The Flower Shop (The Seed Traders' Saga Book 2) Page 3

  Which is just as well.

  Flora had to laugh. Then she noticed someone to her left, and she looked up. With a quick nod in her direction, a man slipped onto the end of the corner bench. Flora nodded back, returning his curt greeting. Hannah was already well into the next verse when Flora realized that the man who had just joined them was none other than Friedrich Sonnenschein, the son of the old flower seller who had collapsed. He gazed gloomily into his beer and was far away in his thoughts.

  He seemed not to have recognized Flora, or he would certainly have said a few words to her—wouldn’t he?—if only for the sake of politeness. From downturned eyes, she peeked across, studying him as surreptitiously as she could.

  Friedrich Sonnenschein was not endowed with any exceptional physical characteristics, except perhaps for his eyes, which were a very pale blue and looked as translucent as a shallow pool. His nose was neither crooked, nor flat, nor too big; his hair was neither particularly neat nor particularly unkempt, and neither was he especially tall or short, but of average height. If anything, he was a little on the heavier side. Flora looked at her own arms and hands, which still bore the signs of the drudgery she’d endured at the Grubers’ nursery. But wasn’t it said that the calluses on a hardworking Swabian girl’s hands were her prettiest jewels? Flora smiled to herself.

  Despite his unremarkable appearance, however, there was something about Friedrich that made Flora think he was a nice man—friendlier, perhaps, and not as rough-edged as some of the other men there in the restaurant. And—

  “Thank you again for helping my father.”

  So he had recognized her. “How is he?” Flora asked politely.

  “He’s up, but he’s limping. And when he thinks no one is looking, he rubs at his hip.” Friedrich Sonnenschein grimaced. “My father flatly refuses to admit that he’s been getting weaker and weaker over the last year. It’s as if he’s aged a decade, but so quickly, almost from one day to the next, it seems. He tires quickly, and then he has these strange dizzy spells. But what can I do? I had to go out early in the morning, not for long, and I was going to clear the snow after that, but could my dear father wait that long? Never!”

  Just then, Hannah returned to the table, laughing and out of breath.

  “My goodness, my feet are killing me! Ah, the florist’s son,” she said, and immediately asked, “Flora, do you need another drink, too?” She raised her beer mug and gestured toward the bar.

  Flora shook her head.

  “Well, you two have a good time,” said Hannah, and she grinned and danced away.

  It made Flora smile to see her mother so relaxed and happy, so in her element.

  Friedrich cleared his throat as if to draw her attention back to him. “You’re not from here, are you?”

  Flora shook her head. “We’d only just arrived and were on our way from the train station when we walked past your father’s shop.” Then she briefly explained the reason for their journey.

  “Ah, so you’re a seed dealer. There used to be an older gentleman who came to visit us—if I remember correctly, he also came from Gönningen. Back then, my father grew all his flowers himself, but he was also in much better health.” Friedrich sighed.

  “You work in a Trinkhalle, don’t you? I’m sure that’s very interesting,” said Flora, to distract him from his concern for his father. Her mother had pointed out the building, which was close to the Conversationshaus. She could not begin to imagine what was inside its walls.

  Friedrich looked up and replied with unexpected vehemence. “My employment means everything to me. In the last three years, I’ve worked my way up from a janitor’s position to where I am now—the custodian of the entire Trinkhalle. The grounds are also part of my charge. Every bench, every gravel path, the barriers, the gardens—I have the privilege of taking care of all of it. Now that the war is over, there are some important decisions to be made, and they affect the future of the Trinkhalle and everything it stands for. What will become of Baden-Baden now that the French are no longer coming? Who will visit our spas? I hope very much that whomever we welcome here after the French will better appreciate the fine waters we have, and that they don’t just come here for the casinos, but to try a curative bath and to take the waters. Oh, Baden-Baden has some exciting times ahead.”

  Curative baths? Take the waters? Flora did not understand a word of it, but she could feel the heat from the fire burning inside Friedrich. “And you want to be part of that,” she said, hoping it was the right thing to say.

  He nodded fiercely and took such a large swig of beer that some of it ran down his chin. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and looked around as if to reassure himself that no one was eavesdropping. Then he said quietly, “Until now, whoever has leased the casino has also paid for the upkeep of the Trinkhalle. Now there are rumblings about developing a completely new management for the Kurhaus complex—the Conversationshaus with the casino, and perhaps the Trinkhalle. That could be a huge boost to its significance, but it could just as easily spell its doom. Am I supposed to water flowers in my father’s shop instead of taking part in that process? That . . .” He fell silent and shook his head as if he could not even bear to think about it.

  “And your sister can’t help?” Flora asked, her heart pounding. Friedrich had no idea how much she envied him. Let me help you at the shop! she wanted to scream. But the words did not come out.

  “My sister would rather follow God’s call than look after our parents.” Friedrich’s voice was bitter. “When people talk about her, they talk about her ‘calling,’ and everyone is so understanding about how she has to follow it. With me, on the other hand—because I believe I can make a contribution to Baden-Baden’s development—all they talk about is an ‘obsession.’ If you ask the people here, I’d be better off taking over my parents’ business. The problem is that nobody can tell me how to get this ‘obsession’ out of my head. This is not a weed that you can just tear out by its roots!”

