Free The Art of Arranging Flowers by Lynne Branard

bright purple ribbon around the stems because purple is especially potent for banishing what lies in the past. It seems to me that if the new veterinarian is trying to start a new life, he’ll need all the positive energy he can get to help rid himself of what he is leaving behind. Finally, I decide on a cyclamen for the dining room table. Simple, elegant, the upswept pink petals and the jewel green leaves add a splash of color without overwhelming Kathy’s potential customer. It is a friendly plant and easy to move from place to place.
    I look over the four plants I have placed on the table, the four plants chosen to fill up an empty house, and I find their tall green bodies full of life and eager to please. “You are doing important work today,” I tell them, as if they are employees heading out to serve the public. “And I will make sure I pick you up tomorrow afternoon in time for your evening dinner and bath.”
    Clementine sighs and stretches. She is used to my one-sided conversations with plants, with the mail, and with her.
    â€œI am so sorry I’m late!” Nora bursts in the front door, startling me and the dog and maybe even the four potted plants. I think I see a stem of bamboo tremble.
    â€œNo worries,” I reply, turning to the door and to Nora, who is trying to catch her breath. She has one hand on her chest and the other clutching the set of car keys. Her face is bright red. “They hadn’t released him yet,” she explains. “So I had to wait for them to process all the paperwork and for him to meet with the arresting officer. It took a lot longer than we thought.”
    I smile. I certainly had enough to do to keep me busy, and I hadn’t even thought about having to leave for the showing of the real estate property until just a few minutes before.
    â€œI took Jimmy home,” she adds, and moves inside the shop. She drops her keys in her coat pocket and then joins me behind the counter. She shakes her head. “Oh, the cyclamen looks nice; is it a new one?” She has just noticed the plants on the design table.
    â€œNo,” I answer. “Just hidden in the back. I think the trip will be good for her and the others. It must get terribly boring to have to stay in the same place all the time.”
    Nora nods. She knows the way I think of the plants, how I treat them like humans, how I move them from week to week, giving them a new view out the window, a spin on the shelf, how I spray them down in the evenings and add a little fertilizer to their soil on Fridays. She knows all of my tricks and peculiarities when it comes to the plants and flowers at my shop, and she has never let on that she finds it odd or unreasonable. This is just one of the reasons I keep Nora on the payroll even though I barely have enough money to cover the bills.
    â€œIs he okay?” I ask, referring to Jimmy.
    She picks up a river rock from the bamboo, then replaces it in the planter, blows out a long breath, walks behind the table, takes off her coat, and hangs it on the hook by the back door. “He got beat up,” she replies. “He doesn’t remember what happened. Some guy at a bar is all he knows.”
    â€œDid they take him to the hospital?”
    She shakes her head. “He told them he didn’t want to go, so they just bandaged him up in the jail. He’s got a big lump on the back of his head, a few scrapes, a busted lip. I think a rib is broken but he wouldn’t let me take him to the emergency room either. And even if I did, I doubt they would be able to fix what’s most battered.”
    She waits, and I don’t respond. I’m not sure I’m following her.
    â€œHis pride,” she explains. “His bruised and battered pride, not to mention his sobriety record.”
    I nod, turn away. I feel sorry for Jimmy, sad for him. I’m not an alcoholic, but I understand a daily struggle. I understand the work it takes