Forget-Her-Nots (16 page)

T
he
next morning Laurel dug up the courage to face the hallways and found them less hostile than she’d expected. Only two girls canceled their requests for flowers, though Laurel assumed that Tara had and she didn’t run into Susan. Kate even asked her to go to a movie at Willowlawn on Friday.

After dinner on Thursday she ran to the garden to gather purple lilac and lily of the valley for herself and Kate. She’d save hers until she was face-to-face with Justin. The Saturday track meet was home, so she was hopeful he’d be at movie night. On the way back from the garden, she stopped by the conservatory, but it seemed eerily dark. Ms. Suarez clearly wasn’t working on the wedding tussie, and Laurel couldn’t
bring herself to go inside alone. Not at night.

By Friday morning, though, her spirits began a spiral descent. There was still no word from Ms. Suarez about the wedding bouquet, and time was running out. She doesn’t want me, Laurel thought. When she got back from practice, she was stunned to see a single white iris outside her door. She scooped it up and hurried inside.

An iris meant “message.” From Ms. Suarez, Laurel thought, and sat down heavily. If Ms. Suarez was working on the wedding bouquet, she had to be in the conservatory or the gardens. But if Laurel ran to find her, she’d miss the bus with Kate. And if she didn’t show, Ms. Suarez might think she wasn’t serious about Flowerspeaking.

Kate wasn’t in her room, so Laurel wrote a note and slid it under her door. She wrapped Kate’s tussie in a wet paper towel and tucked it into the corner. Kate would get over her absence, but Laurel couldn’t miss the chance Ms. Suarez offered. Miss Spenser was getting married only once. Laurel pulled a sweatshirt over her head and sprinted toward the cedars.

As her feet pressed the fallen needles and her hand swept aside the branches, a soft and piney scent enveloped her. She felt a surge of calm and confidence, but she didn’t see any flowers nearby. Up ahead the conservatory seemed dark again, as if deserted.

“Ms. Suarez?” Laurel opened the door and leaned into the darkness.

“Finally!” said a familiar voice from the shadows. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“I just got your message,” Laurel said, panting. “Soccer practice took forever. You want me to turn on the lights?”

“No.” Ms. Suarez was standing behind a table covered with white vases. “I have a better idea.” She disappeared into a storage closet.

Laurel walked toward the table. Two dozen identical vases were lined up. Each one had a single bloom or frond of greenery in it and an index card with the flower’s name scrawled across it. She had time to read only a few before Ms. Suarez emerged carrying a large and tarnished candelabra.

“Let’s do this the old-fashioned way,” said Ms. Suarez. She set the candelabra at one end of the table and handed Laurel a box of ivory candles. Laurel placed a candle in each arm while Ms. Suarez lit them.

“I love candles,” said Ms. Suarez softly.

Laurel could feel herself calming down. “It’s like we’re on an island of light in the middle of a great darkness.”

Ms. Suarez seemed to freeze.

“What?”

Ms. Suarez rubbed her arms. “Déjà vu. I just had a
flashback—to a moment when your mom and I were girls.”

“Tell me about it,” Laurel pleaded. “Please.”

Ms. Suarez’s watery eyes shone in the candlelight. “I have to set the scene. Lily—your mom—was interested in a particular boy at Willowlawn . . . .”

“Not my dad,” said Laurel. “He didn’t go there.”

“No,” said Ms. Suarez. “Lily wanted a specific flower for a dance. Somehow she got it into her head that the bloom would be most potent if picked precisely at midnight.”

“Weren’t there curfews back then?”

“Of course, even stricter than now.” Ms. Suarez gave her an exaggerated frown. “Mrs. Fox wouldn’t appreciate me telling you this. You might get ideas.”

Laurel raised her right hand. “I solemnly swear that I won’t get any ideas from your story about my mom. None at all. Whatsoever.”

Ms. Suarez smiled. “Guess I can’t stop now.”

Laurel tapped the table with her fist. “No, you can’t. So my mom wanted a flower at midnight and . . .”

“And we couldn’t go out the front doors of the dorm, because they squeaked horribly and our dorm mother was a light sleeper. We climbed out a first-floor window and ran to the garden. When we found the flower, Lily said something just like what you said. Something
about our flashlights making an island of light in the darkness.”

