Reaching 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
Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim:
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.”
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.
Ms. Suarez glanced at her watch. “Oh no! I’ve got to run. My plane leaves in a few hours.”
“Your plane? Where are you going?”
“Costa Rica,” said Ms. Suarez. “They’re building a hotel for ecotourists and have endangered a rare orchid habitat. It makes me furious!”
Laurel suddenly felt forlorn. She wanted to hold on to someone her mom had trusted with secrets. “Can’t somebody else go? How am I going to learn about my gift?”
“I’ll be gone only a week. Luke—the professor—has agreed to care for the conservatory, and you can help. I left instructions.”
Laurel’s forehead wrinkled. “He has the gift?”
“No, but he’s decent with flowers,” said Ms. Suarez, squeezing Laurel’s shoulder. “Spend time with the blooms, but make bouquets only when absolutely necessary. Please.” Ms. Suarez kissed her on both cheeks and hurried away.
But prom’s next weekend, Laurel thought. Putting her garland back on her head, Laurel wound through the rainbowlike gardens and stopped at the edge of the gathering. A stray program lay in the grass, and she found the Hopkins poem reprinted there. She spotted Justin across the lawn with Mina. Laurel started walking, lifting her hand toward the flowers, and saying, “Bright cut flowers, leaves—”
But she stopped speaking and slowed down as she realized that Mina was seriously flirting with Justin, as she saw him put his arm around Mina’s shoulder. Wearing a low-cut green silk dress, Mina looked exotic and gorgeous as she smiled up at him.
Laurel looked down at the modest dress she’d borrowed. I look like I’m twelve, she thought.
“Hey, flower-power chick.” Tara was at her elbow. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” Laurel said shortly.
“Alan just asked Kate to prom,” said Tara. “So please get to work on my flowers.”
Laurel gawked at her. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been abusing me nonstop.”
Tara smiled knowingly. “Of course I have. We don’t want everyone to believe in your flowers. We don’t want just anyone to have them, do we? They should be reserved for special people.”
“Like you?” Laurel said incredulously.
“Exactly.”
“No way.”
Tara’s face hardened. “Look, Laur-elle. You think you’re special, but I can crush you if I want. I want some flowers to make Everett like me, and I want them by Wednesday. Got it?”
Tara walked away, and Laurel looked around for Justin and Mina. They were headed into Ms. Suarez’s garden. That should so be me, she thought.