Drenched in Light (17 page)

“No rest fo’ the wicked,” Granmae joked, then motioned to a small table in the corner. “They’s coffee there, and some doughnuts. Yesterday’s, but they still good.”

“I’ll have some in a minute.” The woman with the flowers continued toward me, smiling, her eyes like bright blue marbles tucked among folds of weathered cloth. “I’m trying to watch my figure.” She winked, and I laughed. Something about her reminded me of Sister Margaret. The blue eyes, maybe, or the quick sense of humor. Sister Margaret could always make me laugh.

“How’s business this morning, Mim?” Granmae called from behind the counter.

Sighing, Mim, parked her cart, slipped off her jacket, then lowered herself into a chair. “Not so good.” Her lips kneaded like she was chewing on a thought. “They’re all in a hurry this morning. No one has time.”

“It’ll pick up,” Granmae assured her. “Maybe this lady might be needin’ some flowers.” Motioning to me, she fluffed my mother’s dress out on the counter. “She got a weddin’ to plan.”

“That so?” Mim turned to me with interest.

“My sister’s,” I told her. “I’m just helping with getting the dress ready, and things like that.”

“I see,” Mim said. “Well, perhaps a rose to take with you today?”

Nodding, I pulled out my wallet, out of habit. Since taking the job at Harrington, it seemed like all I did was buy student fund-raising cookies, coupon books, and candles I didn’t want. “Sure. I’ll take three. I can carry a couple home to my mother and sister.” It would be good to bring a peace offering tonight, considering this morning’s blowup about the dress. “Do they cure prewedding hysteria?”

Mim rose from her chair with surprising agility, now that a sale was at hand. “Oh, certainly. There’s no better pick-me-up for a weary heart than fresh flowers.” Tilting her chin upward, she winked at me. “Good way to clear up a spat, too.”

“Wonderful. I’d like the spat-clearing variety, please.” There was more lingering frustration in the comment than I’d intended.

Mim shook her head, muttering a regretful, “Umm-mmm-mmm.”

I rolled my eyes in silent admission of this morning’s eruption.

“That’s weddin’s. Lord a-mercy,” Granmae muttered from behind the counter as Mim selected two pink roses and a yellow one.

“How much?” I asked, thumbing through the bills in my wallet.

“No charge.” Patting my hands, Mim slipped the stems into my fingers. “The first ones are free.”

I instantly felt guilty. “No, really. Thank you, but I’m happy to pay for them.”

Lowering herself back into her chair, Mim waved me away. “They’re already paid for.”

“I can’t take your flowers,” I said, trying to hand them back.

At the counter, Granmae made a
tsk-tsk
under her breath. “Oh, honey, God makes the flowers; Mim just scatters them around.”

“Well said, Granmae.” Mim pushed away my hands and the flowers. “You take the roses, and if you want to pay me back, do someone else a kindness today.” Meeting my gaze, she crossed her arms over her chest in a wise, unhurried motion. “When you need more flowers, you come back to me. Mine are of the highest quality. I grow them myself. I water only from the rainwater in my cistern. The chlorine in this municipal water is too harsh on their little bodies. Probably not good for the rest of us, either.”

“Probably not,” I said, trying to imagine where anyone would have a cistern and a sizable greenhouse around here. It was too early in the year for the roses to have been grown outdoors. She was right that the roses were exquisite—large and full, with not a blemish or torn petal anywhere. Holding them up, I closed my eyes and drank in the soothing fragrance, the scent reminding me of my grandmother’s flower beds. “Do you do wedding flowers?” What was I saying? There was no way Bett would let me buy wedding flowers from a lady with a shopping cart downtown.

“I might.” When I opened my eyes, Mim was studying me, looking pleased.

“Do you have a business card? Or a phone number? I’ll talk to my sister about it.” Had I lost my mind? Bett was never going to go for this, and if she did, Mom would have a conniption that even spat-curing roses couldn’t fix.