Laurel felt the story sink into her. “What flower was it?” she asked.

“I wish I remembered.” Ms. Suarez sat down next to her. “When I first came here, your mom and I ran into each other in the garden all the time, but it took us months to discover we both had the gift. We felt so dense afterward.”

“So, did it work?” asked Laurel wistfully, wondering who Justin was hanging out with at movie night. “Did she take the flower and get the guy?”

Ms. Suarez shrugged. “I don’t remember. Lily must have moved on quickly.”

Will he even notice I’m not there? Laurel thought, as she pulled a vase toward her nose. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes, but I reserve the right not to answer. We’ve got to get going.”

Laurel’s eye traced the tattered edge of the flower in the vase. “Have you ever used Flowerspeaking to get a guy interested in you?”

Ms. Suarez’s head tilted. “And you said you weren’t going to get any ideas.”

“I didn’t,” protested Laurel. “I mean, I already had that idea—about guys.”

Ms. Suarez laughed. “We all do.” She straightened one of the index cards on the table. “Have you ever tried using flowers to bring about your own desires?”

Laurel shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

“Then you know it’s a delicate business. The flowers don’t always ‘speak’ the way we want if we use them
only
for ourselves.”

Tell me about it, Laurel thought.

Ms. Suarez turned a vase between her hands. “It seems like it should be so easy, to make another person love us forever. But then we might have perfect lives, and no one’s life is meant to be perfect, is it?”

Her eyes were solemn as she met Laurel’s. “I believe our gift is meant for others, not just for ourselves. And speaking of others, we’ve got to get to work on Sheila’s bouquet. I don’t want to keep you up till midnight before your flower girl debut.”

Laurel’s sigh made the candlelight waver. Tara will have no mercy. Ms. Suarez came back carrying a leather book—just like the one in the tower, just like the one Grandma had sent—and laid it on the table between them. The sight of it jarred Laurel’s memory.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you,” she began. “I
finally
heard from Grandma.”

Ms. Suarez clapped her hands together. “Oh, Laurel! I’m so, so happy. Maybe she’s ready to take her place
again—with you and with all of us. What did she say?”

“Not much, but she sent me my mom’s flower book. Is this one yours?”

“It belongs to the conservatory. I found it hidden with Juan José’s journal.”

“But you have one of your own, don’t you?” Laurel asked.

Several silent moments passed. “I did,” Ms. Suarez said, “but someone stole it.”

“Who?” Laurel asked in astonishment. “Why?”

“My ex-husband.” Ms. Suarez raised her index finger. “And that’s all I’m saying. He doesn’t deserve another word.”

Laurel felt like she could erupt with questions, but she held them in. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone spoil the magic of this evening.

“Now,” said Ms. Suarez, “we’re going to make this a learning experience.”

Laurel sighed dramatically. “Must we?”

“We must.” Ms. Suarez said with a little smile. “I’ve given you an array to choose from. You can look up the meaning of each bloom, inhale its fragrance, and then I want you to make a recommendation to me: should we include it or not?”

“Is this a test?” asked Laurel.

“Not at all. It’s an excellent way for you to gain
experience. Now that you’ve aroused the love between Miss Spenser and the professor, what emotions, what feelings will help their love last until death-do-us-part?”

Laurel skimmed the first index card and opened the book to A. Alyssum’s sweet scent was for “worth beyond beauty.” She jotted that down, starred it, and moved to the next vase. Ms. Suarez hovered nearby, busying herself at the edges of candlelight.

“Ms. Suarez?” Laurel said when she was nearly done.

“Yes?”

“Are Flowerspeakers magic?”

“Magic?” Ms. Suarez pursed her lips. “Not exactly. The flowers have the magic. The power to awaken and arouse. The power to remind. You release those powers.”

Laurel’s eyebrows drew together. “How?”

“Precisely? No one knows. We’re few and don’t want much attention—no extended scientific studies. It’s been so since the beginning of time, among people who have ever walked the gardens of the earth. When the gift is weak, people call it a green thumb. Some Flowerspeakers—the strongest—have influenced the decisions of kings and queens. Some have made potent arrangements for White House dinners.”

