“Wow. They sound like horrible, miserable people. I mean, how could they not love their own grandchild? Especially you. You seem A-OK to me.”
“Apart from a head injury and a stubborn streak a mile long? I can’t think of anything not to like about me.”
Perry chuckles.
Wandering around the table, I flick the end of one of the long ribbons hanging from spools on the lowest shelf. “So how many people work at Blooms & Baubles?”
“Besides me? Two. There’s Alma, our weekend florist. She’s a friend of my mom’s and has been with the shop for over twenty years.”
“And the other?”
“Our part-time delivery driver, Chuck. He’s an ex-con, but a good guy. Highly dependable. We used to have more employees, but I’ve had to scale back since Mom transferred the business to me and I took over.” A cloud passes over his expression, but it’s gone in a blink.
“So you do most of the flower arrangements yourself?”
“I do indeed.”
“And this is what you wanted to do with your life.”
It’s not a question, but he answers it anyway. “Shocking, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “Not if you love flowers.”
Perry pushes off the counter and saunters across the room. Settling onto a tall metal stool, he rests his elbow on the table. “It’s not the flowers I love, exactly. I mean yes, I’ve always loved gardening and appreciate anything that grows in the dirt. But it’s the joy that brought me to the job.”
“The joy of arranging flowers?”
“The joy the act of giving flowers brings to others. Buying someone a handcrafted bouquet might seem old-fashioned, especially these days—what with every grocery and dime-store drug mart selling cheap arrangements. And cut flowers only last a short time. After a week—or two, if the flowers are ours—the blooms fade, and what was once a beautiful bouquet shrivels up and dies. But the act of giving someone even a small slice of beauty, and the thoughtfulness behind the gesture… that’s permanent. That’s what I love about my job. Being a florist means celebrating the interconnectedness between people and the brief bouts of beauty in a world with too much ugliness.”
My skin tingles. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Most people don’t. I know I’m the odd one out.” Perry flashes a sheepish grin.
Finishing my lap around the room, I brush my fingers along the table’s worn, smooth edge. “So where do you get all your flowers from? Do you grow them yourself, or… what?” I’ve never considered where flowers originate before they end up in a flower shop.
He chuckles. “Some I do, but I definitely don’t have the space to grow all of my own stock. I source the majority from a nursery in Olmsted Falls—the same one my grandparents started buying from back in the seventies. They’re a small, family run operation too. When the owners retired about twenty years ago, their son and his wife took over. They’re in their sixties now, but still going strong, and they grow the best flowers in Northeast Ohio.”
I nod thoughtfully. “You said you grow some of your flowers—where do you grow them, exactly?” I look around as though a magical garden might poof into existence.
He raises an eyebrow. “Want to see?”
“Sure.”
Perry leads me across the room to the back door. Sticky summer heat washes over me as we walk down a short set of stairs that deposits us onto a moss-covered brick patio. I let out a breathy “Oh!” I’m standing in Perry’s fenced-in backyard, and half of it consists of a metal-framed, glass-walled greenhouse. Between the patio’s assortment of cushy chairs, cozy fire pit, and the string of Edison lights zigzagging between the shop and the greenhouse, it’s absolutely charming.
Beyond the tall wooden fence, a maple tree towers from a neighbor’s yard. Its leaves rustle with the breeze, dappling the backyard in a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting shadows. We stroll down the pathway of paver stones set in the narrow patch of grass to the greenhouse. When I walk inside, an explosion of tropical colors and smells greet me. There are squat, miniature palm trees; tall, orange hibiscus; orchids in a variety of colors; and more types of potted plants than I can name.
It’s much warmer in here than in the shop, which I guess is the point. Shrugging out of my blazer, I loop it over the bag tucked under my arm and stroll down the center aisle, studying each plant as I go. “I can’t believe you did all this. How long have you had a greenhouse?” I ask.