38
Now December
I spend my evenings curled up with the Floret Farm book, reading about how the author’s now-famous flower farm began by growing two rows of sweet peas in her backyard. I read about how that little garden became a bigger garden and about the greenhouse her husband built. I learn about seasonal blooms and local varieties, about soil tests and succession planting and the importance of growing not just flowering species but ones that provide other material for arrangements—greens and seed pods and twigs. On my streetcar rides to and from the store, I begin to imagine.
I slowly dial back my hours at the shop. I give myself time in the workday to take care of paperwork, prepare quotes, and review my orders, and I find that it’s not so arduous now that I have more help. I take a day off and see a matinee performance of Les Misérables by myself. I sit in the dark theater, missing being here with my aunt and Bridget so badly, I’m not sure whether it’s the play or the longing that makes me weep. But when I’m back on the street, out in crisp daylight, I feel invigorated. I didn’t think I was the kind of person who could go to a show on her own. It turns out that I like surprising myself.
Bridget and I stay in touch through a constant exchange of emails and calls and texts. She sends me photos of flower arrangements she thinks I’ll like. They’re all hideous, and I love them. I think about what she once said— that no one can be my everything, not her, not a partner—and I begin to
reconnect with old friends. We meet in cafés and I apologize for being absent over the past year and a half.
I’m walking home from a coffee with a former colleague from back in my PR days and decide to stop by a small organic seed shop. When I see the packet of forget-me-knots, I know exactly what to do with them. Felix and I haven’t spoken in more than three months, not since the night we decided to put a relationship on hold. My first step toward him is cautious, and just like before, I don’t write a note. I mail the seeds to Prince Edward Island the following day.
The next week, a yellow package arrives to the flower shop. It’s heavier than the ones Felix used to send, but it’s his handwriting on the label. I recognize it from in the margins of his books. I’ve seen it on ten other envelopes. I pull out a copy of The Secret Garden. He hasn’t written a letter, either. I stare at the book, smiling, and then I reach for my phone.
I love it.
I’m not nervous that Felix won’t reply. I’m becoming more certain of myself, and I’m ready for whatever comes next, thumbs-up emojis and all.
But not even a minute goes by before his message lights my screen.
Yours doesn’t have to be a secret.
I laugh. I told Bridget about the farm before she left. She was looking at properties online before I finished speaking.
Classic.
I leave the conversation at that, but I’m warm all over. Felix is there—as a friend or more, I’m not sure. But he’s a part of my life now—I won’t let him go.
I go to the seed shop after work. It’s snowing, but the flakes melt on my cheeks. They turn to water on the pavement, impermanent, like winter. I buy dahlias, similar to the ones he first sent me, though these are a different variety. Sweet Nathalies. Felix texts me when they make their way to him.
Felix: The internet tells me they make good cut flowers.
Me: The internet knows all.
Felix: How are you?
I think about it for a minute.
Me: I think I’m good. I miss Bridget terribly.
I don’t tell him that I miss him, too. This time, I’m going slow.
Me: Can you believe you’re going to be an uncle?
Felix: Can you believe you’re going to be an aunt?
Me: Yes! I was born for aunthood.
Felix: You had a good role model.
Me: The best.
It’s only a few days before another book arrives. The Language of Flowers.
Subtle, I write to him. I don’t hear back until I’m at home in the evening.
I like to keep you guessing.
Three dots wriggle on the screen, and then disappear. Then appear again.
Can I call you?
My heart races at a speed only Felix makes it race.
“I’m not really a fan of texting,” he says when I answer.
“Are you a fan of talking on the phone?”
“I’m a fan of listening to your voice.”
I smile. “Can you tell when you’re flirting, or is it so ingrained that you don’t notice?”
His laugh—soft, short—fills my ears, my lungs, my heart. “I’m only telling the truth.”
“I like your voice, too,” I say, rummaging through my fridge.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out how I can turn two apples, a carrot, and a jar of
mustard into dinner.”
“Do you have a pork chop?”
“Afraid not.”
“Then I can’t help you.” He pauses. “We should cook dinner together another time. I can walk you through making something.”
“You’d be walking me through burning something,” I say, though I love this idea. “But I’m game if you are.”
I send Felix carrot seeds next, and he sends me back a cookbook of recipes from PEI called Canada’s Food Island.
