through the gateway to the ramp.
* * *
I t was afternoon when she arrived back in New York. She went right to the apartment, showered, then lay down on the bed to wait for Kit’s call.
The next thing she knew, it was morning. She woke up, stunned. Had she slept so soundly that she’d missed hearing the phone ring? She was amazed at the power of her disappointment. She wanted to weep.
But she had to go to work, and once there she was able to relive the trip during coffee breaks, when she told Mrs. V about the wedding, the flowers, the château. Kit knew she worked during the day. He would call when she got home tonight.
But he didn’t call that night, either, although she sat in an agony of suspense, waiting, eating her dinner right next to the phone so she wouldn’t miss its ring. By midnight she was miserable. What had happened? Should she call him? She didn’t know his number, but she could call directory assistance in Boston.… No, she wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t chase him. He would call tomorrow. She stretched out on her bed, pressing against the pillow, reliving her days and nights with Kit in Paris.
The next morning at eight o’clock Catherine let herself into the shop with her own key, then locked the door behind her. The shop wouldn’t open for two hours, but this was when Piet and Mr. Vanderveld returned from the flower market on Sixth Avenue. As usual, they had been there since five-thirty, looking over the day’s flowers and choosing the best ones at the best prices. Now Piet was carrying them in from his van to the cooler. Mr. Vanderveld was at a church consulting with a client about decorating the church and the adjoining hall for a wedding and reception. Mrs. Vanderveld was sitting at the counter at the front of the shop, muttering over her account and order books.
“Good morning, Catherine,” she said. “I think Piet needs help in the back.”
Catherine tossed her purse under the counter and went behind the curtain. Today the shop looked and smelled like a luscious jungle; they were preparing for several weddings. Buckets of Queen Anne’s lace stood at the back of the shop, waiting to be used as fillers for the less hardy, more precious roses, gladioli, peonies, lilies, carnations, delphiniums, and iris that filled the large cooler at the back. Bags of potting soil leaned against the walls and table legs, waiting to be filled into vases and pots. As usual, utensils were everywhere.
Catherine put on her smock and tied her thick hair back up off her head. It was already hot inside and out today, and everything was swollen with heat.
Piet came through the opened double doors at the back of the shop, his arms loaded with a heavy cardboard box of flowers. Catherine hurried back to pull open the wooden cooler door for him. A rush of fresh sweet-scented air mixed with the sour, familiar odor of mildewed wood spilled over her, and she inhaled happily. Her eyes fell on the curve of Piet’s back as he bent to put down the box. Already he had taken off his shirt, and his back gleamed bronze and smooth. She wanted to run her hand over his back in the way one instinctively reaches out to stroke a cat. She wanted to slide her fingers along the glistening sweat that slid over his skin.
She was grateful to her body for that, that small rush of lust. It told her she was not totally obsessed with Kit.
“You need to start cutting the roses,” Piet said, straightening up. “And those damned frogs have to be unpacked.”
A new fashion was sweeping the flower industry, a sort of minimalist movement that involved the exact placement of one or two or three flowers in an unusual container. Now the shop had to buy almost as many figurines and containers as flowers. One design that Mr. Vanderveld had come up with to satisfy his customers’ desire for something modern was a piece of bark with a thimble-size container for water and one rose or lily, even a glad or iris with its stem cut off, surrounded by
* * *
I t was afternoon when she arrived back in New York. She went right to the apartment, showered, then lay down on the bed to wait for Kit’s call.
The next thing she knew, it was morning. She woke up, stunned. Had she slept so soundly that she’d missed hearing the phone ring? She was amazed at the power of her disappointment. She wanted to weep.
But she had to go to work, and once there she was able to relive the trip during coffee breaks, when she told Mrs. V about the wedding, the flowers, the château. Kit knew she worked during the day. He would call when she got home tonight.
But he didn’t call that night, either, although she sat in an agony of suspense, waiting, eating her dinner right next to the phone so she wouldn’t miss its ring. By midnight she was miserable. What had happened? Should she call him? She didn’t know his number, but she could call directory assistance in Boston.… No, she wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t chase him. He would call tomorrow. She stretched out on her bed, pressing against the pillow, reliving her days and nights with Kit in Paris.
The next morning at eight o’clock Catherine let herself into the shop with her own key, then locked the door behind her. The shop wouldn’t open for two hours, but this was when Piet and Mr. Vanderveld returned from the flower market on Sixth Avenue. As usual, they had been there since five-thirty, looking over the day’s flowers and choosing the best ones at the best prices. Now Piet was carrying them in from his van to the cooler. Mr. Vanderveld was at a church consulting with a client about decorating the church and the adjoining hall for a wedding and reception. Mrs. Vanderveld was sitting at the counter at the front of the shop, muttering over her account and order books.
“Good morning, Catherine,” she said. “I think Piet needs help in the back.”
Catherine tossed her purse under the counter and went behind the curtain. Today the shop looked and smelled like a luscious jungle; they were preparing for several weddings. Buckets of Queen Anne’s lace stood at the back of the shop, waiting to be used as fillers for the less hardy, more precious roses, gladioli, peonies, lilies, carnations, delphiniums, and iris that filled the large cooler at the back. Bags of potting soil leaned against the walls and table legs, waiting to be filled into vases and pots. As usual, utensils were everywhere.
Catherine put on her smock and tied her thick hair back up off her head. It was already hot inside and out today, and everything was swollen with heat.
Piet came through the opened double doors at the back of the shop, his arms loaded with a heavy cardboard box of flowers. Catherine hurried back to pull open the wooden cooler door for him. A rush of fresh sweet-scented air mixed with the sour, familiar odor of mildewed wood spilled over her, and she inhaled happily. Her eyes fell on the curve of Piet’s back as he bent to put down the box. Already he had taken off his shirt, and his back gleamed bronze and smooth. She wanted to run her hand over his back in the way one instinctively reaches out to stroke a cat. She wanted to slide her fingers along the glistening sweat that slid over his skin.
She was grateful to her body for that, that small rush of lust. It told her she was not totally obsessed with Kit.
“You need to start cutting the roses,” Piet said, straightening up. “And those damned frogs have to be unpacked.”
A new fashion was sweeping the flower industry, a sort of minimalist movement that involved the exact placement of one or two or three flowers in an unusual container. Now the shop had to buy almost as many figurines and containers as flowers. One design that Mr. Vanderveld had come up with to satisfy his customers’ desire for something modern was a piece of bark with a thimble-size container for water and one rose or lily, even a glad or iris with its stem cut off, surrounded by
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