“Really? Wow.” Laurel phrased her next question delicately. “So, when you give someone flowers, do you say anything? Like special words?”

Ms. Suarez shook her head. “I don’t, but your mom did. My family hums.” She began the familiar strain of “Ode to Joy.” “We choose a melody that expresses what we want to happen, and we hum to bring forth the magic.”

“I feel like my whole body is humming when I’m with flowers!” Laurel said.

Ms. Suarez nodded. “Your gift is potent, but that means you have to be careful.”

“But the magic doesn’t work unless I say my words, right?” Laurel asked.

Ms. Suarez frowned. “That’s a good question for Cicely. Your flowers are unlikely to work for
other
people without your words, but your nose is very sensitive. The strongest scents might affect you anyway. Which is why I want you to take this slowly, so you can figure out these things. Okay?”

Laurel nodded as she moved to the next vase.

Ms. Suarez put a hand on her shoulder. “One more piece of advice: be sure to choose a flower for faithfulness.”

Laurel glanced sideways, wondering again about her teacher’s ex-husband.

Ms. Suarez checked her choices. “Good . . . good . . . interesting . . . good . . . yes. Sheila will have quite a bouquet of lovely wishes.”

“But there’s room for one more flower, isn’t there?”

Ms. Suarez pushed away the vases Laurel had rejected. “Which one? You’ve recommended an armful.”

“Lily of the valley, for the return of happiness,” said Laurel. “It’s blooming now.”

“But her happiness has already returned,” said Ms. Suarez. “She’s happy now.”

“Yeah, but—” Laurel struggled to articulate the urgency she felt. “But lily of the valley was in the first tussie I ever gave her, and it’s the flower my mom chose to introduce the language to me. I feel like we’re
supposed
to include it.”

Ms. Suarez shrugged. “There’s no harm, I guess.”

Laurel rubbed her palms together. “Good. Can we get some right now from the garden? We could take flashlights.”

Ms. Suarez threw her head back. “Not going to get any ideas? Yeah, right.”

Minutes later they were winding down a garden path, the beams of their flashlights bobbing in front of them.

“Did you know some flowers release their scent only at night?” asked Ms. Suarez.

“Really?” Laurel sniffed, but the fragrance of some nearby pines masked all others.

“Here we are,” said Ms. Suarez. Their flashlights illuminated sprays of bell-shaped white blooms clinging to their stalks.

“Yesss,” said Laurel.
The return of happiness
.

“Another island of light,” whispered Ms. Suarez as she went down on one knee. “How many do we need? You should always arrange blooms in odd numbers.”

Laurel crouched next to her. “Is that one of our ancient wisdoms?”

“No.” Ms. Suarez grinned. “I saw it on a cable gardening show.”

Laurel giggled as she took a stalk.

“I’m guessing one won’t be enough?” said Ms. Suarez.

“Three, please,” said Laurel. Happiness never seemed to last long enough. Maybe it had to return over and over and over.

“There.” Ms. Suarez handed Laurel the sprigs. “Anything else?”

Laurel shook her head. “I’m good.” They directed their flashlights back toward the conservatory, and she could smell sweet whiffs from the lilies as they walked.

“You can ride with me to the wedding tomorrow,” Ms. Suarez said. “We should get to the bed-and-breakfast early, and there’s something I want to show you, too.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

Laurel didn’t press her, but her steps slowed when she
saw the conservatory tower shining above the trees. Her skin trembled in the cool darkness. “Ms. Suarez?”

“Yes?”

“People say the ghost of Gladys haunts the conservatory,” Laurel whispered.

“People say lots of things,” said Ms. Suarez. “Too many things. What is a ghost but the presence of a strong memory? Gladys’s spirit will always be alive here, and that’s a good thing.” She put her hand on Laurel’s lower back and gently pushed forward. “Don’t you think the spirit of Thomas Jefferson still walks the floors and fields of Monticello? And the spirit of Emily Dickinson still roams her gardens?”

And my mom still wanders through my dreams, Laurel added to herself.

They were past the cedars before Ms. Suarez spoke again. “Lily’s ghost must be powerful, too,” she said softly. “No one we truly love ever leaves us completely.”

