a vase in the window

May 27th

Memorial Day

 

 

        “Don’t forget,” I reminded my handsome hubby, Marco. “We’re going to the fireworks show tonight at the high school.” I pecked his cheek, then bent to pet my little three-legged rescue dog and my big Russian Blue cat, before stepping into the garage. 

        In front of me were Marco’s silver Prius and next to that my banana-yellow Corvette convertible. I ran my finger across the sleek, shiny hood as I walked around to the driver’s side. The ‘Vette had been a rare find, stored in a farmer’s barn for decades. The interior had been preserved to near perfection, but the exterior had been in bad shape when I bought it. A new paint job had brought it back to life, and a good mechanic had fixed it up to purr like a kitten. 

        It was my pride and joy. My baby.

        I put the top down on the convertible, backed out of the driveway, and headed off to work singing along with a Billy Joel song on the radio. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I was on my way to Bloomers, my very own flower shop in my charming hometown of New Chapel, Indiana. 

        Once upon a time, Bloomers had rescued me. After a disastrous nine-month stint of intensive study, I had flunked out of law school and felt utterly lost Then I remembered working at Bloomers during my summers in college. It had been a delightful, rewarding experience. So, I’d returned to Bloomers to see Lottie, the owner, only to discover she’d put the business up for sale. In that moment, I decided to use the remainder of my college fund to make a down payment on the building, and the rest was history. 

        Or hysteria.

        I parked the ‘Vette in the public parking lot one block over from Franklin Street, then hoofed it over to the flower shop, pausing in front of the building to admire the wooden sign above the door: Bloomers Flower Shop, Abby Knight, Prop.

        I still hadn’t had the sign changed to reflect my married name. It was Abby Knight Salvare now. I had married the man of my dreams, Marco Salvare, more than two years ago, and I kicked myself every time I saw the sign. One of these days, I told myself, I’ll get it changed. I paused to check my reflection in the glass pane of the yellow-framed door. Being a five-foot-two, busty, pale-skinned Irish redhead, my clothing choices were severely limited. While I looked best in greens, browns, and some shades of red, I was most fond of wearing yellow, which was my absolute favorite color. 

        That day, I wore a citrus-yellow polo shirt, knee-length khaki shorts, and cream-colored flats. I thought I looked good, but then I did a double take and ran my fingers through my shoulder-length bob, trying to tame my untamable mane of red hair. 

        Bloomers occupied the entire first floor of the deep, three-story, red brick structure, and had a coffee parlor on one side of the entrance and our showroom on the other. I opened the yellow-framed door and stepped inside, instantly greeted by the sight and scent of brightly colored flowers mixed with the distinct aroma of coffee. 

        The bell above the door chimed brightly as I closed it behind me. My assistant Lottie came out of the back room carrying an armload of red roses for the glass display case. Lottie Dombowski was a big-boned, big-hearted, forty-five-year-old Kentuckian, with brassy curls, a laugh that could be heard across town, a feisty personality, and more common sense than anyone I knew. 

        Before I could lock the door, a dark-haired man stormed in, jabbing a finger at Lottie and bellowing, ‘You!’ – his eyes wild with rage.

        The outburst jolted me, and I stumbled back into the window display as he shoved past.

        “Your boys have a lot of nerve threatening me!”

        “Easy now, Garth,” Lottie said, setting the roses onto the counter. “Let’s sort this out.”

        I reached inside my purse for my phone. 

        “No more talk,” the man said between deep breaths. His round face flushed red with anger, dark eyes glaring beneath bushy black brows. He was practically foaming at the mouth as he continued, “No one threatens me.”

        I pulled up my contacts list where I had the local police number stored. My finger hovered over the send button, ready to call.

        “Someone needs to teach those delinquents a lesson in respect, and if you won’t do it, I’ll give them a lesson they’ll never forget.”

        “That’s enough,” I ordered. “You need to leave right now.”

        “Stay out of this,” he spat at me. 

