Too Many Blooms
Authors: Catherine R. Daly
Too Many Blooms
Catherine R. Daly
For the lovely, talented, and very patient Aimee.
With special thanks to Abby and Debra,
gratitude to my pals Lisa P. and Kiki,
and a big bouquet of roses to florist extraordinaire
Barbara Sunmark.
I waved good-bye to my best friend, Becky Davis, watching until she turned right at the end of the street. Then I took a deep breath and headed up the steps to my house. It had been a long week at school, but now it was Friday afternoon, and time to enjoy the weekend. I opened the front door, walked inside —
And immediately tripped over a pile of toys and shoes in the entrance hall.
Sprawled on my stomach, face-to-face with a chewed-up rubber chicken that still had dog drool on it, I sighed. “Welcome home,” I grumbled as I got to my feet. I wondered, as I always did, if I was the only person in my house who didn’t think that “organization” was a dirty word. I’m the oldest of four sisters, but sometimes I think my
parents
are actually the messiest members of the family!
I hung my coat in the closet and set my backpack by the stairs. Then I closed my eyes and inhaled. Mmm … was that roast chicken? My stomach rumbled. My mom is a great cook, but ever since my littlest sister Poppy started kindergarten, Mom’s had more time on her hands. One of the results is that she’s become a little too creative in the kitchen. Way too much glazed this and encrusted that for my taste. So plain old roast chicken sounded amazingly good to me. I made a silent wish that there wouldn’t be anything weird like prunes, or even worse, oysters, in the stuffing. I made another for mashed potatoes. With gravy.
I could hear voices and music coming from the kitchen and I headed over to find Mom, Poppy, and one of my ten-year-old sisters, Aster, sitting at the old wooden table. Poppy was giving Mom a makeover so Mom’s light brown hair — the exact same color as mine — was in three pigtails, and one eyelid was purple and the other bright green.
Understated, yet elegant,
I thought. Aster sat across from them, peeling potatoes. She looked like a little witch in a black dress with black-and-white-striped tights and black boots with pointy toes. She gave me a nod. Aster is a girl of few words. She makes each one count.
Mom smiled when she saw me. Unfortunately, this was just as Poppy was applying bright red lipstick, so it ended up all over Mom’s teeth. I tried not to laugh, but Mom looked like a vampire with terrible fashion sense.
“Hi, sweetie!” Mom said. “How was your day?”
“So-so,” I replied, giving my tights a quick tug. That morning, I’d been so excited to wear a brand-new outfit, one I had bought with my own money: a cute, stripey sweater, a corduroy skirt with side zippers, and knee-high brown leather boots. I was halfway to school when I realized that my tights were slowly but surely inching their way down. I had put on tights that belonged to my other sister, Rose! (My dad does the laundry in our house, and he can never remember whose tights are whose.) There are few things in life more annoying than saggy, too-small tights. You have to yank on them all day long. Step. Yank. Step. Yank. It’s enough to drive you insane.
It didn’t help matters that my arch-nemesis, Ashley Edwards, called attention to my humiliating situation. “What’s the matter, Del?” she had shouted from her locker, tossing her blonde hair over one shoulder. “Do you have ants in your pants or something?” Practically every seventh grader in the hallway had turned to stare — and laugh.
Then, in gym class, I’d been paired up with Rodney Franklin, the boy with the sweaty hands. Now, this wouldn’t have been so bad if we were playing tetherball or anything else that didn’t require constant hand-holding. But we were square dancing, a “unit” we’d apparently be doing all month. (Don’t get me started on
that
.)
“Don’t look so sad, Del,” Poppy said earnestly. “Gran and Gramps are coming over tonight!”
I nodded, my spirits lifting. My grandparents come over every Friday night for dinner. We have make-your-own ice-cream sundaes for dessert and watch a movie. This week it was going to be
The Princess Bride.
Mom said it was one of her favorites. I couldn’t wait.
“Aster, now it’s time for
your
makeover!” Poppy announced, her golden curls bouncing.
“No,” replied Aster, placing a peeled potato into a metal bowl next to her.
“Please, please, please, please, please,” Poppy whined, clutching a large blush brush in her hand.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, wishing that I had stopped by the flower shop first instead of coming straight home. Gran and Gramps, along with Gran’s big
sister, my great-aunt Lily, own the only flower store in Elwood Falls, the small New Hampshire town where I live. The store is called Flowers on Fairfield, and it has been “Serving Your Floral Needs Since 1912.” And Flowers on Fairfield has been in my mom’s family since then.
