking back to her office.

I go back to helping the elderly lady, who has finally settled on a nice vase of cosmos, believe it or not. At least all my time spent with her wasn’t for nothing. And she smiles at their beauty, which makes me happy.

The shop is empty after she leaves; it’s a slow day. I walk around and clean up. I then busy myself with removing some of the thorns from the roses. I can hear Marsha giggling on the phone; she must be talking to her husband.

A few minutes later, she walks back out into the main part of the store, with an expensive Louis Vuitton purse slung over her shoulder like it always is whenever she’s coming or going.

“Sheila, can you handle the store for about thirty minutes? I have to run to the bank,” she asks me.

“Of course! It’s such a slow day; it’ll be easy,” I reply, looking up from the flowers I’m arranging.

“Great! See you when I get back!” she says, hurrying out the door.

I just smile, then get back to work. I know she’s actually going to have lunch with her husband. He treats her out about three times a week. He can afford it; he’s a real estate tycoon.

While I snip the stems on a bouquet of roses and start to wrap them up, I’m torn between being envious of the type of marriage they have and of being distrustful of it. I know I couldn’t handle being married.