Glancing toward the counter, Mim gave Granmae a knowing look, then said simply, “You can find me here.”

Granmae chuckled, clucking her tongue against her teeth, her full lips popping open with every sound, then pursing with concern as she looked over the wedding dress. “Honey, you better save yo’ money for this weddin’ dress. This is gonna be one expensive job. When did you say you needed it?”

“March ninth?” The words came out sounding like a plea, which, indeed, they were. “That would give us a week before the wedding, in case any last-minute alterations are needed.”

Dropping her chin against her ample chest, Granmae stared at me from beneath heavy eyelids. “What’d you say? You gotta be kiddin’.”

I groaned inwardly, trying to imagine how, after arguing with Mom about it, I could possibly take the dress to the corner cleaner in Overland Park. “Is there any chance? It’s really important to my sister. She’s always wanted to wear this dress, and we only have three weeks to plan the wedding. Her fiancé’s been transferred, and they’re moving away. It’s an emotional time, and I just want to make everything perfect for her. The wedding isn’t until March seventeenth. I could even pick the dress up that week, if you’re sure it will be ready.”

From behind the counter, Granmae grimaced as if I were causing her pain.

“Please?” I added. “We’ll pay extra.”

Mim’s hand fluttered into the air impatiently. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, take the girl’s dress. I’ll help you get it finished. You know I’m good with a needle.”

Granmae continued shaking her head, thumbing reluctantly through the yards and yards of discolored cloth. “Lord, oh, Lord, oh, Lord,” she muttered. “Lord, have mercy. I don’ know. Are these pins marking where you want the hem?”

“Yes.” I nodded hopefully. “And my mother marked a few small alterations to the bodice, as well. She used to be a seamstress, so when we get the dress back, if there are any other minor changes needed, she can take care of it.”
I hope.

“
Lord,
have mercy,” Granmae said again, shaking her head. “You gonna git me in trouble with some folks who been waitin’ a lot longer than this for dresses to be ready.”

“I won’t tell
anyone
.”

Her nostrils flared with a long breath as she braced her hands on the counter. “You realize this gown ain’t gonna be white when I get through. It’ll be antique, a warm ivory color. That all right?” I nodded, and she returned to the dress. “I’ll have to dig through my scraps and find some lace to match this that’s missin’ here. That costs extra.”

“Just let me know how much.” I stopped short of saying,
Anything, anything you want, it’s yours. . . .

Silence enveloped us as I stood holding my roses, waiting for—breathless for—Granmae’s verdict. Why it seemed like such a big deal, I couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the antique dresses in the window that gave me such confidence she could make my mother’s gown perfect for Bethany.

“All right,” she acquiesced finally. “You come by at the end a’ the day, and I’ll have a list with everything it’ll need and what it’s gonna cost.”

“Great,” I said, bouncing in place like I’d been picked for contestants’ row on
The Price Is Right
. I felt as if I’d just won the lotto, as if I should pump a hand in the air and scream,
Yes, yes, yes! I’ve just accomplished something my mother thought I couldn’t handle. Woo-hoo!

Checking my watch, I realized that if I didn’t get going, I would be late for work. Even though I didn’t have hall duty this week, I still had to be there before the second bell rang. Mrs. Morris would, no doubt, be watching. “I’d better go,” I said, turning toward the door. “I work right down the road at Harrington, so I’ll come by after school and look at the estimate.” Granmae stiffened slightly at the mention of Harrington, and I sensed that, if I’d divulged that information earlier, she wouldn’t have taken the dress. As it was, she swept it off the counter less than carefully.

“Thanks,” I added, fishing for my keys. “Really. This means a lot.”

“Welcome,” she called, as she headed for the back room and I turned toward the door.

Mim craned her chin upward with a wicked twinkle in her eye. “She was going to take the dress all along,” she whispered behind her fingers. “She just likes to make sure her work will be properly appreciated.”