As Gramps always tells me, “Flowers are in your blood.” It’s true. I can’t remember a time when I haven’t been in love with flowers. Not just the way they look and smell, which are both incredible, but the feeling of excitement you get when you open up a fresh delivery. And the look on a customer’s face when they’re presented with a perfectly put-together arrangement. Ever since I was little, I’d spent time at the store, helping out. But last year Gran and Gramps offered me an official job, paid and everything. I work on Saturdays, unpacking boxes of sweetheart roses, arranging gladioli in the refrigerated display case, and taking orders for birthday bouquets over the phone. It might not sound like much, but it’s my absolute favorite place in the world to be.
And best of all — it’s always neat and quiet. No piles of bills gathering dust. No broken toys, mismatched socks, and dirty dishes. No mountains of laundry waiting to be folded. And no annoying little sisters.
Just then the kitchen door opened and Dad’s head popped in. His glasses fogged up from the sudden warmth.
“Introducing Rose Natalia Bloom!” he announced. “Otherwise known as
Bye Bye Birdie’
s Kim MacAfee!”
We all clapped as my sister walked into the room, her face flushed with excitement.
“Congratulations!” said Mom. “I’m so proud of you.”
“It’s a really fun role,” Rose said, shrugging out of her coat. She let it drop to the floor and took center stage. As she launched into a song called “How Lovely To Be a Woman,” I glanced at Aster, who watched Rose with a half smile on her face.
Aster and Rose are twins, but they could not possibly be more different. Their bedroom always makes me laugh — it’s half pink (Rose’s side) and half black (Aster’s). Rose has wavy, blonde hair, blue eyes, and these all-American looks that could come straight from a Crewcuts catalog. She wears pastel cardigans, is president of the fifth-grade Drama Club, and has tons of friends. Pale Aster wears torn tights held together with safety pins, reads Edgar Allan Poe for fun, writes dark poetry, and has exactly one friend — a boy who
seems to talk as little as she does. Still, my sisters are closer than close. Go figure.
I realized that Rose had finished her song and was looking at me expectantly. “Nice job, Rose,” I said. I decided not to tell her about the tights mix-up. You never know when she’s going to get overly dramatic about something. Goes with the territory, I guess.
“Thanks, Delphinium,” she said with a grin.
Yes, Del is short for Delphinium. Not for Della or Delia, or anything else that’s easy to pronounce. Most people don’t call me by full name, thank goodness.
It’s family tradition on my mom’s side that all the girls are named after flowers. My mom’s name is Daisy, which is about as cute as a name can get. And Gran is Iris, old fashioned, but still pretty. Great-aunt Lily has the nicest name of all, I think, though her grumpiness doesn’t exactly match the loveliness of a lily. Rose is (usually) well suited to her cheery name. Aster has it hard sometimes, I guess. Poppy is a sweet name, though it does get an odd look now and then. But nothing beats Delphinium. Think about it. How many Delphiniums have you met?
Actually, delphiniums are really nice. They’re delicate
and pretty. The bluish-purple flowers look like little bells. I like them a lot. My mom keeps reminding me that her favorite flower is the ranunculus. So when you think about it, I got off easy.
As Rose told Mom more about the play, Dad plopped down next to Aster. He picked up a short potato peel and put it under his nose like a mustache. My dad is a total goofball. Mom calls him the world’s handsomest geek (with love, of course).
“And how was your day, my little Wednesday Addams?” he asked.
Aster gave Dad a small smile. She loves being compared to the dour Addams Family daughter. “Okay,” she said. “I …”
I sniffed the air. I normally try not to interrupt Aster, since she speaks so infrequently. But I had to. “Do you smell something … burning?” I asked.
In an instant, Mom jumped up, threw on some oven mitts, and opened the oven door. Smoke billowed out and the smoke alarm began to wail. You know that sound. It feels like your head is about to split open. Buster, our Boston terrier, raced in and started barking. Dad grabbed the stepladder and climbed up to disconnect the alarm.
Mom sat at the table, her head in her oven-mitted hands. A blackened carcass sat on top of the stove.
“Roast chicken?” Rose asked. Mom nodded sadly. Everyone groaned.
“Anyone in the mood for Chinese?” I asked, already reaching for the phone.
“Great idea, Del!” called Dad from the stepladder. “Get an extra order of spare ribs this time. You know how much Aster loves them.”
“She ate ten last time!” cried Poppy. “I counted!”
