Vanessa Diffenbaugh - The Language of Flowers

She and Ray could meet the following day, she said. I gave her directions to my house.

“I hope you’ll stay for the wedding,” she said before she hung up. “You know, I credit your bouquet as the beginning of everything.”

“I will,” I said. And I would bring something resembling business cards.

I asked Natalya if I could meet with Bethany and Ray downstairs, and she agreed. Early the following morning, I bought a card table and three folding chairs at a flea market in South San Francisco. They fit inside the back of my car, the hatchback tied down with a rope. In addition to the furniture, I bought a rose-colored cut crystal vase with a discreet chip for a dollar and a white lace tablecloth with a pink plastic liner for three. I wrapped the vase in the tablecloth and took the side streets home.

Before Bethany and Ray arrived, I set up the card table in the empty office space. Covering it with the lace cloth, I set the crystal vase in the center, full of flowers from my garden in McKinley Square. Next to the vase sat my blue photo box. I checked and rechecked my alphabetization while I waited for the door to open.

Finally, it did, and Bethany stood in the empty doorway more beautiful than I remembered, Ray more handsome than I imagined. They would make a breathtaking couple, I thought, draping honeysuckle in long lines through the white sand.

Bethany opened her arms to hug me, and I allowed it, my belly a ball between us. Looking down, she gasped and placed her hands on my stomach. I wondered how many times I would have to endure this in the coming months, from acquaintances and strangers on the street. Pregnancy seemed to remove the unspoken societal laws of personal space. I disliked it almost as much as the feeling of another human being growing within my body.

“Congratulations!” Bethany said, hugging me again. “When are you due?”

It was the second time I’d been asked in two days, and I knew the frequency would increase along with my size. I counted the months in my head.

“February,” I said. “Or March. The doctors aren’t sure.”

Bethany introduced me to Ray, and we shook hands. Motioning to the table and chairs, I asked them to sit down. I sat across from them, apologizing for taking so long to call.

“We’re just so glad you did,” Bethany said, squeezing Ray’s thick arm. “I’ve told Ray all about you.”

I pushed the blue box toward the couple. It glowed under the fluorescent office lights. “I can do anything you want for your wedding. Nearly everything is available at the flower market, even out of season.” Bethany opened the lid, and I cringed as if she was again touching my body.

Ray picked up the first card. In the years that followed, I watched many men squirm in front of my flower dictionary, the fluorescent lights casting a sickly shadow on their nervous faces. But Ray wasn’t one of them. His bulk was deceiving; he discussed emotions like Annemarie’s lady friends, with loquacious enthusiasm and indecision. They got stuck on the first card, acacia, as Grant and I had, but for completely different reasons.

“Secret love,” he said. “I like that.”

“ ‘Secret’?” Bethany asked. “Why secret?” She said it with mock offense, as if he was suggesting they hide their love from the world.

“Because what we have is secret. My friends, when they talk about their girlfriends or wives, complaining or bragging, I just keep quiet. What we have—it’s different. I want to keep it that way. Untouched. Secret.”

“Mmm,” Bethany said. “Yes.” She turned over the card and viewed the photo of the acacia blossom, a feathery golden sphere-shaped flower hanging on a delicate stem. There was more than one acacia tree in McKinley Square. I hoped they were in bloom. “What can you do with this?” she asked.

“It depends on what else you want. Acacia isn’t a centerpiece flower. I would probably drape it around the edge of a nosegay, half concealing your hands.”

“I like that,” said Bethany. She turned back to Ray. “What else?”

In the end, they decided on fuchsia moss roses with pale pink lilac, cream-colored dahlia, honeysuckle, and the golden acacia. They would have to return the bridesmaid’s dresses; the burgundy silk would clash. Bethany was relieved they were from a department store and that she hadn’t special-ordered. The flowers were the most important, she said with confidence, and Ray agreed.

As they stood up to go, I told them I would deliver the flowers at noon and return for the two-o’clock wedding. “I can adjust your bouquet at the last minute,” I told her, “if it needs anything.”

Bethany hugged me again. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “My greatest fear is that the roses will suddenly snap when the wedding music starts to play, and both my wedding and my good fortune will be shattered.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Flowers don’t spontaneously combust.” I looked from Bethany to Ray as I said it. She smiled. I was talking about Ray, not the flowers, and she understood.

“I know,” she said.

“Do you mind if I bring business cards?” I asked. “I’m just starting out here.” I nodded to the white walls.

“Of course!” she said. “Bring cards! And bring a guest; we forgot to tell you that.” Bethany nodded to my stomach and winked. The baby kicked; my nausea returned.

“I will,” I said, “bring cards—not a guest. Thank you.”

Bethany looked embarrassed, and Ray, flushing, pulled her to the door. “Thank you,” she said. “Really. I can’t thank you enough.”

Standing at the glass door, I watched them walk up the hill to their car. Ray wrapped his arm around Bethany’s waist. I knew he was comforting her, assuring her that the strange, solitary young woman with the magical way with flowers was happy to be having a fatherless child.

I was not.

4 .

I bought a black dress in Union Square and four dozen purple irises from a bucket on Market Street. The black dress concealed my bulge and would lessen the brazen hands; the irises would become my business cards. I cut lavender paper into rectangles and punched a hole in each. On one side I wrote Message in a scripty, Elizabeth-inspired hand. On the other I wrote Victoria Jones, Florist , in my own plain print. I included Natalya’s phone number.

There was only one stumbling block, and it turned out to be more complicated than I had thought. I still had Renata’s wholesale card, but I couldn’t buy my flowers at the flower market. Grant was there every day except Sunday. It wouldn’t be possible to buy flowers on Sunday for a wedding the following Saturday. I had planned to drive to San Jose or Santa Rosa for the nearest wholesale market, but when I began to look, I learned there weren’t any others in all of Northern California. Florists drove for hundreds of miles in the middle of the night to buy flowers in San Francisco.

I considered buying the flowers at a retail shop, but after calculating the cost, I realized I wouldn’t make a profit this way; it might even end up costing me money. So, on the Friday before the wedding, I drove to The Gathering House, walked up the cement stairs, and knocked on the heavy door.

A thin girl with white-blond hair let me in.

“Anyone here need a job?” I asked. The blond girl walked down the hall and didn’t come back. A cluster of girls on the couch looked at me with suspicion.

“I used to live here,” I said. “I’m a florist now. I have a wedding tomorrow, and need help buying flowers.” A few of the girls stood up and crossed the room to join me at the dining room table.

By way of an interview, I asked the girls three questions, listening to their responses one at a time. The first question—Do you have an alarm clock?—elicited a solemn series of nods. The second—Do you know how to get to 6th and Brannan by bus?—eliminated a short, overweight red-head at the end of the table. She did not, under any circumstance, she told me, ride the bus. I flicked her away with my thumb and forefinger.