A Writer's Fairytale

Mary: Grandmother Knows Best

I decided that I was going to change before I walked to tell my grandmother the news and see if she needed me to help her cook, anything to get me out of packing. I really didn’t feel like packing. I hated packing. I always felt like I was doing it wrong, that I was taking too many suitcases. When I thought about it, I would need a lot of suitcases. I was staying there for at least three months, maybe longer. I knew that I was going to need a lot of clothing, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was still bringing too many things.

I walked into my room, and had taken off my trench coat and hat when I saw Rebecca. “How did it go?” she asked with a smile.

“It went well. I guess,” I said, looking at her. “I mean I got the job.”

“What do you mean you guess?” she asked, walking into my room.

I thought for a second. What did I mean? “I don’t know the prince seemed weird. He was kind of uptight, and I could tell that he didn’t like me.”

“What did you say to him?” I looked at her for a second. I rolled my eyes. “Oh yeah. Stupid question.”

“Yeah. It was,” I said, snapping back at her a little. I didn’t mean too. It was just that the events of the previous night were getting me down, and then the prince’s attitude really annoyed me.

She glared at me. “Don’t snap at me, because the prince was mean to you. Do you want me to go beat him up for you?”

I laughed. “No. I can take care of my own fights,” I said, walking out of my room.

“I am going to my grandma’s flower shop to see if she needs any help with dinner tonight,” I said, turning towards Rebecca.

“I don’t know how she could. She got me roped into helping, and shouldn’t you be packing anyway?” she said, giving me a strange look.

“She has Jessica helping too, and I have tomorrow to pack,” I said with a laugh. She knew that I was putting it off. She knew that I didn’t want to pack. She knew that I would wait to the last second if I could, and I was going to.

“A procrastinator to the end,” she said, laughing.

“At least I am consistent,” I said, giving her a hug.

“True,” she said, pushing me away towards the hall, and then began to laugh.

 I stopped when I saw a bouquet of flowers. “What are these?” I said. I had completely forgotten about the conversation that I had had with Jessica. 

I could see the light bulb click on above Rebecca’s head. “Your grandmother brought them by just after you left for your meeting.”

I looked down at the flowers. I saw a note sticking out of them. “My grandmother never leaves notes with her flowers,” I told Rebecca, but it was more that I was talking to myself. I picked the note out of the flowers. “Dear Mary this maybe crazy, but I wanted to see if you would come join me for lunch at 12. Sincerely the guy that helped you last night.” I looked from the note back to my friend back to the note. “Did you do this?” I was finally able to stutter out. 

“No.” She stopped then thought. I laughed. The situation itself wasn’t laughable what was laughable was that thought that popped into my head. That hamster is really working hard today. I know that was a mean comment to think about my friend, but we both had moments like that, when we felt that the other was thinking far too hard about a question that we had just asked. It was just how our friendship worked. It kept us both level headed. “I did tell him your name and favorite flowers last night.”

“And why would you do that?” I asked, though I already knew her answer.

 “In case he liked you, by the way he obviously does,” she said, giving me a giant smile.

  “Because that is what I wanted.” I thought to myself. “I wanted this knight in shining armor, this i***t to come and rescue me. That all I needed to be happy was for him to be interested in me.” “Not that I would be interested, but I am sure he isn’t anymore.” I finally said after thinking for a minute.

Rebecca’s smile vanished. “Why do you say that?” She hadn’t heard me read the note. She was too excited that something worked out to pay attention to the details. As an author the details are always what I look at first. I look at the little things, before I put the whole puzzle or story together.

 I looked down at the note again. “He told me to meet him at 12. I stood him up.” I was happy. This was when I remembered Jessica telling me about the flowers. I am glad that she didn’t know the time or I would have been roped into going and seeing if he was there, though I would have been ten minutes late. That would have just had to have been another thing that I apologized for. I never liked apologizing to people. It always made me feel weird. It always made me feel like I was begging them for forgiveness for a small action. 