        The dark-haired man was stocky, medium height, with big shoulders and thick, hairy arms. His dark blue work polo expanded around his wide waist. His collar was unbuttoned and there was a company logo on the left chest. He stomped into the shop like a ravenous animal. “Your boys want to destroy my property, then I’ll return the favor.” He stepped up to the round, antique oak table in the middle of the sales floor and swept a glass vase onto the ground.             The vase smashed, sending flowers, water, and shards of glass across the shop floor.

        Lottie jerked at the noise and stepped quickly behind the counter to distance herself. “My boys respect your property. They would never destroy it.”

        “Oh yeah?” He reached for another vase, picked it up, and raised it as though he was going to throw it. 

        “Stop it!” I shouted forcefully. “Get out of my shop or I’m calling the police.”

        He dropped the vase sideways onto the table with a sharp clatter. More flowers and water flooded out onto the floor. He shook his finger at Lottie. “Be warned. I will retaliate.” And with that, he stormed to the door, flung it open – gave me a menacing glance – and walked out.

        For a moment, Lottie and I stood frozen, staring at each other with mouths open. Then Lottie said, “I’ll get the mop.” 

        I turned my head to see my other assistant, Grace, standing in the parlor doorway, her face a mask of concern.         “Who was that?”

        I shook my head, still in shock. 

        “Look at the damage,” Grace exclaimed in her crisp British accent as she walked toward the table. 

        I joined her, watching the water drip off the side, careful to avoid the mess. “Watch your step, Grace. There’s glass everywhere.”

        She stopped in her tracks and called, “Lottie, who on earth was that?”

        “My neighbor, Garth Schmidt,” Lottie replied as she made her way back onto the sales floor, dragging the wet mop and bucket with her. “I’m so sorry, Abby. I’ll get this cleaned up.”

        “Wait,” I told her. “Let me help you. We need a broom and dustpan for the glass.”

        “Tell us, love. What’s going on?”

        Lottie sighed heavily and set the mop against the counter. “It’s an ongoing battle with him.”

        I hurried into the back to grab the broom, not wanting to miss the explanation. I swiped the dustpan from beneath the sink and rushed out through the purple curtain that separated the shop from the work room. “What happened this time?”

        “I don’t know. Something must’ve happened with the boys.”

        I knelt in a safe spot and held the dustpan while Lottie swept gently around the table. She had four boys – four quadruplet teenage sons – who were just as raucous and feisty as she. If there was anyone capable of getting someone riled up, it was them.

        “Should we call the police? He threatened you.”

        “What’s new,” she said softly. The once brassy and boisterous Kentucky mother of four had been immediately reduced to a quiet shell of her former self. I could hear the defeat in her voice. “We stopped calling the police a while ago. They can’t do anything, and it just makes Garth mad, as you can see.”

        “And you have no idea what happened?” I asked. 

        “We’ve been fighting with him so long; it could be the smallest thing sets him off now. The last time Herman mowed the lawn too close to his property line and Schmidt threw the bag of grass clippings into our driveway. Now he’s going off about the boys parking too close to his mailbox. It’s just ridiculous.”

        “What does Herman have to say about this?” Grace asked.

        “Oh, he’s not allowed to say anything. Not with his temper. The last thing I need is to bail my husband out of jail.”

        “It’s that bad?” I asked. 

        She looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. “You have no idea.”

        “There must be something we can do,” Grace insisted. “Barging in like that, he’s a madman.”

        Lottie swept some of the glass across the floor into a pile. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do.”

        I thought about how I would handle a situation like that and honestly couldn’t think of anything. Nothing legal, at least. Luckily, Marco and I had reasonably quiet, respectful neighbors. “I think we should call the police,” I told her. “There needs to be a record.”        

        She knelt next to me, leaning on the broom to help lower herself down. “Please don’t, Abby,” she said with penetrating sincerity. “It’ll just make things worse.”

