Love’s Flowers

By Jade Promhouse

Once upon a time...non. Let me start again. Ahem. In a kingdom, far far
away...no, that’s not right either. In all honesty, this story you’re about to hear did
not happen far far away, or once upon a time for that matter. It happened in the
town of St. Louise-du-ha! ha!–odd name, I know–off the southern shore of the St.
Lawrence River in Quebec. In the true nature of all Canadiennes, the people who
live here are kind and polite, sometimes to the level of absurdity. Anyway, back to
the story.
We are a town that relies heavily on the tourist industry – those silly tourists
who seek le beaux paysages (beautiful scenery) that exists on the outskirts of the
county. Our most popular time is when the leaves begin to fall. That is when we
bring out the bottles of maple syrup and wooden carvings to sell to the tourists. Of
course, my maman and I do not follow that generalization. Instead we –
Oh! I apologize, I have not introduced myself. Je suis (I am) Nicole Samarin,
and I am a born and bred French–Canadian. I have lived in this small town all my
life, with my maman and mon petit frère (my little brother). When I am not busy
with school and such, I help maman run her petit magasin de fleurs (small flower
shop). While I lord over the small store, she goes home to work on the bead and
fabric flowers that our customers can order for special occasions. As you can
imagine, owning a flower shop means we do not see many tourist customers. Those
few that do come in never order any of maman’s specialty flowers –our fiert et de
joie (our pride and joy)–since they take, on average, 6 hours to make a single
flower, and the tourist never stay longer than a day or two.
One day, however, a middle-aged man I have never seen before came in. It
was the beginning of September, and the leaves had just begun to change colour.
C’est très jolie (It was very pretty), but it was hardly the showers of red and gold
that we were famous for. And yet, here was this tourist man, standing in my
maman’s shop no less, looking at the coolers and pots full of flowers. He had a sad
look on his tired face, but he returned my welcoming smile readily enough.
“Bonjour monsieur. How can I help you?”
“I’ve heard you make the most magnificent fake flowers in the province.” At
his words, I felt a surge of pride.
“Now me, monsieur. My maman makes them, with help from ma grandmère
(my grandmother). We have some examples here.” I tapped the glass cabinet I sat
behind. He walked over and contemplated the silk petals, the bead stamens and the
vivid colours. His smile grew when he spotted a peony, its silk petals dyed a faint
pink which turned lighter near the centre.
“Peonies are her favourite.” He told me. I smiled in confusion.
“Whose, monsieur?”
“My wife.”
“Oh I see! She has excellent taste. They are very beautiful.” As he continued
to study it, I studied him. He wore a golf shirt, tan slacks and an expensive looking
jacket–all of which showed a slight bulge of a belly. His hair was thinning at the top
and silver in colour with streaks of black. He wore glasses on his wide nose. He
seemed like a happy man–one who worked hard and deserved all the good fortune
that befell him. However, no one would say he was happy now.
 “How long would it take to make a bouquet of these type of peonies?” I
snapped back to attention at his words.
“Ah–“ I fumbled behind the counter for the order book, flipping through the
pages. Other than a wedding in two weeks, maman had no other orders to fill.
“Depending on the urgency, it could be done in about 2 days, or up to a week.” I
knew maman had backups of everything for urgent orders, and I could pitch in if
needed. I wanted–non, needed–to make this man happy. He just seemed so sad,
and it hurt my heart to see such sorrow.
“Two days would be great.” He pulled out his wallet.
“Of course.” I pulled a blank order form from the binder. “Just fill this out
monsieur, and you will get a call when your flowers are ready.” I handed him the
form and a pen, before hopping off my seat and heading for the back of the store.
“So, is there a specific occasion you are planning for, monsieur? Un anniversaire (an
anniversary), perhaps?” I reached into a cooler and pulled out a small bouquet.
“No, nothing special. Just to make her smile.” He said, after a slight
hesitation.
“She will adore them.” I slid back into my seat with a bright smile on my face.
“My maman’s work, c’est très magnifique (it’s very magnificent).”
“That it is.” He signed his name on the bottom of the form and handed back
the pen. “Shall I pay now?”
“We require a down payment, of course, non-refundable. However, you may
pay the full amount now if you wish.” I took the form and looked down at his neat
writing. He had requested a bouquet of eight fabric peonies and I quickly calculated
the price. “That will be –“
“Is this enough?” He cut me off, laying a bunch of bills on the counter. My
eyes widened and I picked them up to count them.
“Merde.” (Shit.) I gazed up at him, mouth wide open for a moment, before
rapidly shaking my head. “Non monsieur, I cannot accept.”
“Please.” His voice had gone sad again, his smile gone. “Think of it as a
guarantee of your service.” I drew myself up at that, offended.
“We always keep our word, monsieur.” I frowned at him.
“My apologies.” His kind smile was back. “I didn’t mean to insult you, or your
family. Let me rephrase. It is a bonus, for pleasing my wife and I.” His smile
wavered for a second, and I felt concern.
“Is something wrong, monsieur?”
“Hm? Oh. No, nothing. Thank you.” He smiled at me and turned to go.
“Wait monsieur!” I handed him the bouquet I’d grabbed earlier. “For your
wife.” After a slight hesitation, he took the peonies and daisies.
“Thank you. She’ll love them.” His smile was the happiest it had been since
he had walked through the door.
“Enjoy monsieur. I shall talk to you soon.” With another smile, I ushered him
out the door. When it closed behind him, I headed back to the counter and grabbed
the phone. After a few rings, a calm voice filled my ear.
“Allo?” (Hello?)
“Allo maman. C’est Nicole.” (Hello maman. It’s Nicole.)
“Ah oui. Comment ca va?” (Ah, yes. How are you?)
“Ca va bien.”(I’m good.) I reread the order form absently. “Maman, can you
get a bouquet done by Friday?”
“Depends on the order, ma fille (my daughter). How many of what?”
 “Eight peonies...?” I could hear her quick intake of breath and winced.
Peonies took a long time to make because of the number of petals.
“Mon Dieu (My God) Nicole! What were you thinking?!”
“Maman, I’ll help.” I rushed to calm her down. “And the man gave us a ton of
money to finish by then.” She paused.
“How much?” Her tone was suspicious. When I told her the amount, she fell
completely silent.
“Maman?” I grew worried at her continued silence.
“You served a criminal!” Her voice was now a high-pitched screech. “Only a
faussaire (counterfeiter) would give a girl in a flower shop that much money for a
simple bunch of fake flowers!”
“Non maman!” I protested. “He was a nice gentleman. He wanted to buy
them for his wife. I think something is wrong with them maman. He was so sad.”
The phone line fell silent again. Then she sighed.
“Ok Nicole. We will make the flowers. Why don’t you close up the shop and
come home to help me?”
“Thank you maman!” We hung up the phone and, elated, I closed up the
shop and locked the door behind me as I left.