“Eight,” Aster replied.
I dialed the number. I knew it by heart. Not to say that dinner got ruined often, but, well, I knew the number by heart is all I’m saying.
“Jade Mountain, how can I help you?” a woman’s voice said.
“I’d like to place an order for pickup,” I said. “I’ll take two … no, make that three orders of spare ribs. Eight egg rolls. One large egg drop soup. Two orders of General Tso’s chicken. One sizzling garlic shrimp. One order of Moo Goo Gai Pan. And …”
“Extra duck sauce, please!” everyone shouted.
“Extra duck sauce, please,” I finished. I gave her my name and hung up.
“Fifteen minutes,” I said. Dad offered to pick it up and Poppy insisted on going along with him. Rose and Aster disappeared up to their room, and I reminded Mom that we needed to clean up. I swear, sometimes I can’t help feeling like
I’m
the grown-up.
Mom threw the big pile of shoes and toys into the hall closet while I tackled the bathroom, making sure we had guest towels and toilet paper. Oh, and I fished a flock of butterfly hair clips out of the toilet. The usual.
“Well, I guess we’re ready,” said Mom.
I stifled a laugh. “Not totally ready,” I told her.
Mom looked puzzled.
I pointed to her head. “It’s an interesting look,” I said. “But a little bold for a family dinner?”
Mom’s hand flew to her face and she started to laugh. “Maybe I’ll tone down the makeup, huh?” she asked.
I had just finished setting the dining room table when Dad and Poppy returned. “Speedy delivery!” said Dad as he and Poppy unloaded the containers onto the kitchen counter. Aster, who had run downstairs as soon as she
heard the car in the driveway, was eyeing the red-and-white bags of ribs hungrily. (Funny how she had managed to hear that, but she and Rose hadn’t heard me calling them to help set up …)
“Don’t even think about it,” I told her.
She made a face.
The doorbell rang. “Gran and Gramps are here!” Poppy exclaimed. She barreled toward the door, flung it open, and threw her arms around Gran’s legs.
“Now, Poppy, let them in first,” said Dad.
My grandparents stepped inside, red-cheeked from their brisk walk in the cold air. Gran knelt down to give Poppy a big kiss, and then Gramps swung her in the air. “Again! Again!” she cried.
Rose and Aster kissed Gran while they both tried to grab the ice-cream bag from her mittened hand. Rose won.
“What kind?” Aster asked Gran.
“Peanut butter brickle,” she replied. She and Gramps were in charge of the ice cream for our sundaes. They brought a different flavor every week.
“My favorite!” Aster and Rose cried at the same time.
I elbowed my way past my sisters and gave Gran a big
hug. I could feel the cold still lingering on her down coat. “How were things at the store?” I asked.
“Just fine, sweetheart,” she said vaguely. She gave me a small smile, then looked away quickly.
“Is everything okay?” I asked her worriedly.
“Of course,” she replied, then busied herself removing her coat and scarf.
I turned to Gramps and breathed in. “Gardenias,” I said.
“Correct as usual, Del,” he said. “We got a big shipment in today.”
Dad stepped forward to take their coats. “Well, hello there, Professor Bloom!” Gramps said with a grin. That’s what he almost always calls my dad, who teaches English literature at the local college. When my mom told her parents she had met a man named Benjamin Bloom, they thought she was joking. But she wasn’t, and a year later she became Mrs. Daisy Bloom. My grandparents still get a laugh out of it.
We all filed into the dining room, which had a slight chill from the airing out we’d had to give the kitchen. But instead of charred food, all you could smell now was sweet-and-spicy chicken and the rich aroma of the ribs.
Mom had lit some long taper candles and dimmed the lights, giving the room a homey glow.
“I burned dinner,” Mom admitted cheerfully.
Gran gave Mom a sympathetic smile. “If I had a nickel for every time I did that …” she said ruefully.
Gramps laughed. “We’d be richer than the Rockefellers!” he joked. “Is that General Tso’s chicken I smell?”
“Bingo!” said Poppy. “And I picked it up with Daddy!” she added proudly.
We all sat around the table and started grabbing containers and helping ourselves. I poured myself a bowl of egg drop soup, rich and creamy. As I dropped in some crispy chow mein noodles, I stole a glance at Gran. Something wasn’t right. She was nervously tapping her fingers on her water glass. Gramps reached over and patted her hand reassuringly. I frowned — what could be wrong?
Nah, I must be imagining things,
I decided. I picked up my spoon and started to eat my soup.