        I held the dustpan for her, wanting to respect her wishes, but knowing full well that there was something seriously wrong with that man. No one should be allowed to bully someone like that and get away with it. “If he comes back in,” I told her, “I’m calling the police. I won’t let him threaten you in my own shop.”

        Grace took hold of the edges of her lilac cardigan and lifted her chin, her classic lecture pose. She was famous for having a quote for any occasion and that day did not disappoint. “As a wise man once said, ‘In prosperity our friends know us; in adversity we know our friends.’ In other words, we’re here for you, love. Whatever help we can give.”

        “Thank you, Gracie. And trust me, if I knew how you could help, I’d take you up on that.”

        “Then, for now, I shall handle the mop whilst you clean the glass.”

        Grace Bingham was a sixty-two-year-old widow, trim, with short, stylish silver hair, and spoke with a proper British accent. She was an expert barista and tea brewer and loved to bake scones and the little cookies she called biscuits, so that, in addition to the fragrance of the flowers, the shop was also scented with coffee, tea, and baked goods, which really drew in the clients, especially in nice weather, when we opened the door and let the aroma waft out. I’d added the parlor when I bought Bloomers, crafting it out of a large storage room, which had turned out to be a huge boon to my business.

        I heard the key hit the lock, and the bell above the front door jingled as Rosa entered. “I hope you haven’t started breakfast without me,” she called happily. The door closed behind her as she came to a halt. “What is everyone doing on the floor?”

        Rosa Marisol Katarina Marin, my newest assistant, was a thirty-something Colombian native who had come to us first as a client. Rosa had long, wavy auburn hair, a pretty face, and abundant curves, which she proudly displayed in form-fitting clothing. She strutted into work every day wearing high heels, most of them flaunting bold animal prints—leopard spots, zebra stripes, or snakeskin patterns flashing with each step.

        After I discovered that Rosa had a knack for arranging flowers, I hired her part-time, which soon became a full-time gig. Now I couldn’t imagine Bloomers without her sunny personality.

        Before Rosa had joined the staff, Lottie would make scrambled eggs every Monday morning. But now Rosa was in charge of breakfast, that day making her famous huevos Marisol for us while we finished cleaning up.

        Fifteen minutes before the shop opened, Grace and I trooped to the kitchen, loaded up our plates, and headed back to the coffee and tea parlor, a cheerful, Victorian-inspired room full of white wrought iron ice cream tables and chairs, yellow paint on the walls, and pink tulips in vases on the tables. At the front of the room was a big bay window that looked out onto the town square and the big, four-story limestone courthouse in the plaza across the street. 

Grace served coffee to Rosa and me, then sat with us at one of the tables. We explained to Rosa what had happened in more detail while Lottie stayed in the work room to check in with her family. After a few minutes, Lottie came out with a plate of eggs and joined us. 

        “According to my husband, one of Garth’s garbage cans was knocked over this morning. Of course, Garth blames my boys parking their cars too close to his driveway.”

        “Why did he come in here to hassle you?”

        “Because Herman ignored him, just like I told him. I guess Garth needed to take his anger out on somebody.”

        “What a wretched man,” Grace uttered.

        “Yeah, well, that wretched man is going to be the death of me. We have four cars and a two-car garage. The boys don’t have anywhere to park but the street.”

        “Why don’t you switch things up? You could park your car in the street for a while,” I suggested. “He wouldn’t dare mess with your car.”

        Lottie chewed a bite of eggs, thinking. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but it might be the best idea for now. Until things calm down.”

        “Mi amor,” Rosa said, “I’m so sorry you have to deal with this. It is like a nightmare.”

        I sipped my coffee as a thought suddenly occurred to me. “Garth said your boys threatened him. Did you ask Herman about that?”

        “He didn’t mention anything about it,” Lottie answered. 

        I took another sip, going over the facts in my head. Lottie’s neighbor seemed much too angry for a simple dispute over a garbage can. “Something’s not adding up,” I said to the group. 

        “I have to agree,” Grace chimed in. “Perhaps it would help to know what kind of threat was made against him.”

