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“Don’t knock over the flowers!” It was her first-floor neighbor Maude who shouted at her from her apartment window. While Sarah hesitated, a door slammed, indicating that Maude had come out into the narrow entrance hall. A series of mutters followed, alternating with oofs and grunts. “You think I have nothing better to do than sign for your deliveries, collect your menus from Chinese restaurants? Where’s my big Christmas tip, that’s what I’d like to know.”
Maude, being a writer and a famous one at that, worked at home, and so, by default, was the building’s doorperson. Her diatribes on this subject were long, loud and venomous.
“Sorry, Maude. What flowers?”
“Your flowers,” Maude said. “So stop trying to break down the door until I get them shoved out of the way.”
The staff had sent flowers to cheer her up, let her know they didn’t really hate her. How sweet of them. They shouldn’t be spending their money, what little they had of it, this way. The door suddenly burst open and Sarah fell into a virtual conservatory.
If not quite a conservatory, it was certainly an enormous bouquet, largely composed of white orchids whose long streamers of blossoms waved toward the high ceiling of the entry. The vase wasn’t a standard florist’s container, but a frosty-looking piece of handblown glass in a pale, smoky hue. Sarah gazed at it, feeling stunned.
“How’re you going to get it into the elevator?” Maude said. Her expression was sour. Beside her, a doleful basset hound uttered a soft moan.
Sarah’s ears buzzed and her voice seemed to come from a distance. “I can’t imagine. Call the Longshoreman’s Union and see if somebody wants a job on the side?”
“I’ve got a dolly.” The words dripped out as slowly as liquid through an intravenous tube.
“Why, thank you, Maude. Just give me a sec to read the card.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, the cardholder that feathered up through the orchids was crafted in sterling silver. Her entire staff put together didn’t have that much money to spare. She knew what the card would say even before she opened the tiny envelope:
Dear Sarah:
Sorry this weekend didn’t work out for you. How about next weekend? You can reach me at any of these numbers….
Her eyes blurred on the string of numbers, written in the neat hand of someone at the florist’s shop, not in a large, rounded scrawl. If the card had actually been in the handwriting she remembered so well as being distinctively Alex’s, she might have fainted.
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