R
eaching
into a basket woven with ribbons, Laurel scattered rose petals—pink, red, and white—as she walked up the grass past rows of white folding chairs. The lavender dress she’d borrowed from Kate was gauzy and scalloped at the bottom, like petals sewn together. For the garland on her head, she had chosen purple violets to say “you occupy my thoughts.” She added blue forget-me-nots, because she wanted to remember and be remembered.

Laurel returned the guests’ smiles as she approached a vine-twisted trellis at the entrance to the Victorian bed-and-breakfast. Rose snapped a picture of her, but Kate looked away. When Laurel had gotten back from the conservatory the night before, she’d knocked on Kate’s door to apologize, but no one answered. That morning
Ms. Suarez had given Laurel a ride to the bridal brunch before the afternoon wedding, so she hadn’t seen Kate before she left.

Laurel’s petals landed on the professor’s shiny black shoes, but he didn’t shake them off. She turned as the notes of “Trumpet Voluntary” sounded, and everyone stood. Miss Spenser was wearing a cream-colored, lacy dress that fell to her shins, and both her hands clutched the bouquet. Her eyes were wide, as if gaping at this unexpected twist in her own life. Laurel threw another handful of petals, which the wind spun and lifted over their heads.
Bright cut flowers, leaves of green, bring about what I have seen
.

The minister spread his arms. “Welcome to all: friends, colleagues, and students. We will begin with a blessing from one of Luke and Sheila’s favorite poets, Gerard Manley Hopkins.”

Justin suddenly appeared. Laurel’s face warmed, but he wasn’t looking her way. His black hair hung straight over the collar of his Willowlawn blazer. He held a paper steady in both hands, took a visible breath, and read.

“Pied Beauty

Laurel’s eyes glazed. The words were strange as they tumbled into her mind, but she felt, with a spine-tingling rush, the abundance and richness of life. It was all out there—sweet and sour, swift and slow, waiting for her. A world of everything and its opposite. Her eyes met Justin’s, and a tear escaped down her cheek. She looked away. Her heart thumped, deep and full, as he walked by her and back to his seat.

After the ceremony Laurel found Kate in the buffet line. “How’s it going?”

Kate crossed her arms. “I can’t believe you ditched me last night.”

“I didn’t
want
to,” Laurel said. Kate was angrier than Laurel thought she’d be. “Ms. Suarez needed my help with the wedding bouquet. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“I guess so.” Kate piled finger sandwiches on her
plate. “You know, sometimes I just don’t get you.”

“What’s to get?” Laurel said lightly, but Kate frowned.

“You’re always disappearin’, and sometimes you don’t even answer your door when I
know
you’re in there. And then last night . . . I thought we had plans.”

Laurel directed Kate toward a less crowded corner of the lawn. “I couldn’t help it. Ms. Suarez asked me to help her out a
long
time ago, but I had no idea it’d be last night. I couldn’t miss that, not after giving all those flowers to Miss Spenser. But I really wanted to go with you.”

Kate stared at her food. “I told Alan to tell Justin you were comin’, and then you don’t show. It makes me look bad, and what’s Justin supposed to think now?”

Laurel scanned the crowd, but Justin was talking to Rose and Mina with his back to her. I need to see his face, she thought. “Did you tell him I like him?”

“Kinda,” said Kate. “I told Alan, so you blew it by not showin’.”

“Did you tell Justin why?” Laurel asked. Her stomach felt too tight to eat.

Kate shrugged. “I said you had to go help a teacher, but it sounded pretty lame.”

As soon as Kate finished eating, Laurel took hold of her elbow. “Let’s go see that bouquet.” It was displayed with the wedding gifts on a table not too far from Justin.

“Only two months.” A woman with white hair
whispered loudly as they passed her. “They’ve known each other only two months. Can you imagine?”

Laurel had to smile. How could Miss Spenser
not
believe in flower magic when this day was like a miracle? Her bouquet was inside a tulip-shaped vase, whose own petals seemed spun of lacy silver. Feet shaped like leaves sprouted from the base. It was a posy holder, Ms. Suarez had explained the night before, that once had belonged to Gladys.

“Awesome bouquet, isn’t it?” said Mina. Her black hair was in a coil on her head, and she had an orange lily over one ear. “So many flowers.”