        “Well,” Lottie said assertively. “No reason to dwell on it until I know more. It’s about time to open anyway.”

        I started to suspect there was more to the story that Lottie didn’t want to mention, and I very much wanted to dig deeper, but I had to stay out of detective mode. For now. Monday mornings were busy at Bloomers. There were inventories to make, supplies to order, internet orders to take, a calendar to update, the display case to stock, and customers to wait on. 

        And as soon as I unlocked the front door, I was greeted by a handful of our usual customers, eager for Grace’s gourmet brews and scones, today’s flavor being almond. The coffee parlor was a big draw for the secretaries and attorneys who worked at the courthouse, as well as customers shopping at the boutiques on Lincoln Avenue, the main street through town. 

        While Grace waited on tables in the parlor, Lottie watched the sales floor and Rosa and I worked on orders in the workroom. Although the room was windowless, the abundance of blossoms and fragrances made it feel like a tropical garden. Pastel-colored wreaths and brightly hued swags hung on one ivory latticed wall. Vases of all sizes and containers of dried flowers filled shelves above the counter on another wall. A long, slate-covered worktable sat in the middle of the room. Two stainless-steel walk-in coolers occupied one side, and a desk holding my computer, telephone, and the normal assortment of items sat on the other side. It was my comfort zone, my little slice of paradise.

        That was, until the purple curtain parted, and a copper-colored head appeared. 

        “Good morning, ladies!” my cousin Jillian sang out, stepping through the curtain. As usual, she was dressed in a designer outfit, a mango-colored silk T-shirt and white, super-skinny pants with white flats, a mango-colored purse slung over her shoulder. Her golden eyes gazed at us with a look of keen intelligence, belying the “Space for Rent” sign behind them. 

        “Morning, Jill.”

        “Hola,” Rosa responded, offering her cheek as Jillian gave her an air-kiss.

        “I’m here to brighten your day!” she announced happily.

        Jillian Ophelia Knight-Osborne was my only female cousin, the pampered daughter of my dad’s brother, the pampered wife of my ex-fiancé’s younger brother, Claymore, and now the doting mother of an adorable baby named Harper Abigail Lynn Osborne, whose initials intentionally spelled HALO. We’d grown up as close as sisters, and because Jillian had suffered with severe scoliosis throughout much of her elementary years, I became her protector and counselor, roles she seemed to believe I’d hold forever. 

        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.

        “Hey!” Jillian said, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “You’re daydreaming. Did you hear what I said?”

        “Sorry, what?” 

        “I asked you how you liked my makeup.” She pointed to her face. 

        I took a good look at her. Jillian had a very pretty face. She had a peaches and cream complexion, her lips were bow-shaped, and her cheekbones were high. But today they looked abnormally high – and bright – and her lips were dark red. Her golden-brown eyes were shaded with dark gray eyeshadow and outlined in thick black eyeliner. Her eyelashes were heavy and black and extremely long, so long, in fact, that she seemed to blink in slow motion.

But what could I say? She had a happy, expectant look on her face that I just couldn’t shatter. “You look . . . great!” 

        “Precioso!” Rosa added.

        “Thank you.” She slid onto a wooden stool at the worktable and dropped her purse beside her. “It’s my new thing.”

        “What’s your new thing?”

        “I’m adding a makeup line to my repertory.”

        Her repertoire as she meant to say, was her career as a wardrobe consultant. After graduating from Harvard and marrying the wealthiest bachelor in town, Jillian had gone into business for herself, opening Chez Jillian and operating out of her house. She had plenty of clients, most of them either belonging to the esteemed country club in town or working in downtown Chicago, which was just one train ride away.

        “Congratulations,” I said. “And the French pronunciation is repertwah.” 

        My cousin also had the most unfortunate talent of mispronouncing common words and phrases.

        “Are you sure?” she asked. 

        “I’m positive, Jill.” 

        “But I took French in high school. I’ve been saying repertory this whole time and no one ever corrected me.”