Two days later:

“Maman, they look fine. Stop worrying.” Gently prying her fingers apart, I
took the flowers away from her and set them down on the counter to wrap them
with a ribbon. Deprived of something to play with, she got up and walked around
the store, straightening the various bouquets and long-stemmed flowers. When the
bell on the door finally rang, she practically ran to the counter. The man walked
back in, this time helping a frail-looking woman with a steady arm.
“Bonjour madame. Monsieur.” (Hello ma’am. Sir.) My mothers smile was
warm and professional and she quickly offered the woman a chair. The woman sank
down into it with a grateful look. Her face was pale, her hair stringy and a faint
sheen of sweat was proof of how much effort it had taken to walk through the door.
“Hello ladies.” The man smiled at us, his smile sad once again. “I’m here to
pick up my order?”
“Ah, yes. Here it is.” I watched my maman offer the bouquet to him. He took
it and immediately turned to the woman.
“Here you are, Louise.” His voice was soft and loving. “Your favourite. And
they’ll never die, I promise.” We stayed quiet, not wanting to intrude on this couples
moment.
“Thank you my darling.” She took the flowers, gazing down at them with
happiness. “They’re beautiful.” A smile bloomed on her face, and tears began to
leak from the corner of her husband’s eyes.
“I love you.” He took her hand and kissed it sweetly.
“I love you too.” She stood up and hugged him tightly. After a long embrace,
they broke apart and turned to us. “Thank you for the wonderful flowers.” Louise
held out her hand, and my mother took it. They shook hands before my mother
enveloped her in a quick and gentle hug.
“Be well, madame.” After a few more words, they left. We never saw them
again, as was usual for our few tourist customers. A few months later, however, I
looked up the man on the internet. It turns out he was a major business tycoon,
whose wife (Louise) had been from Quebec, not far from our small town. She’d been
diagnosed with HIV/AIDS not long ago, and all her husbands money couldn’t buy her
a cure. She’d died only two days after that day in the flower shop and had been
buried with half of the bouquet we’d made her. Her husband–who’d committed
suicide soon after–was buried with the other half. To be in love like that, where
death is better than living without your amore (love), must be a great thing indeed.
I guess it is true when people say, “Il n’y a qu’un Bonheur dans la vie, c’est d’aimer
et d’ tre aim ,” or “There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.”

The End