Chapter 4 - THE MESSAGE THROUGH THE FLORIST
I could not contact Clara directly. Marcus had told me more than once that she “preferred privacy,” and I no longer believed anything said inside that family.
But I did know one harmless detail. During dinner, Clara had arranged the flowers. She had trimmed the stems correctly, balanced height against width, and tucked the hydrangeas beneath the roses the way professionals do when they have no florist tools nearby. It was the only moment she looked like herself.
So I called the Highland Park florist whose wrapping paper I had seen near the kitchen sink.
By luck and by Chicago gossip doing what it does best, I learned Clara came in once a week with cash to buy discount stems just before closing.
The following Thursday, I waited near the back of the shop in a knit cap and no makeup. When she walked in, she looked thinner than she had four nights earlier.
I told the owner I was browsing. Then I stepped beside Clara at the cooler and said, without looking at her, “You were right. I saw it.”
Her hand jerked so hard she dropped a stem of white stock.
“I have help,” I said. “If you want out, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”
For a second, I thought she would run.
Instead she whispered, “He checks my phone. Evelyn checks the trash. Don’t call me.”
“When can you talk?”
She swallowed. “Sunday. Ten thirty. The greenhouse behind the garage. Arthur naps after church.”
That was the first useful thing she told me, but not the most revealing.
As she turned away, she murmured, “If Marcus thinks you’re pulling back, he’ll move faster.”
Then she paid cash, left with three carnations and two eucalyptus branches, and never looked back at me.
I stood there holding a bunch of lisianthus I didn’t remember picking up, realizing Clara had just confirmed two things.
May you like
Marcus was already watching me.
And Arthur, the polished patriarch Marcus described as strong and admired, spent Sunday afternoons asleep—or pretending to.