        “I’m sure someone did.” 

        As she unsuccessfully practiced her pronunciation, I grabbed a soaked block of green oasis foam and fit it snugly into a shallow ceramic vase, shaving the edges with a knife to get the shape just right. Water beaded on my fingers as I pressed the foam down into the vase.

        “Anyway,” she continued. “Don’t congratulate me yet. There are some requirements in order to qualify.”

        I dried my hands on my apron. “Qualify for what?”

        “To be a rep for La Meilleure.”

        “What’s La Meilleure?”

        “It’s French.”

        I picked up a stray rose petal from the table and rubbed it between my fingers. “French for what?”

        “Oh, it means The Best. It’s one of the most exclusive, high-end makeup lines.”

        “It must be a very exclusive line,” Rosa said. “I have not heard of this company.”

        “Oh, it’s very exclusive! Only the best for Chez Jillian.”

        I looked at her in bewilderment. “Are you sure? I haven’t heard of it either.”

        She looked back at me with pity, wrinkling her nose as she judged my appearance. “I know, Abs.”

        I rubbed the rose petal so hard it dissolved between my fingers. 

        “Let me help you,” she so kindly offered.

        “I don’t need help. I’m perfectly happy with my makeup.” I turned to work on my arrangement.

        “Please? I need to practice.”

        “Oh, so you need my help.” After a moment of silence, I glanced at my cousin to see her looking over at me with big, beseeching eyes, pouting pathetically with her dark red lips. “What do you need to practice?” I finally asked.

        “My technique.” 

        “Applying makeup?”

        “Yes, that, and . . .”

        “And what, Jill?”

        “My sales technique.” 

        Before I could say no, she pleaded, “Please, Abby. I’m a terrible salesperson. I need to practice and you’re the only one who’ll tell me the truth.”

        “Okay, go for it. But I have a lot of orders to do.”

        “Not now,” she said. “I have to find somewhere to sell the products first.”

        I noticed her gaze lingering, watching my expression. There was no way I was about to turn Bloomers into a makeup counter for Chez Jillian, so I let her eyes linger a little longer before finally asking, “Where do you plan on selling your new makeup line?”

        She then looked down at her nails, answering casually, “Oh, I don’t know.”

        “I’ll help you practice, but you can’t sell your products here.”

        “Don’t worry, Abs. I have plenty of options.” Jillian grabbed her purse and stood up. “Well, I should get going. I just wanted to share my news. Bye, Abs. Bye, Rosa.”

        “Bye, Jillian,” Rosa answered. 

        “Oh, and one more thing,” Jillian said. “Are you going to the fireworks show tonight?”

        “I was planning to,” I answered.

        “Great! Claymore and I will see you there.”

 

🌹🌹🌹

 

        At noon, I walked up the block to Marco’s bar, Down the Hatch, to have lunch with my husband. The bar was the most popular watering hole downtown and had the advantage of being across the street from the courthouse, drawing in a diverse clientele of attorneys, judges, secretaries, clerks, businesspeople, and college students from the local university.

        Marco had purchased the bar three years ago but hadn’t touched the décor at all. Last outfitted in the sixties, the bar had a big, polished walnut L-shaped counter that ran down the left side of the building and a row of booths with orange vinyl cushions opposite. A large fisherman’s net hung suspended from the ceiling in one corner, and a big blue plastic carp occupied a space of prominence above the row of booths, along with old photographs that ranged from the 1940s to present. I thought the place needed a makeover, but customers seemed to like the ambience, so Marco was reluctant to change a thing.

        “Hey, Sunshine,” Marco called from behind the bar. “I was just going to text you to see if you were coming down.” He came out and met me at the last booth in the row, unofficially known as the “Salvare Seat,” where a good portion of our courtship had occurred. 

        Marco was Italian American and looked it. With broad shoulders and narrow hips, he looked like a life-sized action figure. He had dark hair that just brushed the top of his back collar, olive skin, almond brown eyes, and a light five o’clock shadow which I found extremely sexy. Today he was wearing a light blue long-sleeved T-shirt with the words Down the Hatch running down one sleeve, dark blue jeans, and his favorite scuffed black boots, looking yummy as always. 

