Sleeping with Anemone (8 page)

“You got that right.”

“But not because you’ll be there, Marco. Because I won’t let him. It’s all about mental attitude.”

“Trust me, Sunshine. It won’t come to that.”

Arrogance. Straight into the minus column.

E
ven though I had to park my Corvette in the city parking garage and tip the attendant extra to make sure no one touched my car, I was really glad to see Monday come, because Sunday was a serious bummer. After church, I was swarmed by concerned family and friends who’d seen the cable news report about the brick and had all kinds of warnings for me; after lunch, Marco and I saw a boring war movie—his choice, since I picked last time—and after supper, I had to do laundry that had piled up all week, while he watched a football game.

All of which made Monday a real treat, especially since the sun was out, the snow had melted, and Valentine’s Day was rapidly approaching, which meant an increase in profits for my struggling flower shop. Another bonus: The window repairman arrived promptly at eight thirty a.m., so that when Grace opened the shop at nine, a brand-new beveled glass pane greeted the customers. And there were lots of them, some making straight for the parlor to get their morning java, some browsing the arrangements and gift items on display, and others placing orders for the holiday.

I saw many of our regular customers and met new ones. Some who I thought were new seemed to know me, so I pretended to remember them when they stopped to say how terrible it was that a person couldn’t feel safe on her own town square. One woman in particular looked familiar—how do you forget hair that big?—and I nearly said something chatty to her, but then someone asked me a question about flowers, and I lost track of her.

Although we barely had a moment to breathe, it was a great morning, profit-wise. Amazing what the threat of a store burning to the ground could do to motivate shoppers.

Suddenly it was almost two o’clock and Marco was there to escort me to Nils Raand’s office.

“We had the most amazing day,” I told Marco as we pulled into the huge parking lot in front of the Uniworld Distribution Center. “I am so psyched. Mark my words. Before we leave Raand’s office, I’ll have a signed agreement in my hand.”

“I think you’re being a little naive, Sunshine. You’re talking about a huge conglomerate here. Nothing happens swiftly in that environment.”

We dodged a semitrailer truck leaving one of the dozen loading docks that ran across the front of the warehouse, then walked up to a small, steel door on the end of the building nearest to us. Marco held it open and I stepped inside, gazing around in wonder at the rows of two-story-high shelving stocked with boxes of goods. Small cherry pickers were at work loading and unloading more boxes, their beeps echoing through the enormous space.

Marco pointed toward the ceiling, where we could see an office with a big window that overlooked the operation. We headed toward a staircase that would take us to it, but before we were halfway up, a woman in a neat navy suit appeared at the top. She ushered us into a reception area and offered us a selection of beverages. Marco took a glass of water but I declined. I didn’t want to have to balance anything on my knee, especially if things got heated. I might end up dousing Raand with it.

When we stepped inside Raand’s office, he came around his desk, his gaze flickering over Marco, coolly assessing him, before lighting on me and turning downright icy. “Miss Knight.”

“Mr. Raand, this is Marco Salvare, my, er”—what should I call him? A boyfriend? It sounded so twelfth grade—“partner.”

Raand shook Marco’s hand, each man taking the other’s measure, while I glanced around. His office appeared to have come straight from an IKEA showroom—light wood, simple lines, and no personal touches at all. Not one photo, award, coffee mug, or pencil cup. The top of his desk, a long, straight-legged table, was bare, save for an intercom/telephone and a silver laptop. The entire room seemed sterile and off-putting, just like Nils Raand.

“Please. Sit.” Raand indicated a tan leather sofa against the wall. I put my purse on the floor by my feet, as Marco settled beside me. Raand looked comfortably relaxed in an adjacent brown chair, his hands resting on the chair arms.

“So. What can I do for you?”

“Give me an assurance that no hormones will be used on your cows,” I stated.

“Cows must have the lactation hormone in order to produce milk,” he replied.

“Their own natural hormones, not a synthetic version cooked up in a laboratory,” I countered. “I’m sure you’ve seen studies on the effects of syn—”

“Studies, Miss Knight,” he cut in sharply, “can be manipulated.”

“Your studies, perhaps,” I shot back, as his expression stiffened. “You saw the photos of those poor cows. Did they look natural to you? How would you like it if your mother—”

Marco put his hand on my arm to stop me. “Look, Mr. Raand, you know what Uniworld is doing isn’t right. And you know these protests aren’t going to go away, not here in New Chapel or anywhere else in the country, especially with PAR working so hard to get the word out. All this negative publicity can’t be good for Uniworld’s bottom line. So go back to whoever makes decisions on the health and safety of your product and tell them it’s time to change their policy. Then we’ll get the media in to take photos of you signing an agreement to stop using synthetic hormones, the protests will go away, and everyone will be satisfied.”

Raand tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, studying Marco as though he were plotting how to dissect him. “Interesting idea.” He got up from his chair. “You will hear from me.” Then, giving us a slight nod, he strode out of the office.

Wait. What just happened?

“That was easy,” Marco said, standing.

“Are you serious? We didn’t accomplish squat.”

“He got the message, Abby. You’ll see.”

I rolled my eyes. “You thought
I
was naive.”

“Give me a little credit, Sunshine. I excelled in hostage negotiations. I know how to reason with difficult people. It’s all about hitting them where they’re vulnerable, and for a big company, that means their bottom line. Profits. Keeping shareholders happy. You watch. Within the week, things will start happening.”

