Love's Flowers

            Once upon a time...non. Let me start again. Ahem. In a kingdom, far far away...no, that’s not right either. In all honesty, this story you’re about to hear did not happen far far away, or once upon a time for that matter. It happened in the town of St. Louise-du-ha! ha!–odd name, I know–off the southern shore of the St. Lawrence River in Quebec. In the true nature of all Canadiennes, the people who live here are kind and polite, sometimes to the level of absurdity. Anyway, back to the story.

            We are a town that relies heavily on the tourist industry – those silly tourists who seek le beaux paysages (beautiful scenery) that exists on the outskirts of the county. Our most popular time is when the leaves begin to fall. That is when we bring out the bottlesof maple syrup and wooden carvings to sell to the tourists. Of course, my maman and I do not follow that generalization. Instead we –

Oh! I apologize, I have not introduced myself. Je suis (I am) Nicole Samarin, and I am a born and bred French–Canadian. I have lived in this small town all my life, with my maman and mon petit frère (my little brother). When I am not busy with school and such, I help maman run her petit magasin de fleurs (small flower shop). While I lord over the small store, she goes home to work on the bead and fabric flowers that our customers can order for special occasions. As you can imagine, owning a flower shop means we do not see many tourist customers. Those few that do come in never order any of maman’s specialty flowers –our fiert et de joie (our pride and joy)–since they take, on average, 6 hours to make a single flower, and the tourist never stay longer than a day or two.

One day, however, a middle-aged man I have never seen before came in. It was the beginning of September, and the leaves had just begun to change colour. C’est très jolie (It was very pretty), but it was hardly the showers of red and gold that we were famous for. And yet, here was this tourist man, standing in my maman’s shop no less, looking at the coolers and pots full of flowers. He had a sad look on his tired face, but he returned my welcoming smile readily enough.

“Bonjour monsieur. How can I help you?”

“I’ve heard you make the most magnificent fake flowers in the province.” At his words, I felt a surge of pride.

“Now me, monsieur. My maman makes them, with help from ma grandmère (my grandmother). We have some examples here.” I tapped the glass cabinet I sat behind. He walked over and contemplated the silk petals, the bead stamens and the vivid colours. His smile grew when he spotted a peony, its silk petals dyed a faint pink which turned lighter near the centre.

“Peonies are her favourite.” He told me. I smiled in confusion.

“Whose, monsieur?”

“My wife.”

“Oh I see! She has excellent taste. They are very beautiful.” As he continued to study it, I studied him. He wore a golf shirt, tan slacks and an expensive looking jacket–all of which showed a slight bulge of a belly. His hair was thinning at the top and silver in colour with streaks of black. He wore glasses on his wide nose. He seemed like a happy man–one who worked hard and deserved all the good fortune that befell him. However, no one would say he was happy now.

“How long would it take to make a bouquet of these type of peonies?” I snapped back to attention at his words.

“Ah–“ I fumbled behind the counter for the order book, flipping through the pages. Other than a wedding in two weeks, maman had no other orders to fill. “Depending on the urgency, it could be done in about 2 days, or up to a week.” I knew maman had backups of everything for urgent orders, and I could pitch in if needed. I wanted–non, needed–to make this man happy. He just seemed so sad, and it hurt my heart to see such sorrow.