“It’s perfect.” Laurel’s eyes danced from one magical bloom to another.

Mina touched the silver filigree. “This posy holder is amazing, too.”

“Posy?” said Kate. “Like in ‘Ring around the Rosie’?”

“Kind of.” Laurel tried to position herself to catch Justin’s attention. “A posy is a little bouquet, like a tussie.” But not so powerful. A voice she was hoping to hear interrupted her thoughts, and she felt like she had wings flapping in her chest.

“Hey, Laurel,” said Justin. “Hi, Kate.”

“Hi, Justin,” said Kate. “What’s up?”

“The usual.” Justin glanced from Kate to Laurel.

“Uh, Mina,” said Kate, grabbing her arm. “Can I ask you something? Now.”

“So, you’re the flower girl?” Justin said, taking a step closer.

“As a favor to Miss Spenser,” Laurel explained. “She really wanted one.”

“It fits, though,” said Justin. “You like flowers a lot, don’t you?”

“I do,” said Laurel. Her violets and forget-me-nots were nearly under his nose, but she and Justin stood wordless for a few elongated seconds. “I
really
wanted to come to movie night, but something came up.”

Justin shrugged. “It happens.”

“And I like that poem you read. I want to read it again—when I can think about it.”

“It’s pretty cool,” said Justin. “A lot of Hopkins’s poetry was rejected when he was alive. People thought it was too weird.”

“Really?” Laurel frowned in thought. “It was a little strange, but it made sense, too.”

Justin’s smile was wide and sunny.

“Wha-at?” Laurel’s face mirrored his.

“I could tell you got it.”

Her skin warmed under his addictive smile. “I love poetry. Miss Spenser reads us a poem almost every day.”

Justin nodded. “Cool. Who’s your favorite?”

“Laurel!” a slightly accented voice called out, and she saw Ms. Suarez approaching.

“Emily Dickinson,” Laurel said quickly. “Or maybe E.E. Cummings.”

“There you are,” said Ms. Suarez. One hand clutched the wide brim of her hat while the other balanced a flute of champagne. She let go of her hat, and—almost immediately—a gust of wind caught it and carried it into the rows of white chairs.

“I’ll get it,” said Justin, running after it.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Ms. Suarez said. “I’d like to show you something.”

“Right now?” said Laurel.

Justin reappeared. “Here’s your hat.”

“Gracias.”
Ms. Suarez took the hat and raised her glass toward the wedding trellis. “If there’s hope for Sheila Spenser, there’s hope for us all.” She took another sip and laced her arm through Laurel’s. “Come. I want to show you a garden I designed.”

Laurel’s eyes met Justin’s. “But we just . . .” she stammered. “I . . .”

Ms. Suarez glanced between them. “Yes?”

“We were talking,” Laurel managed. “Justin and I.”

Ms. Suarez turned to Justin. “Something important has come up, and I need to speak with Laurel immediately. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Oh.” Justin took a step backward. “Okay. Uh, see you later?”

Laurel could read only confusion in his eyes, and her flowers were failing miserably. Again. “Bye.”

When he was out of earshot, Laurel spun on Ms. Suarez. “What’s so important? I—”

“You like him,” said Ms. Suarez. “He’s very sweet, but we may not have another chance to see this display. C’mon.”

Your timing’s horrible, thought Laurel. With a glance at Justin’s retreating back she followed her teacher through a break in a boxwood hedge.

“You’re entering my spring garden,” said Ms. Suarez. “I also designed one for summer, fall, and winter, so each season has its own show. The owner of this B and B wanted truly unique gardens.” Ms. Suarez squeezed Laurel’s arm. “C’mon. You can’t be moody on a day when our flowers have triumphed.”

Laurel felt beyond moody. Nothing ever goes right with Justin, she thought.

Still, delicious fragrances swirled around her head with each quiver of wind. Butterflies and bees danced from bloom to bloom, intoxicated by the surfeit of nectar. Gradually Laurel’s frustration dissipated as she remembered her mom’s garden. Any other world, any other mood, dropped away as soon as you entered and opened yourself to the waves of sensuous delight.

In Ms. Suarez’s garden the color yellow came first:
sundrops, coreopsis, and a lemony blooming vine arched toward the blue sky. Laurel turned a corner and felt doused in pink. It was stunning, but it seemed bizarre, too: such concentrations of one color at a time.

