The Smart One (20 page)

And so Weezy had called him to make an appointment. This was actually the first appointment she’d made since the wedding was called off. All of the others were ones that were already set up, and this felt in some ways like she was crossing a line. It was one thing to peruse websites, and to e-mail for information, but now she was actually meeting with someone. But she was so curious to see what he had to show her, and she loved flowers, and really, what was the big deal?

Samuel worked out of his own florist shop, which was small and damp. There was some temperature-controlled room to the left that housed plants, and a large refrigerated portion up front that held cut flowers. The smell of flowers was thick, but not overwhelming. Then again, Weezy loved the smell of flowers. She loved everything about them, watching them bloom and flourish in her backyard. It was so satisfying to plant something and know what would spring up from the ground—that is, as long as the squirrels and chipmunks minded their own business. You always knew what you were getting when you planted a flower, and Weezy liked that.

When she opened the door, the shop was empty. She walked to the desk and waited a moment, then rang the little bell that was there. A large, balding, sort of roundish man peeked out from the back. “Mrs. Coffey?” he asked, and Weezy nodded.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, pointing to the bell. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I just wasn’t sure …”

“Of course not! Come on, let’s take a seat over at the table.”

Samuel was not what she expected. He had the build of an old high school football player, his voice was deep and booming, and he was wearing a blue-checked button-down polo shirt, which was identical to one that Will owned.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Weezy said. “Sally said the nicest things about you.”

“She’s great, isn’t she?”

The two of them sat at a long table and Samuel spread several glossy books filled with pictures of floral arrangements in front of them. Weezy couldn’t help but sneak looks at Samuel. She was surprised at how, well, manly he was. Then she was ashamed of herself for being surprised. What did she expect? That just because he owned a flower shop he was going to be a tiny, delicate, feminine man? Well, yes, that’s exactly what she had expected.

“So, how long have you been doing this?” Weezy asked.

“Oh, forever,” Samuel said with a laugh. “This was my parents’ shop, and I worked here growing up, helping out as a little guy, then part-time during high school and college, and full-time after that. I really took to it, and I was lucky because when my parents got ready to retire, none of my eight siblings was even the least bit interested.”

“Eight!”

“Yes, eight.” Samuel laughed again. “You’d think there’d be a few more green thumbs in the bunch, but there was just me.”

“I love to garden,” Weezy said. “I think of myself as a green thumb too.”

“Great,” Samuel said. “Then this will be fun.” He placed his hands, palm down, on top of the books. “So what I usually do is flip through these books, and just have you point out anything that grabs your attention—good or bad. Then we can look through some of my photos from weddings I’ve done. We can talk a little bit about what you imagine for the day, what flowers are favorites of yours, and so on. Then once we’ve worked through it all, I can draw up a proposal and we can go from there.”

“That sounds perfect,” Weezy said. “And of course, it’s so unfortunate that my daughter couldn’t come with me today.”

Samuel nodded. “Not a problem. As long as the two of you have talked and are on the same page, it should be fine. And we can show her what we come up with and alter it if we need to. Nothing is set in stone—this is a work in progress.”

Sally Lemons was right—Samuel was amazing. Weezy loved him right away, and the way he knew flowers, oh! He was a wonder. All she had to say was “those little round green ones,” and he said, “Kermit flowers.” They talked about bachelor’s buttons and hydrangeas, lisianthus, and pincushion proteas. He knew the name of every flower, could describe the textures and colors so vividly. A couple of times, he went into the refrigerator and came out holding samples. He had flowers in every shape and size; he had green, and orange, and ivory. He talked about pairing textures and tones to complement each other. He agreed with her on the flowers she felt were a little tired (roses) and the ones that were timeless and elegant (lilies).

“Now, there’s one more thing I’d like to show you,” he said. “When the guests walk in, I like to give them a Wow!” He gave her some jazz hands when he said this. “One of my favorite things to do is a tall vase with monochromatic gerbera daisies, maybe in a dark orange, surrounded by a spray of tall grass. Now, it’s a little pricey, so don’t feel pressured. I just wanted to throw it out there.”

