Chapter 36: The Flowers Were Not From Grant
Owen called on a Friday and used his lawyer voice, which meant it was not about law.
There are things we should discuss about the case, he said. Over dinner. If you are free.
The case is nearly over, I said.
A pause. Then we will discuss it quickly.
He booked a private corner booth at the Italian place on Harbor, the kind of restaurant where the lighting forgives everyone.
I told Helen. Helen made a sound like a teakettle.
It is a working dinner, I said.
Uh-huh, she said. Wear the blue.
It is not a date, I said.
Uh-huh, she said again. Helen can turn one syllable into a marching band.
I wore the gray.
I was not ready to be a woman who wears the blue, and I did not say that sentence out loud to anyone.
I told myself it was because gray photographed better against office walls. I almost believed me.
Owen was already there when I arrived, and he stood when I walked in, because Owen was raised by someone who got the details right.
He looked different outside his office. The tie was gone. Some of the armor had gone with it.
So, I said, sitting down. The case.
The case, he agreed, and then he did not mention the case for forty minutes.
We talked about the lake. About the winter the dock froze. About his daughter, away at college, who called him only when the car broke, which he pretended to mind.
He asked about Helen. He remembered her husband's name, and the name of the restaurant where she thought she got food poisoning in 2019.
People think listening is a talent. It is not. It is a decision, renewed every few seconds.
It was the first dinner in a year where I did not feel like a plaintiff.
Then, halfway through, the maître d' appeared at our table holding flowers.
White peonies, wrapped in brown tissue, the kind of plain, perfect bouquet that costs more than it looks like it costs.
For the lady, he said, and set them down, and was gone before I could ask.
My first thought was Grant. Grant had never once sent me flowers without an audience, but men do strange things when they are losing.
I opened the little card, braced for something I would have to hand to a lawyer.
The handwriting was not Grant's.
It was not anyone's I knew. The restaurant had written it, taking down a phone order placed days earlier.
Six words.
He would have ordered these himself.
No signature. It did not need one. The dead have excellent handwriting. It is called other people's memories.
I sat very still.
White peonies. Every year, on my birthday, my father had sent white peonies. No note. Never a note. He used to say that flowers which need explaining are an apology.
The last bouquet arrived four days before his funeral. The florist had not heard.
I stood in my kitchen holding white peonies and a phone full of condolences, and I did not cry until the water was already in the vase.
He had been dead for eight years.
I looked up at Owen. He watched as if I were crossing ice. Carefully. Ready. Saying nothing.
You remembered, I said.
Your father mentioned them once, he said. Fifteen years ago, at a closing. I wrote it down.
He said they were the only flowers that never look like they are apologizing for something.
His words. I wrote those down too.
Who writes that down.
A man who worked for Victor Hale, he said. We wrote everything down.
Why tonight? I asked.
Because the case is almost over, he said. And some things should not have to wait for a verdict.
And that was the moment I understood that this dinner was not about the case.
It had never been about the case.