“I think this might be too advanced for me,” I tell him on the phone that night.
“Nah,” he says. “We’ll start easy. Page thirty-three.”
“Chipotle Mussel Salad does not sound easy.”
“Saturday night,” he says.
On Wednesday, I prepare files for my accountant—I made Bridget go over everything before she left so I can do it myself. On Thursday, I spend hours building a wall of flowers and hanging chandeliers for a holiday party.
I notice that my body aches more than it used to. So, for the first time in my life, I decide I should go to the gym. I splurge on six sessions with a trainer. I don’t want to lose weight, I tell her. I want to be strong. I start out on the elliptical on Friday after work and spend my thirty minutes there, dreaming about my make-believe flower farm. It’s grown into three acres of greenhouses and fields and row upon row of flora. I tell Felix all about it Saturday evening as we’re cleaning mussels together.
“What about a vegetable garden?” he asks. I have him on FaceTime,
propped on the counter.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“It might be nice to grow your own food. I know where you can get some carrot seeds.”
Nothing gets burned, and we eat our dinner with beer and tortilla chips.
Even though it’s not a date, it’s the best date of my life.
• • •
I TRAVEL TO ST. CATHARINES TO SPEND CHRISTMAS DAY WITH MY FAMILY, AND when my parents suggest that I sell the flower shop while business is good, I tell them to back down. I tell them I know what I’m doing. They say nothing more on the subject. Lyle bumps my hip when we’re clearing the table and whispers, “That was awesome.”
I visit Stacy’s grave on New Year’s Eve—it was her favorite holiday— and then hit the bars with Lyle and Nathan, who I convinced to come to the city and crash at my place for the night. We down toxic-looking green shots and can’t get a cab home, so the three of us amble, arm linked in arm linked in arm, to my apartment. It’s the most fun I’ve had with my brother.
One morning in early January, Bridget FaceTimes me to tell me she’s having a girl. I cry with happiness. I cry because she’s so far. I want to hold my best friend’s baby in my arms.
“What did Wolf send you last?” Bridget asks when I’ve regained my
composure.
“Another cookbook,” I tell her.
“And you sent him?”
“Rose seeds.” A buttery yellow variety for friendship.
With every envelope I send to Prince Edward Island, my dream flower farm has become more detailed. I draw diagrams of garden plots and plantings. I sow the seeds Felix sent me years ago in imaginary earth, and they become rows of dahlias and zinnias and snap dragons. Sometimes I arrange the flowers in bunches right out in the field, but on hot days, I take them into the shade of the barn and work at an old harvest table. There’s a dog on my farm, running between the plants, and a swimming hole with reedy banks and a deep center. I want to be near a body of water, even a small one.
“How long do you think you’ll keep this up?” Bridget asks for the gazillionth time.
I tell her I don’t know. I’ve been doing well on my own, thriving in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. Though sometimes I miss Felix with such force, I need to place a hand on the wall to keep steady. It sneaks up on me in the dairy aisle of the grocery store when I’m picking out butter. It slams into me when I’m making coffee, knocks me about when I’m braiding my hair before bed. But I take strange comfort in these waves of heartache. They’re like annotations in a book, a note in the margin that reads, This is important.
“I have news for you,” Bridget says. “Joy is engaged.”
My stomach drops. My reaction an irrational knee-jerk. “To Felix?”
Bridget looks at me as if I’ve spoken in Latin. “No, you potato. To Colin Campbell. I think you met him at Zach’s party years ago. Big guy. Red hair.
Red beard. Smiley.”
It takes me a minute to drum up the memory of Colin in Zach’s kitchen.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s great.”
Bridget smirks. “Mmm. They’ve been together for over a year. I’m thrilled for her. Word is that Colin Campbell eats pussy like a champion.”
I spit out my coffee. “Bridget.”
She rolls her eyes, smug smile firmly in place.
“What?”
“I have more news.”
“I hope it doesn’t involve the sex lives of islanders.”
“Liar,” she says. “But no. There’s a piece of land for sale I thought you might like. A few acres out Point Prim way,” she goes on. “Zach sent me the listing. It’s near the lighthouse. Gorgeous spot. Goes right to the water.”
“You have Zach scoping out property for me? In PEI?”
“I have, and it’s a good one.”
