Florence the Florist's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Florence counted the hours three times. The man with the van was supposed to arrive at noon. She'd cleared space in the greenhouse, moved the remaining stock to the corner tables, and set aside the cash from yesterday's sales in a locked box under the counter. By two o'clock she started pacing. By four she called the number he'd given her and got a recording that the line was no longer in service. She stood outside the greenhouse entrance until the light started to fade. A few rose petals from yesterday's rush scattered across the concrete where the van should have parked. She picked one up, crushed it between her fingers, and watched it fall. Inside, the wooden shelf she'd cleared for the new stock stood empty. On the counter sat her order book, every page filled with names and phone numbers and requests for flowers she didn't have. Three days until market. No stock. No backup. No way forward. Florence went back inside and locked the door. She pulled out the order book and her phone. Her hands shook as she dialed the first number. A woman answered on the second ring. Florence told her the truth—the flowers weren't coming, she couldn't fill the order, she was sorry. The woman was quiet for a moment, then asked if Florence could do something smaller, simpler, with what she had left. Florence looked at the corner tables, at the handful of stems still waiting. She said yes. She called the next number, and the next. By midnight she'd reached everyone in the book. Half the orders were cancelled. The other half she'd reworked into smaller arrangements using every bloom she had left. She'd have nothing for the market booths, but she'd have something for the people who'd trusted her. Florence set the phone down and looked at the empty shelf, the scattered petals swept into a pile by the door. She wasn't done. She was just working with what she had instead of what she'd been promised. It wasn't the spring she'd planned, but it was still hers.