Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson
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again!’
It was a bad joke, but I still found myself laughing. ‘Yeah—you too.’ We exchanged polite smiles and an uneasy pause. It was obvious this conversation was fast running out of road, so I said goodbye and walked away. I was nearly at the glass entrance doors when I heard Nate call after me.
‘Rosie! Where’s your store?’
‘At the corner of West 68th and Columbus,’ I called back. ‘Kowalski’s.’
Nate bent down to pick up something else from the floor and waved it in the air. ‘Hey, don’t worry, it’s OK—I’ve found your card!’
I could feel the hot rush of embarrassment return. As the floor ignored my urgent telepathic request for it to open up and swallow me, I smiled, hastily turned and made a speedy exit.
‘How many?’
Arms folded, Ed and Marnie stood, like a matching pair of incredulous-looking bookends. This was not going well.
‘Just think of it this way, guys. You’re forever saying we don’t get enough exposure for Kowalski’s—well, this will get us noticed by really important people. Press people, publishers, celebrities. We can take on extra staff for this job. Corey Mitchell at the Molloy College in Bethpage has offered to lend us some of his floristry students any time we want. You guys can really go to town on the whole design process. Come on, I’m confident we can do this.’
Marnie took a deep breath and looked at Ed. They then had one of their weird unspoken conversations. They do this all the time. I hear no words, but somehow a decision is made. Eventually Ed nodded at Marnie then looked at me.
‘OK, OK, let’s do it.’
I whooped and clapped my hands. ‘Thank you so much. It’s going to be so exciting! Time for Kowalski’s to take over New York!’
Marnie and Ed shot me one of their ‘humour her, she’s insane’ glances and Marnie took her position behind the counter while Ed followed me into the workroom at the back of the shop.
One thing Ed loves to do is psychoanalyse people. He says it’s because he comes from a long line of psychiatrists and it’s an inescapable part of his genetic makeup. Ed’s father has never forgiven him for abandoning what has been the family profession for the past three generations. When Ed began his apprenticeship at Kowalski’s he had to regularly defend his decision—and, in turn, his sexuality—to his father, who considered men who worked with flowers to be gay by definition. Even when Ed moved from Kowalski’s to work at Charters, one of Manhattan’s most respected florists, Mr Steinmann refused to be impressed. I wonder sometimes if this is why Ed dates so much—still publicly asserting his heterosexuality to prove his father wrong.
He never told his father he was unhappy at Charters, even though most of his five years spent working there were impossibly miserable as, time and again, he was denied the opportunity to progress in the company. In fact, the only person he confided in was Mr Kowalski, who had remained a friend throughout, which was why Ed ended up accepting the position of my co-designer. Mr Kowalski not only offered the fatherly advice denied Ed by his own father, but was also instrumental in affirming Ed’s work and worth. Yet another reason why we all love and miss Mr K so much.
‘So,’ Ed said, resuming work on a hand-tied bouquet of roses, asters and Asiatic lilies, surrounded by deep green banana leaves, ‘Mimi Sutton—what kind of vibe did you get about her?’
‘Quite businesslike. Difficult to tell that much about her, really.’
‘Rosie, turn off the optimism gene for one second and tell me what you honestly thought. I won’t tell. Scout’s honour.’
I thought for a moment. ‘OK, the vibe was—strange.’ I confessed. ‘It feels like something’s missing there.’
Ed looked up from his hand-tying. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I dunno…I mean, she’s very polite, very friendly, but I can’t tell how genuine she is. It’s like all the fire and individuality that she must have had before she got successful has gone somehow. I’m not sure what’s left in their place.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Ed, nodding. ‘Heart replaced by a dollar sign. Soul replaced by a resumé. She sold out.’
Ed is always able to condense an entire conversation into a three-line conclusion. I keep telling him he should be writing tag lines for Hollywood movies. He’d make a fortune.
‘Shame,’ he said, picking up a pale peach rose and spinning the stem between his fingers absent-mindedly, ‘I’ve always liked her books. Just goes to show that the person you think you know from their writing is only the person they want you to see. And what about the other guy—Brent, was it?’
I smiled immediately. ‘Yes, Brent Jacobs. He’s fab. I like him. You’d like him.’
‘Always a good sign. Why?’
‘Because he used to be a criminal psychologist.’
Ed laughed. ‘Uh-oh. Better not let us meet then. I may have been a case study in his former career. I’ve a checkered past, you know.’
‘Oh, I forgot. Ed Steinmann, criminal mastermind. Must be why you fit in so well here.’
‘Hmm, because I’m not the only one with an intriguing hidden history.’ The comment sliced through the humour like a knife through butter. ‘I’m still here if you want to talk, Rosie.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ Instantly I saw hurt narrow his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…I’m fine, Ed, really. But thanks for caring.’
His expression instantly changed and his eyes twinkled.
‘Someday I’m going to write a book about you: Rosie Duncan—One of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of the Modern Age. A surefire hit!’
People often tell me they sense about the team at Kowalski’s a closeness they don’t see in other shops. Sometimes customers ask if we’re related—and you should see the look of horror on Ed and Marnie’s faces—as we are every inch the typical family: fighting occasionally, bickering sometimes, but always there for each other. And we have Mr Kowalski in common.
One thing Mr K said again and again was that we were a family. ‘You are children to me. And like a good father, I worry for you. We are a family at Kowalski’s—it is the heart of everything we do.’
I’ve tried to keep the same feeling at Kowalski’s since it became my business. And, odd though it sounds, I sense him here still—five years after his death—that broad, crinkly smile lighting up his lovely old face as he watches the ‘Kowalski’s kids’ with pride.
‘What are you doing Thursday evening next?’ Marnie asked later that afternoon, poking her head round the workroom door. Ed and I looked up from the red, white and gold-themed table centrepieces we were working on for Mr and Mrs Hymark’s Ruby Wedding party. Mrs Hymark worked for Mr K as a Saturday girl in her teens and has trusted Kowalski’s with her floral orders for every occasion since—from her own wedding to the birth of her children and grandchildren, birthdays, anniversaries and funerals.
Ed, obviously unwilling to commit, deferred to me. ‘Uh, Rosie?’
‘Don’t look at me, Steinmann, I don’t manage your diary. I’m free, Marnie.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Although I was planning a quiet one…’
I smiled firmly. ‘Ed and I are both free, Marnie.’
Marnie gave a little whoop and clapped her hands. ‘Great!’
Ed groaned the groan of dread-filled experience. ‘What have we just agreed to?’
‘The opening night of my community theatre play, of course!’
A look of panic washed across his face. ‘Oh—wait—I