I look at the listing Bridget sends me. Every few days, I check it again to see whether it’s still for sale. It’s a strip of green land, a stand of trees at its farthest edge, the ocean beyond. It’s just a field, but it could be a farm.
• • •
BOOKS COME AND SEEDS GO.
Sunflowers. Salvia. Cosmos.
To the Lighthouse. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. A collection of Maya Angelou’s poetry.
“I didn’t know you liked poetry,” I say to Felix one Saturday evening in
late January.
“I like poetry.”
We’re making chicken and couscous from the Seven Spoons cookbook he gave me. I wanted to learn how to roast a whole bird, and Tara O’Brady promises that this is a “mostly hands-off dinner.”
“I’ll have to report this development to Farah,” I tell him while I set the chicken in the oven.
We drink wine while we cook, chat while we wait, and eat together when it’s ready. We spend countless nights like this. Not just Saturdays.
I like this little world we’ve built. But I exist outside of its comfort. I exist outside of work, too. I go to galleries and movies and restaurants with friends. But in February, I decide to spend my thirtieth birthday alone. I buy a bottle of champagne and order my favorite spicy noodles and watch a
wonderfully mediocre rom-com with a clay mask on my face. And even without Bridget next to me on the sofa, I have a great night. I’m evolving.
My apartment is, too. My office looks like a vision board sprung to life.
There are books about perennials, a brass watering can, and a potting table stocked with gloves and terra-cotta planters. I’ve got everything I need for a garden of my own, but nowhere to grow. I search for a new apartment— maybe the main floor of a renovated Victorian, one with a flower bed the owner might let me tend. I even go see a few. But then I realize: I want to put roots into my own soil.
“You’re thirty,” Felix says when we speak next. It’s Tara’s Bee-Stung Fried Chicken night—I’ve been working up to this. I covered my chicken pieces in the dry rub yesterday and took them out of the fridge an hour ago.
I’m determined to get it right.
“I am,” I agree.
“How’s it going so far?”
“On this, the third day of my thirtieth year?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Tell me how you’re doing, Lucy.”
I pause, my fingers covered in a buttermilk cornstarch paste. I hold up my hands to the screen. “Right now I’m a mess. But otherwise, I’m sort of great.”
I miss you, though. I miss you so, so much.
“I miss the island,” I tell him. Because that’s true, too.
He smiles softly. “The island misses you back.”
Felix and I fry the chicken pieces at the same time. We’ve become experts at cooking in tandem. The dish is a masterpiece. Crunchy and juicy. The hot honey butter a revelation.
“I can’t believe how good this is,” I say, licking my fingers. I don’t think before I say it. “I wish you were here so we could enjoy it together.”
I glance up at my screen, worried I’ve ruined whatever this new thing between us is, and find Felix smiling. “I wish that, too. But we’re enjoying it
together now.”
“You’re right,” I tell him.
But it’s not enough.
• • •
THE NEXT WEEK, I MEET MY MOTHER FOR LUNCH AT A CAFÉ IN THE DEPARTMENT store where she’s shopping for her vacation to Mexico. She’s cranky, bemoaning the death of customer service, so I wait until the cappuccinos are delivered following our meal, then ask, “Can I talk to you about something?”
“This sounds serious.”
“It is,” I tell her. “I think I’m falling in love.”
My feelings for Felix have been growing for years now, and I know there’s no stopping them. I can’t dream about my farm anymore without seeing Felix there with me.
My mother straightens her shirt collar. “What’s his name?”
“Felix,” I say. “Felix Clark.”
She blinks at least ten times. “Bridget’s brother?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you two been together?” She sounds hurt. She thinks I’ve been keeping this from her.
“We’re not. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I give my mother an abridged version of our history, and when I’m done, she lets out a long sigh.
“Oh, Goose. I don’t know what to say. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy and comfortable, and it doesn’t sound like you’re either of those things.”
“I’m getting there,” I tell her. “I feel better than I have in a long time. I know what I want.” I clasp my hands together under the table. “One of those things involves you.”
She looks surprised. “Oh. And what’s that?”
“I’d like you to stop calling me Goose.”
• • •
I MAKE A CALL AFTER LUNCH.
“You don’t want to see it?” Zach says.
“I trust you,” I tell him. “I’m doing it.”