  Unconsciously, Flora grasped Friedrich’s hand. “You have no idea how well I understand what you’re saying. They expect the same of me!” she said so loudly that several of the others at the table turned and looked at them. She felt herself blush and abruptly released Friedrich’s hand. Then, in a whisper, she continued, “I’m being forced to work in my parents’ business, too. And all I’ve dreamed of, all my life, is tying bouquets and arranging flowers. Even—”

  “No . . . are you serious?” Friedrich interrupted her in disbelief.

  “It’s true!” Flora laughed out loud. “Even when I was a little girl, there was nothing I liked more than putting together bouquets. The seed business just doesn’t interest me like the flowers themselves. I would love so much to change places with you! Life can be so unfair sometimes.”

  Hannah, who had been talking to their hostess at the bar, came back to the table.

  “Isn’t it a lovely evening? Didn’t I tell you that a merchant’s life was fun?” she said triumphantly.

  Flora and Friedrich looked at one another. Then they burst out laughing.

  Chapter Five

  The rest of their trip proved to be as busy and successful as the first day had been. Wherever Hannah and Flora went, they were welcomed warmly. And the customers were buying. Because of the war, many of the gardens had lain fallow the year before, or the growers had made do with whatever leftover seeds they had. But now they were in a mood for billowing seas of flowers, for color and fragrance, for something to help drive out the memories of anxiety and terror.

  None of their customers had deserted them, a piece of good news that Hannah could hardly wait to report to Helmut.

  After ten days, they had ticked off every customer on their list. Mother and daughter were looking forward to getting home again, to sleeping in their own beds, to eating food cooked on their own stove. Helmut would not be there—he and his brother Valentin were expected back from Bohemia only around Easter—but at least the twins would already be home. Their Samen
strich—the territory where they sold their seeds—around Herrenberg was far less productive than Baden-Baden and did not require them to stay away as long.

  Flora could not say that she had really enjoyed her first seed trading travels, but most of her hostility, at least, had evaporated. She found their talks with the various customers interesting, and she had not previously realized that the demand for different types of flowers was driven at least partly by fashion. This year, their customers were less interested in low-growing types, while long-stemmed flowers were highly sought after. Intense colors were also on the rise, pastels not.

  As an experienced seed trader, Hannah was naturally able to accommodate all her clients’ wishes. But would the customers buy just as much from her, Flora, next year? She resolved to spend the summer learning more about the traits of unusual varieties, so that she would be better prepared for dealing with the customers.

  She saw Friedrich Sonnenschein only once more, on the morning after they had talked in the restaurant. She and her mother had just stepped out of The Gilded Rose when he came along the narrow street.

  “That wasn’t just talk, last night?” he asked without preamble after he had greeted them. “I mean, what you said about your greatest dream?”

  “No, it really wasn’t,” Flora said, and laughed.

  “Life is mean and skewed sometimes,” he murmured to himself, and went on his way without another word.

  “And what was that all about, may I ask?” Hannah said.

  “Oh, nothing.” Flora let out a little sigh as she watched Friedrich walk away.

  How right he was . . .

  The train started with a jerk, and as it rolled away, Hannah leaned back deeply into her seat. “Done!” With a smile, she held out her right hand to Flora, sitting opposite. “Congratulations. Your first sales trip. And you did really well.”

  Flora smiled back. “Do you really think so?”

  Hannah nodded. “I do. And that’s why . . .” She rummaged inside her traveling bag and produced a small package wrapped up in brown paper. “For you! A keepsake to remember your first time.”

  Frowning, Flora untied the string around the package.

  “The Language of Flowers—oh, Mother!” Flora’s delighted squeal made their fellow travelers jump. “I hadn’t even thought of it again. When did you—”

  “Our hostess went to the shop for me,” Hannah interrupted her. “I thought you might enjoy it.”

  Flora had thought that she might have a day or two’s rest after the trip to Baden-Baden, but she was mistaken. The morning after their return to Gönningen, her mother called her into the packing room, where Gustav and Siegfried, the twins, were already at work. Flora was handed a pile of order sheets, and then she set to work weighing seeds, filling packets, and labeling them. For their bestselling seeds, they used special stamps with the necessary details, which Flora liked more than laboriously writing all the information by hand. Once an order was complete, she wrote the name and address of the recipient on the package. Now, for every name, Flora remembered a face, which made the work more interesting and, in turn, more bearable. Soon, the parcels were stacked high in the packing room and the hallway in front of it. Twice a week, they were picked up by a wagon and delivered to the train station, so that everything would arrive well before the planting season began.

  “In the past, we took everything around ourselves by horse and cart,” Hannah had told her children countless times. “It was a real headache in the snow and ice, not to mention dangerous.” And Flora and her brothers rolled their eyes behind Hannah’s back. Always the same story!

  Flora thought often about Friedrich Sonnenschein and his father. She wondered how the old man was and whether his health had deteriorated even further, to the point where he could no longer run his shop.