“It will be,” I promised, waving with the roses in my hand. “And thanks for the flowers.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’ll talk to my sister about the bouquets for the wedding.” The scent of the roses was all around me just before I opened the door and let in the cool morning air. I imagined that fragrance enveloping Bett’s wedding, saturating everyone and everything with the promise of something incredible and beautiful and new. “These flowers are absolutely lovely.”

Mim patted her bucket benevolently. “They know when someone loves them. Mine are sturdy flowers. Not like the ones that are grown in hothouses. I protect my plants, but not too much. A little adversity makes them strong.”

I wondered again where she grew the plants, but there was no time to ask, so I thanked her again and went on. The sounds and smells of the street assaulted me in a gust of brisk February air, chasing away the comfortable silence of the old shop, the scent of aging fabric, and the aroma of roses. Gazing down the street, I studied the bars and taco stands, watching vehicles come and go as I slipped into my car. Undoubtedly, some of them were from Harrington. But how deep did the problem go, and what was I going to do about it?

T
he faculty parking lot was crowded by the time I pulled into an empty space by the back fence next to the student parking area. By seven forty-five, most of the staff members had already reported. The parent drop-off lane in front of the middle school was crowded bumper-to-bumper, and a steady stream of cars was headed around back to the high school building, as well. In the student parking area, the middle school music director, Mr. Verhaden, was trying to hustle sluggish kids toward the building. Obviously, he had been given the dreaded parking lot duty, an honor that fortunately, I had missed out on this week. Standing in a cold parking lot watching for fights, stopping kids from making out in backseats, and chasing loiterers from the bushes was everyone’s least favorite assignment.

Buttoning up my coat as I climbed out of my car, I studied the high school students’ vehicles, watching kids amble toward the building, girls in tight jeans, formfitting T-shirts, and bare feet with flip-flops, despite the fact that it was a typically chilly late-winter morning. The boys presented an opposite picture, their bodies draped in wrinkled T-shirts and oversize jeans hiked to just the right height—drooping, but not quite falling off. Both boys and girls struggled up the stairs carrying backpacks, instrument cases, art portfolios, and athletic bags.

Now I wondered what else they were carrying. What might be hidden among the paraphernalia they came and went with every day, and how would anyone know?

A silver Lexus whipped into the parking lot, and Mr. Verhaden wagged a finger, honing in on the car as if he were tracking it with a radar gun. The driver, a high school boy with shaggy dyed-black hair, hit the brakes, then lifted his hands in apology. Rolling down the window, he stuck his head out, grinning.

“Sorry, Mr. Verhaden.”

Verhaden glanced skeptically at his watch. “Working on another tardy today, Sebastian?”

“No, sir,” Sebastian replied, leaning farther out the window as Mr. Verhaden peered at the backseat passengers, then reached down and opened the back door.

“Boys, you’d better hop out here and hustle to class,” he commanded, ushering out the passengers, a couple of my eighth-grade students from last Friday’s algebra class. Cameron, the student council vice president who couldn’t stay awake in algebra, seemed plenty chipper this morning. Stuffing breakfast in his mouth while grabbing his backpack, saxophone, and lunch bag, he posed for a moment with his hand on the car door, glancing around to make sure his middle school friends noticed that he’d arrived in an ultracool high schooler’s car, rather than with his mom or dad, as was usually the case.

“All right, get moving,” Verhaden insisted, pointing sternly toward the steps. Cameron and his friend backed away from the car.

“OK, Mr. Verhaden,” Cameron mumbled with part of a tortilla hanging down his chin.

Breakfast tacos,
I thought, studying the car. Had the boys gone by the taco stands this morning? Was Sebastian’s silver Lexus one of the cars I’d seen driving down Division Street?

Cameron noticed me watching as he jogged toward the building. “Hey, Ms. C. You teaching algebra today?”

“I hope not,” I called back, glancing toward the high schooler’s car a second time.