The last thing I wanted or needed to do before I left for quite a while was get entangled in some messy awkward relationship. I wanted to be a hermit. I wanted people not to care who I was, or what I looked like. My small odd writing jobs would pay for any essentials that I might need. That was the life for someone who looked like me. I had been told that all of my life. It was the truth; I wasn’t pretty enough for something that people would look at me. 

"You could try and tell him, that you didn’t get the note until now.” Her optimism made my pessimism wonder if there wasn’t a brighter side to everything. Reality is the one that shoves me back down when I think that though. I have never gotten to be an optimist for long, something always seemed to get in my way.

“How?” She only gave me a questioning look. “How am I supposed to tell him anything? I don’t have his phone number or address or even his name. Let me just look up in the phone book, handsome guy with a British accent.” I regretted saying it the moment that it left my mouth. It was more than just my cynicism; it was that I had admitted out loud that I thought he was cute, I admitted that I not only thought that he was cute, but I thought that he was hot.  This was a disaster that I would have to cover with a very careful array of words. I just didn’t know if the dictionary had enough words to cover the hole that I had just dug myself. 

I knew Rebecca had been waiting for this slipup. “You think he’s handsome. Not only handsome, but you think that he is hot.” 

“I think that many people of our s*x find him attractive and appealing to look at.” I made sure that I didn’t lie. I hated lying to my best friend, but more than that I couldn’t.  She knew my tell and she would jump on it faster than a lion on a wounded zebra. This was a new trick that I was working on using on her. Half-truths. I was just holding back some of the facts. I would tell her what she wanted to hear or what I needed to tell her without fully explaining what was going on and what I thought. It was better than lying to her, and her telling me that I am lying to her, and getting into this whole discussion on what I need in my life and why she is the one that can tell me what I need in my life. It just saved me from having to deal with yet another conversation that I heard a million times before. A conversation that I just didn’t feel like dealing with. A conversation that I wanted to block out with all of my heart.

She knew what I was trying and I had to get out of there before this went into a full-blown discussion about a man that I had only met once.  “I could care less about what other women think Mary. I want to know what you think.”

“I think I need to go to my grandmother’s flower shop and see if she needs an extra hand.” I opened the main door and briskly walked away.

 I heard her call after me. “You may be able to run from me, but you can’t run from yourself.”

“Watch me,” I thought as I turned the corner to the stairs. The walk down the stairs and across the street to my grandmother’s flower shop hurt. It hurt a lot more than it did when I walked to the diner and when I walked back after talking to my dad and brother. I opened the door and my grandmother stood behind the counter fussing with some flowers. Everything had to look perfect to her; I on the other hand lived in chaos and mess, but I loved my chaos and messes. That is why she owned a floor shop and I did not. “I will be with you in a minute,” She called from behind the flowers.

I figured that she must have not realized that it was me. “Take your time. I just wanted to see if you needed me to do anything for you for tonight.” 

It took her a minute to put the voice to someone that she recognized, but when she did she came bolting out from behind the flowers. She came and squeezed me until I was sure that I was going to pop. “You got it?” she asked, leaping for joy while I was still being squeezed.

“No, but that was the final blow to my ego. I have decided that from now on I am going to be living in a cave. I came to tell you to forward all mail that you want to send to me to, the cave in the middle of nowhere, street name good luck finding it.”

 I saw her face contort. Then she laughed. “Alright I get it. Dumb question. How much did you guys settle on?”

I laughed. “I get to go to a far-off country and you are asking me about the money.”

She looked me in the eyes and in a stern voice said. “I am. My granddaughter never cares about the money and because of that her amazing writings never get the recognition that they deserve. Not to mention that she lives from pay check to pay check.” I rolled my eyes. There were two things that my grandmother never liked about me writing. She never thought I got paid enough. It was true that I might not get paid as much as a lot of other writers, but I was doing what I loved and I was surviving that was all that was important to me, but she thought that someone of my talent should get more money for my work. I should have been leaving in a pent house, not in an apartment that I share with my friend.

