Flowers for Florence

I sat in the car while Sue ran to the door with the flowers and balloons. The balloons were hopelessly tangled but I doubted the recipient would mind; it was the thought that counted.

It was Valentine’s Day many years ago and as a young couple, we were earning extra money by delivering flowers. It was fun and I enjoyed being with my new wife.

The last delivery was to a gated community in the Royal Palm section of Boca Raton. This was the Park Place/Boardwalk area of one of the nation’s wealthiest cities.

As I got it out, I looked at the card. It was written with in gold sparkly ink, the kind you’d use on a wedding invitation. 

It was a massive house, surrounded by royal palms, bougainvillea, sweet-smelling jasmine. We rang the buzzer and heard a cavernous bell, like you’d hear in a large church, and the barking of little dogs. A maid answered.

She saw what we were carrying, invited us in and showed us to the expansive living room. “I’ll go get Miss Florence,” she said. As we waited, two Yorkies came over and sniffed us with interest.

Miss Florence came in. I found myself instinctively smoothing my hair, standing straight, dusting off my shirt. Around fifty, she was still beautiful, yes; but something more defined her…an inner glow, a dignity, a regal demeanor.

She came over, smelled the flowers in the enormous bouquet, then read the card. Her eyes grew misty. “Oh, Sam,” she said sadly and her voice trailed off. She put the bouquet on a table and asked us if we could stay for coffee. We were anxious to get back for another load, but she looked so forlorn, we consented and sat. 

Over coffee, we learned her story. She married for love against her family’s wishes. Sam was still studying to be an architect; they lived in poverty until he graduated. He joined a good firm and his talents didn’t go unnoticed. He rose rapidly and was soon in charge of hugely expensive projects. Prints of some of his work hung on the walls; they were magnificent.

They found they couldn’t have children, so they contented themselves with each other and their dogs. They were inseparable; Florence had traveled around the world with him on his projects.

Sadly, Sam was diagnosed with inoperable cancer at a relatively young age and given six months. He got his affairs in order and then wrote out 30 Valentine’s cards in the gold ink I noticed. Every year, she got flowers and a love letter from Sam; every year it reopened the wound, but in a good way. 

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and stroked the Yorkie in her lap. “Oh, I do miss him,” she said. “It will be ten years this year.” She appeared lost in thought. We stayed silent.

Then she brightened. “Tell me about you. How did you meet? How long have you been married?”

We told her our story, she nodded and smiled in all the right places. She was genuinely interested in us and asked lots of questions. She and Sue especially seemed to hit it off and their conversation was the kind you’d have with an old and trusted friend. We told her we were saving up for our first house, I was a young engineer, we hoped to have kids. Aside from the family disapproval, our stories were not dissimilar.

We rose to go and our thanks were interrupted by her turning and taking something from the desk. She appeared to be writing. She turned and handed me a check.

“Just a little something for your house fund,” she said with a smile. My jaw dropped; it was for $100…about $300 in today’s money. “Oh Florence, we can’t take this,” Sue said weakly. “It’s too—“

“Nonsense,” she said. “It’s not and you will.” She hugged us both, then wagged a finger in our faces. “Don’t ever go to bed mad,” she said. “Life is too short.”

We kept up with her for several years, exchanging Christmas cards and the occasional letter. We sent her pictures of our house being built and postcards when we traveled. She sent a gift when our first child was born.

One year, our Christmas card was returned as undeliverable. Although it was sad, I smiled.

Somewhere, it was homecoming.