Samuel opened a photo album and pointed to a picture of the arrangement he just described. “It’s fantastic,” Weezy whispered.

On the ride home, Weezy’s flower high wore off. She got more deflated as she drove. What was she doing? How could she not have anything better to do with her free time than to have a fake meeting with a florist to plan a fake wedding? What was the matter with her?

Weezy thought of her mother, Bets, and how committed she was to attending daily mass. Weezy was almost jealous of her. Not because she herself wanted to actually go to daily mass (she didn’t, and anyway, if she did she could just go) but because it was an anchor in Bets’s day. Every morning she woke up and met her friend at the church at seven thirty, sometimes getting there a little early to say the rosary
together. Afterward, they walked down the block to a little bakery and got donuts and coffee. It was simple, but it seemed nice to have an activity like that every day.

There was nothing worse than feeling bored and restless at the same time. Maureen could always find something to fill her time, but Weezy always felt like there was something else she should be doing, even if everything was marked off her list. Maureen and Bets both loved those cheap Harlequin romance novels, and every so often they’d exchange grocery bags full of them, passing the overflowing bags to one another. Weezy tried to read them, but she just didn’t get it. They were all the same. Why waste your time reading something that was just going to be thrown into a bag when it was done, and confused with the rest of the bunch? There was nothing special about any of them; you knew what the ending was before you even started.

She drove home slowly and pulled into the driveway feeling very low. When she opened the door, she smelled garlic and onions cooking. Claire’s head popped out of the kitchen. “Hi, Mom. I’m making dinner. Hope you didn’t have anything planned. I tried to call you, but your phone was off.”

Weezy walked toward the kitchen. “That sounds great,” she said. “I’m pooped.”

“I’m making sausage and peppers and some pasta thing to go along with it.”

“Mmm,” Weezy said. She smiled and sat down in a kitchen chair. “Do you need help?”

“No, I’m good. Where were you? Your phone kept going right to your voice mail.”

“I had some meetings. How was work?”

“Fine,” Claire said. “The same. Pretty boring.”

Claire had announced that she wanted something to do, a job, but she didn’t care what it was. This disturbed Weezy. She suggested that Claire look at grad school programs or research some nonprofits here, but Claire wouldn’t hear of it.

“I just want a job,” she’d insisted. “Just a job. I don’t care if it’s boring or what it is.”

Weezy wanted to tell her that this wasn’t the attitude to take. She’d spent years working at places that were “just a job” and it didn’t make it easier that you didn’t care about it. If anything, it made it harder.

She’d always known that Claire would be able to thrive in a work situation. It was Martha that she had to constantly build up. “You’re so smart and capable,” she’d said to her last week. Martha needed reminding, needed to be shown how to showcase herself. Sometimes her skills didn’t translate in the real world.

Claire didn’t go into much detail on her temp job, which was nothing new. She was always private with her information, never offered up anything unless Weezy was there to pry it out of her. Even after she and Doug called off the wedding, Weezy had to push to get any sort of answer. “It’s over, Mom,” was all she said. “What else do you want me to say? It’s done.”

“Was he unfaithful?” Weezy had asked.

“No, God, Mom. No.”

“I’m just trying to understand. Were you unfaithful?”

“Mom, stop. No.” Claire had breathed loudly on the phone, as if she was trying to calm herself down. “No one cheated, Mom. Nothing happened. We just don’t want to get married.”

Weezy had started to say something else, but thought better of it and stayed silent. She didn’t quite believe Claire, but there was no point in pushing further, she knew. Claire was the most stubborn of her children, and the more Weezy tried to put pressure on her, the more she dug in her heels and refused to move.

When the girls were little, Weezy sometimes resorted to trying to scare them into behaving. Once, in the grocery store, when they both refused to walk next to the cart, choosing instead to run in circles in the cereal aisle, she’d turned her back and left them. “Okay, then. I’ll see you later. I’m going home.”

