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Authors: Lucy Ferriss
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mountain
. I mean, if you are not planning to be like Madonna.”
“Who said anything about Madonna? Those girls who were just here—”
Shanita cut her off by grabbing her wrist. Her eyes smoldered. “I owe you a lot, Brooke,” she said in a low voice. “And most of all I owe you this little nugget. You cannot solve a problem in here”—shepressed Brooke’s trembling hand to her own neatly rounded breast—“with the tools you got up here.” She pulled the hand up to her temple.
Then Shanita let her go. She stood and tossed her crumpled bag across the back patio into the wire bin, a perfect swish. Turning back to Brooke, she said, “And I don’t care how good those tools are. Might as well try to fix a car engine with a dentist drill.” Brushing crumbs from her T-shirt, she walked away, muttering, “
Adoption.
Shit.”
Brooke felt rattled. For the rest of the afternoon, she stayed clear of her friend. At three she checked in with Lorenzo, who was doing inventory on a shipment of baby chrysanthemums. “I’m ducking out in a minute,” she said, “to take Meghan to dance class. Then I’ve got—well, some errands. Back in a couple hours.”
“Thought your hubby did all that,” said Lorenzo, winking at her. Lorenzo’s winks didn’t mean anything. They were his way of bridging the divide between boss and employee, of staking a claim to intimacy with Brooke. Lorenzo was close to seventy, by Brooke’s estimate—a short, dapper man with a white mustache and a permanent tan, pale only in the spray of crow’s feet around his dark eyes. He was a widower of sorts. The year Brooke arrived, his partner Angelo had died of AIDS and he wore a mask of suffering. Customers at the nursery claimed Brooke had brought him back to life, but she brushed such comments off.
“Sean’s got some stuff at work,” she said now. “And Meghan’s angling to quit her lessons. I don’t want her twisting him round her finger.”
“Tough love, baby,” Shanita called from where she was picking at leaves, checking for bugs. “Only way to go.”
“You’ll be back, though, right?” Lorenzo asked. He stepped over to where Brooke was gathering her pocketbook. “I was thinking wecould talk about your hours. Maybe shift you to take charge of the new location this fall. Get it all set up to open early spring.”
Brooke’s eyes widened. However much responsibility Lorenzo had slowly given her over the years, the Simsbury location was his darling. For the past year he had talked about nothing but how eager he was to lord it over his newly acquired suburban kingdom. He loved putting on his Italian charm whenever one of these country-club women came into the nursery; he wanted nothing more than to dwell among them and hear them laugh at his jokes. “You mean just for a week or two?” she asked.
Lorenzo shrugged. “You understand that clientele,” he said, winking again. “You’re my best girl. Can’t keep you locked up on Park Street. And I am not going to be around forever. “
“Of course you are.” Brooke tried winking back, though it felt more like a tic than a wink. Lorenzo’s hair, Brooke noticed, looked thinner; the sun shone through the frosty strands onto his leathery scalp. Perhaps he was ill. She wanted to touch his arm, remind him in some corny way of how they were all a family, here at the nursery he’d built. But he held himself apart, in his courtly way. So she didn’t ask what was wrong, why he was giving her the new location he’d dreamed of for himself. Instead she pressed him a bit, as if probing for his backbone. “Well, if I set up the Simsbury branch,” she said, “I’ll need Shanita to help me.”
Lorenzo shook his head and waved a hand in the air. “You girls figure it out,” he said. “Now go on, run your errands. I need staffing for spring, that’s all I know.”
B rooke cut through the West End to the grade school near Elizabeth Park. In the semicircle of waiting cars, she
mountain
. I mean, if you are not planning to be like Madonna.”
“Who said anything about Madonna? Those girls who were just here—”
Shanita cut her off by grabbing her wrist. Her eyes smoldered. “I owe you a lot, Brooke,” she said in a low voice. “And most of all I owe you this little nugget. You cannot solve a problem in here”—shepressed Brooke’s trembling hand to her own neatly rounded breast—“with the tools you got up here.” She pulled the hand up to her temple.
Then Shanita let her go. She stood and tossed her crumpled bag across the back patio into the wire bin, a perfect swish. Turning back to Brooke, she said, “And I don’t care how good those tools are. Might as well try to fix a car engine with a dentist drill.” Brushing crumbs from her T-shirt, she walked away, muttering, “
Adoption.
Shit.”
Brooke felt rattled. For the rest of the afternoon, she stayed clear of her friend. At three she checked in with Lorenzo, who was doing inventory on a shipment of baby chrysanthemums. “I’m ducking out in a minute,” she said, “to take Meghan to dance class. Then I’ve got—well, some errands. Back in a couple hours.”
“Thought your hubby did all that,” said Lorenzo, winking at her. Lorenzo’s winks didn’t mean anything. They were his way of bridging the divide between boss and employee, of staking a claim to intimacy with Brooke. Lorenzo was close to seventy, by Brooke’s estimate—a short, dapper man with a white mustache and a permanent tan, pale only in the spray of crow’s feet around his dark eyes. He was a widower of sorts. The year Brooke arrived, his partner Angelo had died of AIDS and he wore a mask of suffering. Customers at the nursery claimed Brooke had brought him back to life, but she brushed such comments off.
“Sean’s got some stuff at work,” she said now. “And Meghan’s angling to quit her lessons. I don’t want her twisting him round her finger.”
“Tough love, baby,” Shanita called from where she was picking at leaves, checking for bugs. “Only way to go.”
“You’ll be back, though, right?” Lorenzo asked. He stepped over to where Brooke was gathering her pocketbook. “I was thinking wecould talk about your hours. Maybe shift you to take charge of the new location this fall. Get it all set up to open early spring.”
Brooke’s eyes widened. However much responsibility Lorenzo had slowly given her over the years, the Simsbury location was his darling. For the past year he had talked about nothing but how eager he was to lord it over his newly acquired suburban kingdom. He loved putting on his Italian charm whenever one of these country-club women came into the nursery; he wanted nothing more than to dwell among them and hear them laugh at his jokes. “You mean just for a week or two?” she asked.
Lorenzo shrugged. “You understand that clientele,” he said, winking again. “You’re my best girl. Can’t keep you locked up on Park Street. And I am not going to be around forever. “
“Of course you are.” Brooke tried winking back, though it felt more like a tic than a wink. Lorenzo’s hair, Brooke noticed, looked thinner; the sun shone through the frosty strands onto his leathery scalp. Perhaps he was ill. She wanted to touch his arm, remind him in some corny way of how they were all a family, here at the nursery he’d built. But he held himself apart, in his courtly way. So she didn’t ask what was wrong, why he was giving her the new location he’d dreamed of for himself. Instead she pressed him a bit, as if probing for his backbone. “Well, if I set up the Simsbury branch,” she said, “I’ll need Shanita to help me.”
Lorenzo shook his head and waved a hand in the air. “You girls figure it out,” he said. “Now go on, run your errands. I need staffing for spring, that’s all I know.”
B rooke cut through the West End to the grade school near Elizabeth Park. In the semicircle of waiting cars, she
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