The Gardens of Digby Green: Poor Kimmy

The Gardens of Digby Green: Poor Kimmy

Christine, Jo, and Connie. Her staff was dropping like spent fuchsia blooms. Rose took a deep breath. “You’ve done great work to help me keep up with orders, Connie. Get well as fast as you can.”

“Wish I could be there to help you set up the Mother’s Day displays, but I feel like a moldy dishrag.” Connie forced a chuckle. “Sorry, Rose. I’ve…got to hang up, now.”

The sound cut off abruptly, and Rose glanced at the answering machine. Three calls over night. She tapped the replay button. The first order, for corsages and boutonnieres, wouldn’t take long to assemble. Tammy Brixton was finally marrying Rocky Peller.

Rose scribbled details on an order pad as she listened.

“Variegated carnations, baby’s breath, and fern,” Tammy said. “Mama said they should be silk, but I just have to have flowers with scent.”

Rose cheered. Score one for fragrance.

She’d add a sprig or two of alstroemeria for style. The bucketful in the cooler would coordinate beautifully. Rose dropped her pen before she dashed to the tap to turn off the water.

She dropped the wet foam in the pot, then filled the gap around the edges with soil. She planted miniature ivy to cascade over the pot sides. The broad fans of iris leaves would be a sufficient vertical element.

Swiftly, she trimmed the lily stems and clustered the blooms in the foam. “Purple and orange. Poor Kimmy.” She stepped back to judge the project from a distance. When the iris blooms were in place, Rose checked the clock.

Sighing, she walked to the front of the shop, flipped the sign to Closed, and locked the door. She hated deliveries like this one. Had she left the plastic sheeting in the back seat of her car?

Rose propped open the back door. Leaving the arrangement on the worktable, she dashed out to her car to open the rear passenger door. Yes, the white upholstery was covered.

Ray would never admit the cost of restoring the Imperial, and she treasured his gift.

Rose dried her hands on her apron and hefted the funeral arrangement. She should have buried the iris corm another inch deeper. No matter which way she shifted the pot, she was in danger of scratching her chin. The sooner it was delivered, the better. “Purple and orange; poor Kimmy.”

The Gardens of Digby Green: Poor Kimmy is the second installment of a short story in multiple parts which will post on Fridays until the story is complete.
Next week, part three, Rejects.