“I wanted visitors to encounter the colors of each season,” said Ms. Suarez. “To contemplate color itself.”

Glory be to God for dappled things
, Laurel thought, remembering the first line of Justin’s poem. Who’s he talking with now?

Her teacher strolled to a wooden bench under another trellis and sat down. The pink blooms on the leafy vines were just starting to open. This spot was as romantic as the kissing couch.

Maybe I can bring Justin here, Laurel thought. She looked for the turret of the Victorian house to regain her bearings. Sitting down next to Ms. Suarez, she took the garland off her head and slowly turned the flowers between her hands.

“They’re lovely,” said Ms. Suarez. “So delicate.”

And useless, Laurel thought. Then it struck her. When she’d said her words before the ceremony, she’d directed all her attention, all her energy, toward Miss Spenser and her bouquet. Maybe I could say them again with Justin. Just for me.

Ms. Suarez drank the last sip of champagne and set the glass in the grass near her feet. “Now that Cicely’s back in your life, I can tell you something very important.”

“Did you hear from her?” Laurel asked. She’d called Grandma again that morning, but no one had answered.

“Not yet,” Ms. Suarez said. “But I think I will. I want you to know something else: your mom wrote to me when she was about to die.”

Laurel’s entire body tensed as she held her breath.

“Lily hoped with her whole heart that her only child would have the gift, but she couldn’t be certain until you became a woman. She knew she wouldn’t be around then, so she wanted someone to watch you and await the signs.”

Laurel blinked in confusion. “My mom asked you to watch me?”

Ms. Suarez nodded. “If I had the opportunity.”

“But she didn’t know I was coming to Avondale,” Laurel said. “I didn’t even know I was coming here.” She stood up and took several steps away from the bench. “Why didn’t you tell me this
before
? Like when we first met?”

“I couldn’t,” Ms. Suarez said emphatically. “I had to make sure you had the gift. If you didn’t, your mom made it clear to all of us that she didn’t want you to know it existed.”

Laurel’s head was spinning. “All of us?”

“Flowerspeakers. She asked others to watch you, too: people closer to your home.”

Laurel folded her arms tightly. “So, you’ve been watching me ever since I got here?”

“From a distance,” said Ms. Suarez. “Until your first bouquet. Then I tried to contact Cicely. Your mom wanted her to be the one to explain it all—to teach you.”

Laurel shook her head. “I
still
don’t get it. Why didn’t my mom tell me herself? She could have taught me all about Flowerspeaking before she died.”

Ms. Suarez walked to Laurel’s side. “No. She couldn’t risk that. What if she’d told you about this marvelous gift? What if she showed you its secret paths, and then you didn’t have it? And she was gone. She wanted to spare you the pain of Gladys—the pain of knowing and not having.”

“But she should have known I have it,” Laurel said. “She knew me all my life, and . . . and she’s my mom.”

“Maybe. I don’t know what mothers know.” Ms. Suarez’s voice was hardly above a whisper. “And your mom could never have predicted the depth of Cicely’s grief.”

Laurel wanted to ignore the sadness in Ms. Suarez’s voice, but it penetrated her own anger as she walked to a bush heavy with yellow blooms. “Was my mom one of our elders?”

“She would have been, I think.”

“Will you be?”

Ms. Suarez shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve laid low for so long . . . .”

Laurel turned and put her hands on her hips. “So, if
my mom’s gift was so powerful, why couldn’t it fight the cancer? Why isn’t she still alive?”

Ms. Suarez’s head fell back as if she were asking Heaven the questions. “The flowers helped her for a while, especially with the pain. But we’re not miracle workers. The power of life and death is beyond us.”

Laurel frowned at a bee gathering nectar, and Ms. Suarez cleared her throat.

“Did you know that bees see colors differently from us?” she said. “On many petals there are distinctive color patterns that direct the bees to the nectar, like traffic signs. We can’t read them, but the bees do.”

Laurel batted the air with her garland, and the bee deserted the bloom in a frantic, zigzag flight. A burst of laughter reached their ears, and she pictured Kate and Alan, how they touched each other so easily. I want to be with Justin, she thought.