What Should Have Been

Devan couldn’t help wincing. “Lav, he was a soldier, what do you expect?”

“And now he’s a human time bomb, what with the lost mind and everything.”

“Memory! He’s lost his memory, not his mind.”

“Well, Bev said he’s on drugs they give psychotics or something.”

“When did Beverly Greenbriar meet Mead and get that information? And I can’t recall her being a friend of Pamela’s.”

“Then tell me. What’s he like now? I saw a photo of him in the paper and he looks kind of gray and grim.”

Devan kept her gaze on the clipboard she’d retrieved from under the counter that contained today’s job sheets. “You would, too, if you’d gone through what he has. He’s a quieter man now, and thoughtful. He was very kind and concerned about Blakeley. And for the record, he looked much better than the day before.”

“Did he now?”

Hearing the note of speculation entering her friend’s voice, Devan knew it was time to run. “I’m getting the guys and going to work.”

“Wait—I’ve got an order for an orchid basket. Will you pick out a pot for me while I go choose a plant? You seem to understand those things so much better than I do. I swear those and African violets are killers for me.”

“Sure. Go. Just tell the guys to finish scarfing down the sausage and biscuits you brought them this morning,” she added, referring to Jorges Luna and the other four young boys they hired for various jobs.

“I know, I know. I’m corrupting them, but the younger ones are so far from home, and look so lonely at times. Back in five.”

Devan shook her head as Lavender dashed through the French doors to the nursery and hothouse beyond. She had earned her spread-the-love attitude honestly from her flower child parents who these days ran an organic vegetable farm in Oregon. An older brother painted set scenery on Broadway—when he wasn’t honing his mime technique at Central Park—and a younger sister worked at a private animal rescue farm in California.

Relieved they’d cleared the subject of Mead, Devan got herself a last cup of coffee from the machine in the workroom and checked their computer to see what else was pending for today. Lavender had already posted three orders for Mrs. Enid Coe at the workstation table. Poor soul was eighty-something and had been a good customer, often scouring the greenhouse looking for African violets and roses out in the nursery. What a shame to think she was in the hospital yet again.

Wanting to send something herself, she was back at the counter filling out an order sheet, and was slow to notice that the shadow falling over the counter was a person and not moving limbs from the trees across the street in the square.

“Hi, can I help—” she blinked “—you.”

Mead stood on the other side of the counter looking tall, freshly shaved and more respectably dressed in a white dress shirt, pressed jeans and a blue windbreaker. “Morning,” he said.

As if that wasn’t surprise enough, out of the corner of her eyes she noticed movement and to her consternation realized two of the morning park bench sitters were on their feet and leaning over their canes and walkers to peer from across the street at them. Closer yet was Judy Melrose from Melrose Insurance next door, who had stopped at the far end of the display window, mostly hidden by the life-size scarecrow, to stare at Mead.

“How did you get here?” Devan didn’t see a car out front—she didn’t know if Mead could even drive yet. “I mean, it’s so early.”

“The sign says you open at eight.”

“True.” Accepting that she was acting like a fool, she took a stabilizing breath and smiled her welcome. “What can I do for you?”

He glanced toward the display cooler. “I wanted to place an order. But that’s a lot of flowers to choose from.”

Devan considered that a compliment. “We’re fortunate to still be the only florist in town and that brings us considerable business from the outer areas of the county.” Struggling to ignore the commotion as Judy was joined by one of her office staff, Devan added, “Did you have something in mind? A certain flower, style, price range?”

He remained silent for several more seconds before asking, “What would you choose?”

She and Lavender were often asked for their advice—or were left to their own discrimination. “It all depends on the occasion and what you’re trying to say.” She grew hesitant. “This isn’t for a funeral, is it? You didn’t get a bad phone call last night? Your mother didn’t get ill on another rubber chicken dinner?”

“Well, she did eat out, but all seems okay so far.”

Clearing her throat, Devan tried to restrain an outright grin. “Then this is a birthday, anniversary, thank you or…just because gift?”

“Is it possible to…blend the latter two?”

“Sure, and how nice.” It was good to see him again and Devan hoped this meant his mother wasn’t upset that he’d stopped by last night. Or was this some last gesture before the ax fell? “That leaves you with lots of choices, in fact just about anything will work aside from calla lilies—although, personally, I adore them for elegant evening centerpieces.”

“You do?”

“Aside from just loving white flowers, they’re graceful yet surprisingly sturdy.” She gestured toward the long-stemmed beauties in the lower bucket. “If you’re sending these to a lady, white embodies everything—beauty, spirituality, nature at her most gentle. Whatever the flower—gladiola, carnation, rose—okay daisy is a bit impish—but the rest are saying a dozen things with each blossom via their purity.” Remembering that Lavender would be back in a moment, she cleared her throat and resumed her hastier sales pitch. “But those yellow roses are particularly vibrant this week, and so are the coral ones. On the other hand, we can do a sparkling bouquet with multiple seasonal colors. Your choice—I promise Dreamscapes never disappoints.”

Mead studied the cooler once again. “I guess the white roses are the way to go.”

Pleasure warred with regret as Devan reached for the order pad. She’d loved looking at them since they arrived yesterday afternoon and hoped whoever received them would appreciate how special they were—as was the person taking such care in choosing them. As she filled in his name, she said, “Lucky whomever. Okay, how many?”

“All of them.”

A muted cough drew Devan’s attention outside again. In the doorway stood Barry Sweat, Precinct 2 Constable in Franklin County. The one and only time he’d been into the shop had been to buy three carnations for his third wife for Valentine’s Day. Devan wanted to go out and suggest he pay more attention to the potholes over by their neighborhood than to eavesdropping. Instead she leaned across the counter to keep her voice low. “Mead, there are three dozen.”

“That’s what I figure.”

She didn’t doubt he could afford them but didn’t want to be seen as taking advantage. On the other hand, the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she would stop being the morning entertainment. “Just checking. Do you want us to bill you? Your mother has an account.”

Mead pulled out his wallet. “I’ll take care of it.”

Expecting a credit card, Devan was surprised to see him pull out cash. “Fine. Now where do we deliver?”

“Three twenty-seven Circle.”

The seven ended up looking like one of those tin curlicue wind-catchers, and for good reason. The address was hers. Almost. Looking up, she met his calm scrutiny. “Do you mean Lane?”

“Is it Lane? Lane.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded, not believing this was happening.

The carousel of sentiment cards stood on the counter and he turned it, studying the offerings. “Can I choose and write my own?”

“No. Yes. I mean…Mead, you can’t come in here and—send me flowers.”

“Where else should I go?”

“Nowhere. There’s no reason to do this. No need.” Through the French doors she saw Lavender heading back. How her friend would eat this up. A born romantic as well as an optimist, Lavender had come into town almost three years ago with her then boyfriend in a beaten-up van. The boyfriend and van had moved on, but she had stayed. Seeing Devan “matched up better” was always on her mind. “Please, Mead. It’s a lovely gesture, but no.”

He studied her and some light dimmed in his eyes. “You’re embarrassed that I’m here.”

“No.” Impulsively, Devan put her hand over his. “It’s not that simple—and hopefully, I’m not that shallow. But this enterprise isn’t just about me. I have a partner and we have debt. There are customers we can’t afford to lose.”

“My mother.”