        Marco had enlisted in the army after high school and had quickly advanced to the Army Rangers Special Ops division, where he served for two years. He returned home, attended Indiana University on the GI bill for four years, became a police officer, and a year later decided to retire from regimented life. Now, in addition to owning the bar, Marco had his own private investigation business, the Salvare Detective Agency. 

        “Guess what?” he asked, sliding onto the bench across from me. “The house across the street from us is for sale. The sign went up this morning after you left for work.”

        “The DeWitts are moving? They were such a nice couple.”

        Gert, the waitress who’d worked at the bar for thirty years, stopped by the booth and said in her gravelly voice,             “Hey, lovebirds. What’ll you have?”

        After Gert took our orders, Marco leaned across to grab my hands. “I am not looking forward to new neighbors. We’ve been lucky so far. What are the odds our luck will hold?”

        “Oh, speaking of neighbors, Lottie’s neighbor came into the shop this morning and started yelling at her.”

        “He came into Bloomers?”

        “Yeah, and he threatened her and smashed a couple vases.”

        Immediately, Marco straightened. His eyes grew narrow. “Who is this guy?”

        “A big guy named Garth. She’s been having major problems with him.”

        “What was the threat?”

        “He was going to teach her boys a lesson.”

        “What did the boys do?”

        “I don’t know. She’s going to talk to them later today and report back. The guy was nasty, Marco. I’m worried for her.”

        Still holding my hand, he locked eyes with me. “Next time you see this guy anywhere near Bloomers, you call me. Okay? I’ll be right over.”

        I squeezed his hand. “I will.”

        “Hey, hot stuff,” I heard, and looked up to see Marco’s brother, Rafe, scoot in beside me. 

        Raphael (Rafe) Salvare was ten years younger than Marco. Like his brother, he was broad shouldered and lean hipped, with the same dark, wavy hair, dark eyes, olive skin, and a faint shadow of a beard that Marco had. After dropping out of college one semester short of graduating, Rafe had moved back to New Chapel on orders of his mother, who sent him to Marco to be straightened out. Since then, Rafe had matured quite a bit. He even started handling many of the managerial responsibilities at Down the Hatch, allowing Marco to take P.I. cases when needed.

        Rafe rested his chin in his palm and sighed heavily. Clearly something was bothering him.

        “What’s up?” Marco asked.

        “I guess I’m single again.”

        “What happened?”

        “My girlfriend and I were supposed to go to the fireworks tonight. She wanted me to pick her up at seven for dinner before the show.”

        “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

        “I don’t have a car, Abby.”

        Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that. Rafe had recently made a poor investment decision and lost most of his savings. Marco had ardently argued against his investment, but Rafe was headstrong and cocksure. Two qualities that didn’t always mesh. As a result of Rafe’s poor decisions, he’d sold his car and moved back in with his mother.

        “So, she cancelled the date,” Rafe finished.

        “Why don’t you come to the show with us?” Marco offered. “I’m picking up Mama at eight.”

        “No, thanks. I think I’d rather be alone. For life.”

        I put my arm around his shoulders as he slumped over the table. “Why wouldn’t you invite your girlfriend to come with us?”

        He laughed humorlessly. “It’s bad enough I have to live with Mama. I’m not going on dates with her, too.”

        The door opened and a group of four men walked in headed for the bar. Marco nodded toward them. “You’ve got customers.”

        Rafe looked over at them and slid out of the booth. “I guess the pity party is over.” 

        I watched him head up to the bar. “Poor Rafe,” I said to Marco. “I wish there was something we could do.”

        “He has to live with his mistakes,” Marco replied. “Give him a few days. He’ll be fine.”

        Gert delivered our food then and Marco immediately picked up his burger and chowed down, Rafe’s problem forgotten. 

        If only I had that ability.