do not think it means what you think it means.
~Inigo in The Princess Bride
With an economy of movement, Carla pulled the two bouquets out of the display case, quickly rearranging the other flowers to help fill in the gap, and then carried the wilting flowers to the back. For the millionth time, she wished she could figure out what to do with old flowers. Simply throwing them away seemed so wasteful. This was the part of the job she’d hated since high school when she’d worked at the flower shop in Franklin, and then at Boise State University when she’d worked at the Toadstool.
Unfortunately, it was one part of the florist industry she had yet to solve.
She heard the front doorbell tinkle, and hurried back out front, wiping her hands dry on a towel slung over her shoulder.
“Oh, hello Mrs. VanLueven! Mrs. Zimmerman. How are you?” She sent them a genuine smile. Two middle-aged women who did a lot for the community, she’d worked with them on a few projects, and was always happy to help with more. Like every small town in America, Sawyer was a better place to live because of their community volunteers.
“Well,” Mrs. Zimmerman said officiously, “I don’t know if you’ve heard about all of the issues that returning military men and women are having after serving in war zones, but Carol and I read an article a month ago about soldiers with PTSD, and we’ve decided that this is what we’re going to focus on now. We’ve put together a plan on how to tackle this, and are reaching out to businesses around the valley to make it happen.” Carla pasted a smile on her face as the flood of words washed over her, hoping she didn’t look as overwhelmed as she felt. “You know how we were sending care packages to our Long Valley service members? But then we realized everyone does that, and the real hard part is when they come home. That’s when they need our support.”
“Nancy, what do you think about these?” Mrs. VanLueven called out, pointing to a mammoth arrangement of flowers that’d normally be at home at a statesman’s funeral. But before her friend could respond, she turned to Carla, who mentally braced herself for whatever was coming. “We need your help decorating for these meetings.”
“They’re going well!” Mrs. Zimmerman put in brightly.
“No, they’re going terribly,” Mrs. VanLueven said bluntly. Carla covered her mouth with her hand, doing her best to hide the laughter bubbling up inside. Carol VanLueven had a reputation for saying it the way it was, but still, seeing it up close and personal was a bit overwhelming.
She wondered for just a moment if Michelle and Mrs. VanLueven liked each other, or hated each other. Two people with such strong personalities…
It would be the Clash of the Titans, but in real life.
“Well, the gift boxes we sent the soldiers went well,” her friend pushed back feebly.
“Yes, of course. Those were easy, though,” Mrs. VanLueven said dismissively. “Paperbacks, beef jerky, lip balm, playing cards…it’s not hard to gin up a nice box for a bunch of soldiers. But we’ve found that it’s a lot harder to get them to come to meetings and talk. You know, about their feelings and things.”
“So we need your help!” Mrs. Zimmerman said, turning back with a pleading look to Carla. “We need flowers that will help the men and women relax. Talk. Open up about what happened to them.”
All laughter drained away at that, bubbling panic quickly replacing it. Sure, Carla was someone who believed wholeheartedly in the healing power of love, and of course, flowers helped someone know they were loved, but they weren’t magic.
Even flowers had limits.
“Ummm…” she stalled, trying to think of how to tactfully say any of that, especially to a powerhouse like Carol VanLueven.
Everyone in town knew two things:
1) Carol got things done; and
2) Standing in her way was a really bad idea.
She was Kylie Whitaker’s mother, of course, and although the vet’s wife had some of her mother in her, she wasn’t nearly as…opinionated.
Which was good. A small town like Sawyer couldn’t handle two Carol VanLuevens.
“Ummmm…” she said again, flailing around blindly. “Did you two have any particular flowers in mind?”
“Happy,” Mrs. VanLueven said.
“Welcoming,” Mrs. Zimmerman put in.
“Let the men—”
“And women!” Mrs. Zimmerman cut in.
“—know that they are loved,” Mrs. VanLueven finished.
“Well,” Carla said, thinking fast, “what about sunflowers? White daisies? Nothing says welcome and happy more than those flowers.”
“Oh, I like it!” Mrs. Zimmerman