This Summer Will Be Different(6)

“Hello,” I say. “Can we help you with anything in particular?”

“Yeah. I want to get some flowers.”

I can feel Farah resisting an eye roll.

“Well, you’re in the right place. Is it a special occasion? Who are you shopping for?”

“They’re for my boyfriend’s mom. I don’t know what she likes.”

“Meeting the parents?” Farah asks.

“Yeah.”

She looks at me, smug. I was close.

“We have a reservation at six at a restaurant down the street,” he says. “I saw your sign and realized that I should probably bring her something.”

I glance at the clock. It’s five forty. That’s odd. Bridget should be here by now. She’s supposed to meet me in five minutes, but she’s usually early. Her final gown fitting is this evening, at a boutique a block west. We’re walking there together, getting the dress, then grabbing dinner.

“Let me help you,” Farah says, standing. She speaks to the customers with a tone that manages to sound both resigned and wise. I could never pull it off the way she does. I’m bubbly, my smile full of teeth.

She leads him to our hand-tied bouquets. There are only three left, but he’s lucky he has any to choose from. We’re often sold out at the end of the day.

As she helps him pick, I go back to the drawing. I squint one eye, imagining Bridget in ivory, Miles in his suit. Her dress is elegant, simple. It’s one of the reasons I feel the archway should make more of a statement. If her gown were extravagant, I would make sure the flowers didn’t undermine it. The dress is stunning, but there’s not a flourish on it. There’s not even a train.

A train.

I pick up my pencil and begin a rough sketch of an archway that cascades to the floor in a waterfall, extending over the ground. It will be a river of flora. A train of flowers.

I don’t notice Farah standing over my shoulder until I hear her say, “Elaborate.”

“Perfect.”

“Perfect,” she agrees.

The next step is figuring out what I need to order, but I’ve got time. The flower auction, where I do the bulk of my buying every week, is first thing Tuesday morning so I still have five days to decide. And now that I have the archway design nailed, I can turn my attention to tomorrow. I chew on my lip.

As if reading my mind, Farah asks, “Is there anything you want to go over before your meeting?”

I’m having breakfast with Lillian, the events manager of Cena, one of Toronto’s poshest hospitality groups. She’d read about the shop in the newspaper and has asked In Bloom to take on florals for all of Cena’s restaurants. There are eight of them, one of which is inside the swanky hotel where we’re meeting. My Friday will begin with a thirty-dollar omelet and a contract that could change my life.

“I think I’m good,” I tell Farah.

I’m certain I’ll be signing that piece of paper tomorrow, but I can’t deny it makes me uneasy. I’m not sure if I’m having second thoughts because corporate orders don’t fill me up—dozens of uniform vases, uninventive, impersonal. Or if I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle the increase in volume. Right now, I have Farah and two part-timers, but if I go ahead with Cena, I’ll need two or three full-time staffers. And while I love arranging flowers, I do not love being a manager. I find difficult conversations difficult. But if self-doubt and fear are holding me back—it’s more reason to jump in headfirst. That and taking the contract mean I can give Farah the massive raise she deserves.

“I’m excited,” I tell Farah. “I’m also tired. I haven’t slept well in weeks.” I’ve been overthinking when I should be sleeping.

“Maybe if you took a day off . . .”

“You know I can’t do that.” We’re already running at full tilt.

She growls. “Then don’t stay out late tonight. You’re trash when you don’t get enough rest.”

Farah moves toward the front door and turns the deadbolt. I glance at the clock, surprised to find that it’s already six. Bridget is ten minutes late. Bridget is never late. She’s the most reliable person I know.

We’ve been best friends for seven years, and in all that time, she’s been late precisely once. That first trip. The time that counted.

“That’s strange,” I say, trying to keep fear from seeping into my voice. Bridget’s fine. She has to be.

“She must have got caught in rush hour,” Farah says. But I can hear the uncertainty in her voice.

“Maybe.”

Bridget works as the VP of publicity at Sunnybrook Hospital, and she was going to leave right at five so she had plenty of time even if traffic was heinous, which it usually is.

I send her a text, but she doesn’t reply.

At ten after six, panic sets in. I unlock the front door and step into the muggy August evening. I look up and down Queen Street East, searching for a head of white-gold corkscrews. I fell in love with Bridget’s hair, staring at the back of her head in a company all-staff before we ever spoke. She’s dyed it platinum for the wedding, but I prefer her natural, softer shade. It reminds me of late summer haystacks.

Like the rest of Toronto, Leslieville flexes its charm on hot nights. I see three red streetcars traveling west in a row, an elderly basset hound in a stroller, and a toddler holding a melting ice cream cone, his face and hands coated in glossy green mint chip. But I don’t see Bridget.