Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Head rush receding, Truman picked the apple and bit into it. The skin gave way under his teeth to sweet flesh.
“Thanks,” he said, leaning against the counter. “I’m okay, really.”
“I’m Ash,” the man said.
Truman reached out a hand to shake Ash’s automatically. Ash looked amused but shook his hand. Ash’s palm was warm and dry and softer than Truman expected.
“So, um, I don’t suppose you could leave out the stumbling around hungover part when you tell Greta I thought I’d killed her plant, could you?”
Ash leaned a hip against the counter. “I’m not going to tell Greta.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Ash nodded. The dog gave a little yip, waking itself up, and shook itself before coming to stand next to Ash.
“Hey, buddy.” Ash scratched the dog’s ears. “This is Bruce.”
Truman reached out a hand and let the dog sniff his knuckles. “Makes me miss my dog.” Bruce gave him a lick and then rested his chin on Truman’s knees. “Aww, what a sweetie.”
“He’s a good dog,” Ash agreed.
“Do you like working here?” Truman asked, not wanting the moment to end for reasons he absolutely refused to acknowledge.
Ash nodded. “I love it. People are always happy to come in here. Happy to see me when I ring the bell to deliver flowers.”
Truman smiled. “That must be nice. It’s cool that people still send each other flowers.”
Ash’s eyes narrowed.
“No one’s ever given me any, so I guess I didn’t think about it,” Truman stammered on.
Truman had only sent flowers once—peonies for Guy’s birthday. He’d received only a terse thank-you text. At the time, he’d assumed Guy wasn’t a flower enthusiast. Now, he wondered how Guy had explained them to his husband.
“That surprises me,” Ash said.
Truman, flustered, said nothing, just dropped the apple core in the trash can, gave Bruce another scratch between the ears, and wrapped the plant up in Greta’s blanket again. “Well, um, thanks!” he said, trying to sound cheery and casual. “Guess I’ll let you get back to making people happy. I appreciate your help.”
“Truman.”
“Hmm?”
Ash held up a finger and walked to the back room again. He reappeared holding a single rose. It wasn’t like anything Truman had ever seen. Its petals were almost ruffled at the edges, and its color was caught somewhere between tea and pink. It was the most beautiful rose he’d ever seen.
Ash held it out to him.
“Now you can’t say no one has ever given you flowers.”
Chapter 4
Greta
New Orleans smelled like ozone, frying oil, and a flower Greta didn’t recognize. After her flight had gotten delayed twice and then rebooked hours later, leaving her to catch a few hours’ sleep using her duffel as a pillow, she had finally arrived. She’d gotten a cab from the airport to Truman’s house in a neighborhood called the Marigny that she hadn’t been sure how to pronounce until the cabbie had said it.
In the purple twilight, the houses looked like fairy cottages, painted every color of the rainbow. Flowers and fronds spilled from pots on front porches and balconies, giving the whole street a lush verdancy that made her want to run her fingers along it like velvet.
On a number of porches, people sat sipping drinks and chatting, and music drifted through open windows and doors.
Greta was sweating in her winter clothes, the temperature in the seventies, and she grinned, pleased to suddenly find herself in this entirely other world.
Truman’s house was what he’d called a shotgun, and when Greta opened the door—the key under the flowerpot just where Truman had said it would be—she understood what that meant. Each room led into the next in a straight line you could (presumably) shoot a shotgun through.
She dropped her bags just inside the door and pulled her suitcase in after her. Before she could even take her shoes off, though, the tallest dog she’d ever seen came trotting toward her from the back of the house.
“You must be Horse.”
Greta held out her hand for sniffing, and the Great Dane acquainted himself with all her smells, moving around her in a circle, then coming around to the front and blinking at her expectantly.
“Right, your walk. Give me five minutes.”
As if he understood, Horse took a step back and let her into the house.
The living room had a couch, a small television, and a bookshelf crammed with crack-spined paperbacks but was largely taken up by a drafting table packed with markers, pens, pencils, rolls of multicolored tape, paints, and a number of art supplies Greta didn’t recognize. A shelf of identical black leather spines sat above the desk. There had to be at least twenty.
Greta couldn’t resist taking one down and peeking into it, making a silent promise to Truman that if they were diaries, she would not read them. But no, it was a calendar of sorts, each page a work of meticulous art. It had begun as a blank book and Truman had drawn in different calendars, dates, days, and other lists.