The other issue that she had was that I wasn’t getting any recognition for it. She thought that writing under a pen name was a ridiculous waste of talent. I on the other hand liked not having to worry about what I look like in public in case I meet a fan of mine. I was able to work anywhere and not have to worry, that someone might come up to me and start trying to read work that I might not like and never publish. It also gave me a way that I didn’t have to listen to people if they didn’t like my writing. I was critical of myself enough, the last thing that I needed was someone to tell me that the last story that I published in whatever failing paper or magazine that I was working with this week sucked, and wasn’t worth their time or money.

I must have zoned out on her because the next thing I remember her saying was “Are you paying attention to me Mary?” 

I gave her a weak smile “I usually do when you scold me for the same thing time and time again.”

 “Well Mary Charlotte, I asked you how your date with that hunk that sent you the flowers went.

“I didn’t go,” I said. “I was in the meeting with the people for my new job when you came by and gave Rebecca the flowers. When I got home, I went straight to changing to see if you needed any help. It wasn’t until I came to see you that I saw the flowers and the note.” This wasn’t entirely true and I knew that she would find that out, but I didn’t want to tell her that now. I could have called Rebecca to see if she was there after I found out about the flowers from Jessica, but I didn’t want to do that. I wanted an excuse not to go. 

She looked disappointed. “He seemed so sweet. I think he might have been a real catch.”

 I gave her a smile while she walked back behind her flowers. “Let some other girl reel him in I am perfectly content with where I am now.”

She shook her head. “I wish that were true.”

“It is true!” I turned toward her flowers. It felt like it was missing something. “Have you tried any violets in there? I think the violets would really complement the flowers that already in there.”

  She looked for a second. I could see the wheels in her head turning. “That’s it!” she exclaimed. “How could I have missed that?” 

“It’s just like you always told me work on something for too long and you can’t see a simple solution.” 

She laughed. “The problem was that your too long was five minutes.”  I laughed. Why deny the truth? “Could you go get me four violets cut at tall stem, please?”

I had already begun to walk to the back room. “Yes, grandma.” I walked back to the back room. The fragrance was overwhelming. All of the flowers were mixing together to make one strong perfume. After several years of helping my grandmother I still hadn’t decided if I liked the smell.

I began to hear my grandmother talking. I would have thought that it was to herself if I would not have heard a voice answer back. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it really didn’t matter. I knew what it was generally about. I worked there long enough to know. A flower for a girlfriend or a wife, or maybe it was a wedding it didn’t matter like my grandmother says the flower business is about love.

I didn’t exactly agree with her on her statement. There were funerals and my personal favorite, the apology flower. Sorry I did something stupid. Sorry I cheated on you. That was the kind of “love” flower that I liked, because to me it showed the truth. I didn’t believe in the love flower and the love my grandmother did. I guess that’s not true I loved my grandmother, my dad and my brother, but that was a different kind of love. The love that I never believed in was the fairytale love. The happily ever after love.

I found the violets sitting in the same place they always have. I would have gone nuts if I kept my work this organized. I grabbed four and moved them to the cutting board. I measured 3 inches off the bottom and then cut. I guess it was like riding a bike. I hadn’t helped my grandmother in over 6 months, but the flowers didn’t look half bad.

I walked out of the back room and I was sure that the man that was ordering flowers was gone. I handed my grandmother the flowers, she looked at them and smiled. “You still have the flower shop cut.” 

I gave her a wide smile for her approval. “Old habits die hard.” 

Mary, I know you came to see if I needed any help cooking, but I really need your help with this one customer,” she said while she began to adjust the violets into the vase with the other flowers. She had an artist’s touch she knew exactly where to put the flowers, so that each flower was accented in its own way.

“Grandma I really don’t think that…” 

“Mary Charlotte Evans you will do this for me. The more time that you spend arguing is less time that you have.” She had the last word. The use of my middle and last name said it all and even if that didn’t then the tone of her voice did. I had no choice, but to do what she said and she had a point, the more time that I tried to argue a losing battle, the less time that I have not doing this. I didn’t like helping customers. They were all, so indecisive, and I didn’t have the patience for them. I just wanted them to decide and to be ready to go, by the time that I got to them. I didn’t think that that was too much to ask for.