I went to the doorway and glanced out into the hall, but Raand was nowhere to be seen. Instantly, his secretary rose from her desk. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes. Get Mr. Raand back here for a real discussion.”

“Mr. Raand is in a meeting.”

“You mean he
was
in a meeting. He walked out before it was over.”

“We’ll schedule this for another time,” Marco said to me, trying to lead me out

I wasn’t about to let Raand control the situation. I sat on a chair in the waiting area. “I’m not leaving until he comes back.”

 

We were escorted out by the same beefy security guards who’d eaten Mom’s candy. Marco said it was my fault. Wasn’t he supposed to support me?

 

At four o’clock that afternoon, my mom breezed in and motioned for Grace, Lottie, and me to follow her. Then, away from curious customers, she opened a small gift box to show us her latest work of art, something that vaguely resembled my brooch, except that the elegant anthurium of the original was nowhere to be seen.

“That’s so—retro,” I said, trying to pump enthusiasm into my voice.

So intently were Lottie and Grace studying Mom’s copy that neither spoke for a full thirty seconds. Then Grace exclaimed, “Oh, it’s a flower!”

“An orchid,” Lottie chirped. “No, Dutch iris. A bright red lily.”

“Anthurium,” I said quietly.

“My next choice,” Lottie said, smiling broadly at my mother. “Very nice, Maureen.”

“Lovely,” Grace said.

Mom heaved a sigh. “Thank you for being kind, but I know it’s awful. I couldn’t seem to get it to come out right.”

Lottie put a hefty arm around my mom’s shoulders. “It is not awful, Maureen. It’s simply more of a modern style than we’re used to, like art psycho.”

“Deco,” I murmured.

“Art deco,” Lottie said quickly, her plump cheeks staining scarlet.

Psycho fit better.

“Thank you, Lottie,” Mom said dispiritedly, “but I think I’d better go back to my studio and try again. Abigail, may I borrow the brooch this time?”

“Absolutely.” I darted around a pair of shoppers and through the curtain.

“Shall we try to sell this copy anyway?” I heard Grace ask her. “I’ve just the spot for it, here, on the middle shelf of the armoire. See? It’s visible from all parts of the room.”

I’d get Grace for that. “Here you go, Mom.” I presented her with the brooch from my beret, which she set carefully inside the box.

She kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you, honey. I’ll bring it back in a few days. And remember your promise.”

“How could I forget?” I called as she hurried out.

“What promise is that, love?” Grace asked. “Your engagement?”

“Yes. And did you really need to tell Mom you’d place her brooch on the middle shelf where it’s visible from all parts of the room?”

“Your poor mum,” Grace said quietly. “One has to feel sorry for her, poor dear. She never gets it quite right, does she?”

“At least she left smiling,” Lottie said, passing behind us. “Crisis averted.”

The bell jingled and my cousin Jillian sashayed in.

“Forget I said that,” Lottie muttered, and hurried into the workroom, while Grace slipped into the parlor to refill coffee mugs and teacups.

“Abs, there you are,” Jillian called breathlessly. “I need help.”

She was twenty-six. She’d just figured that out?

Jillian Ophelia Knight-Osborne, my only female cousin, was the daughter of Aunt Corrine and Uncle Doug, and the wife of Claymore Osborne, brother to the swine who jilted me. Jillian was a year younger than me, which should have given me an advantage, except that she was a head taller, a hundred times richer, and a heck of a lot thinner. Which was to say that I was short, poor, and busty.

What we had in common were genes. We both had shoulder-length red hair—hers was a shimmering copper waterfall of silk; mine was more of a rust-colored twine—and freckles—hers a soft sprinkle of cocoa powder across her dainty nose; mine a shower of cinnamon. We also had the Irish stubbornness gene, which had resulted in many disagreements as kids and even more as adults. We functioned like sisters, basically, always battling for the seat by the window.

“I need a gift for a bridal shower,” she said, her gaze scanning the room for possibilities. “But it has to be
trés
chic. Extraordinaire. Fantastique! And I need it today.”

Jillian also had the show-off gene, which, luckily, had missed me. Today she was wearing a short black cashmere swing coat, black fishnet tights, ankle-high black patent spike-heeled boots, and a black leather beret. Clearly, we’d both read the same article in
Lucky
saying berets were hot this season. . . . On second thought, Jillian would have seen it in
Vogue
.

“How about crystal candlesticks?” I asked, ringing up my customer’s purchase.

“Are they Tiffany’s?”

I thanked the customer, then turned to my hapless cousin. “Tiffany’s!”

She flapped her arms. “The shower is tonight, Abby. Help me!”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” I hissed, “we’re a little busy at the moment.”

“You’re right! I’ve never seen so many people in here. You should have someone throw a burning brick through your door more often.”

Another difference between us: the common sense gene.

While I took another payment, Jillian roamed the displays, examining, weighing, pondering, and rejecting everything. She ended up in the parlor sipping cups of espresso until we closed up shop at five o’clock.

“Okay,” she said, returning from the bathroom, “what am I going to take to the shower?”

“How about a gift certificate?” I asked. “The bride-to-be can pick out something for herself later or apply it toward wedding flowers, which would give me her wedding business.”