Weezy walked down the aisle, turning once to look back at them for dramatic effect. Martha had screamed, “Wait! No! I’m coming,” and raced after her, snotty and red-faced, already crying in a panic. Claire had remained where she was. She sat herself down on the floor of the grocery store and didn’t budge. She just looked up at Weezy, daring her to go, her jaw clenched and her arms crossed, refusing to move.

And so Weezy went to the checkout, paid for her groceries, and then started walking to the car, sure that Claire would follow behind at any moment. Martha was still snuffling with fear because she’d almost been left behind. Weezy stood at the car, trying to remember what her childrearing books had said. Should she give in? Should she hold her ground? At what point did this become dangerous? Kids could be kidnapped anywhere at any time. Even if she was watching the front door, to make sure that Claire didn’t come out, you never knew.

She probably stood there for only a total of two minutes at the most, although it felt like an hour, and finally, convinced that Claire was in some sort of danger, she’d grabbed Martha and run back inside, and found Claire sitting right where she’d left her, staring straight ahead, refusing to move.

DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS WONDERFUL,
mostly because Weezy hadn’t had to cook and Martha offered to clean up the kitchen. “Maybe having you two home isn’t so awful,” Will said, and the girls rolled their eyes at him.

Reading in bed that night, Weezy thought about the large flower arrangement of orange daisies, and how if she was really going to do this, she’d splurge for it. Even if it meant scrimping somewhere else in the budget, she’d do it. They were so beautiful and breathtaking. She could just imagine everyone’s faces as they walked in and saw them.

Will leaned over to give her a kiss good night, and his lips stayed on her for just a moment longer than usual. “You smell nice,” he said, smiling at her. “Like flowers.” He kissed her one more time, and then rolled over and fell asleep.

CHAPTER
9

The people at Proof Perfect (or “PP,” as they affectionately called themselves) took themselves very seriously. They wrote each other e-mails that said things like, “As we discussed,” and “FYI,” and “Per our earlier conversation,” and “Loop me in.” It was as if they’d all just read a book on office jargon and were in a competition to see who could use the most terms in one day.

People walked quickly, as if they couldn’t waste a second (not one second!) by walking at a regular speed, and so they raced from their offices to the restroom, and back again, presumably to continue their proofreading. As they passed each other in the halls, they often called out to each other, “Shoot me an e-mail,” because wasting time to stop and talk was clearly not an option.

Sometimes it was funny and sometimes it made Claire a little sad to watch them. They all seemed to have just discovered Microsoft Outlook meeting invitations and they sent them to each other for everything—weekly meetings, morning coffee breaks, birthday celebrations in the break room. It was the cause of many a scuffle when someone chose not to respond to an invite.

One of the women that Claire assisted, Leslie, called her anywhere from seven to ten times a day. She mostly called her Amanda, even though Claire was certain that she knew her name and remembered that Amanda was on maternity leave. Claire answered to it, figuring it was Leslie’s way of trying to tell her that she was very important and couldn’t be bothered to remember everyone’s name.

The job was easier than Claire had imagined. It was also a lot more boring. She mostly just sat around and waited for someone to ask her to
Xerox something or for the phone to ring. If Claire had had any desire to write a book or a screenplay, this would have been the perfect opportunity. She could have sat all day and typed, mostly uninterrupted. But she had no such desire, and so instead she played solitaire, and perused cooking sites for recipes. Sometimes, she added up how much she was earning each day, and how much closer she was to paying down her credit cards. That was usually the most exciting part of her day.

AT HOME, MARTHA KEPT SAYING,
“It’s good timing that you moved home now, since I’ll probably be buying a place soon.” Martha had been talking about buying a place for years now, so Claire didn’t pay much attention to her.

Each morning, Claire got up and was in the shower by seven, in order to beat Martha, who took forever in the bathroom. The two of them still often ended up in there at the same time, brushing their teeth or putting on their makeup, which made it feel like they were in high school again. Claire left the house around eight thirty and then was home by six, where she immediately changed into pajamas, or headed over to Lainie’s to drink wine. It was one or the other.