  As the weeks passed, her memories of the incident in Baden-Baden melted away like the snow with the arrival of spring. By mid-March, more and more green appeared in the meadows every day, and by the end of the month, winter seemed long ago.

  Flora walked to the hills or the fields to watch nature’s springtime advance as often as she could. The first flowers started to appear at the beginning of April—cowslips, daisies, and pennywort. One still had to look closely to discover the tiny flowers hiding among the faster-growing grass, but Flora was happy with every little bouquet she tied. She could not get enough of the delicate colors of the flowers, which looked as if brushed on with watercolors.

  For the first time in her life, Flora did not simply give the bouquets she made to the first person to happen along, and that was because of the little book—almost forty years old, she discovered—her mother had given her. The Language of Flowers—what a lovely title, Flora thought every time she held it in her hand. And what an amazingly exciting subject to write a book about.

  Flora found, for example, that giving someone cowslips could mean “How gladly would I win the key to your heart.” It made her laugh now to think that just the year before she had given a bouquet of cowslips to the local butcher, a drinker of some renown!

  As for the pennywort, she read that joy in springtime did not necessarily mean that a happy autumn would follow. It was therefore probably not a good idea to give a pennywort bouquet to the Widow Schlagenhöfer, who was in mourning from dawn to dusk for her beloved and prematurely deceased Eugen.

  To Flora’s surprise, Seraphine showed great interest in the book. Her aunt praised its beautiful flower illustrations, and she was interested in what it meant to present someone with certain flowers.

  “Listen, Flora. Milkwort means ‘I have to forget you, though it makes my heart bleed.’” With gleaming eyes, she had gazed at her niece. “Please never give me a bouquet like that.”

  Flora, who had no idea where to even look for milkwort and who was rather confused at Seraphine’s request, simply nodded.

  “Your aunt really is a bit strange,” said Suse, when Flora told her about it.

  It was a sunny spring day, and the two young women had both fled their mothers, who were constantly finding more chores for them. Now they sat together on a bank beside the Wiesaz River, the book open on Flora’s lap.

  “Just make sure you don’t do anything dumb,” Suse added, and elbowed Flora in the ribs. “Like giving that book to your aunt out of kindness. You’ll never get it back. Come on, let’s take a look and see what flowers I could give my dear Rolf.”

  “Young ladies never give flowers to young men,” Flora replied, and sighed. Suse was doing it again: Rolf this, Rolf that! She used every opportunity she got to talk about “my Rolf,” the son of a seed trader in the village, with whom she secretly met.

  “Just yesterday, he told me again how very much he loves me. But can I believe him?” Suse looked doubtfully at Flora.

  Flora grinned. “Let’s ask the flower oracle!”

  “Would you do it . . . please? The oracle is always kind to you.”

  With a sigh, Flora plucked a daisy growing beside her left foot, then began to pull out the petals, one by one. “He loves you, he loves you not, he . . .” At the end, she covertly removed two petals at once so that the outcome was good.

  “He loves me,” Suse sighed contentedly. “I knew it!” She turned a few pages in Flora’s book, then looked up. “Here’s something you could give me: watercress.”

  “And what would I be saying if I did?” Flora asked, giggling.

  “‘Follow the call of your heart.’”

  “Oh, that would really be something for you! No, the most you’ll get from me are—” Flora jumped to her feet, ran up the bank, tugged at something there, then ran back down to Suse and kneeled beside her, holding a stalk with green leaves in her hand. “Stinging nettles!” she said melodramatically.

  “Nettles? What are they supposed to mean?”

  “‘Take care! Don’t burn your fingers in your exuberance.’ Catch!” Flora said, and she tossed the stalk spiritedly to her friend.

  Suse shrieked and ducked,
and Flora burst out laughing.

  When both girls had calmed down again, Suse went back to the book. “Look, it says here that the language of flowers has been known in both the Orient and the Occident since days of old,” she said. “And that the meaning attributed to a particular flower or plant originates either from its name or from its properties. Sometimes old legends or how the plants are used also play a role.” Suse looked at her friend. “Well, then, let me ask you this, O gorgeous goddess of the flowers: What do you think burdock means?”

  “Oh, that’s easy. It means you stick to someone like a burr. Or like your Rolf!” Flora replied, and they burst out laughing again.

  On the seventh of April, Good Friday, Helmut and Valentin finally returned from their long travels. Hannah cried tears of joy to see them safely home, and she and Helmut held on to each other as if they never wanted to let go. Gustav and Siegfried looked away in embarrassment, but Flora felt a trace of yearning. How must it feel to love someone so much?

  The more spring advanced, the bigger and more varied Flora’s bouquets became. She cut blooming forsythia twigs and added pussy willow and alder. And when the first daffodils and tulips finally sprouted in dense clusters in the garden behind the house, she sighed with relief. The previous autumn, she had planted more bulbs than ever before, and her father had grumbled at the expense—she counted herself lucky now to see that the bulbs had not been eaten by mice.

  For now, she had pushed aside the thought that she would not be a florist after all. She still had her flowers in the meadows and the garden. And no one could forbid her from doing what she wanted with them in her free time.

  When the letter came in mid-April, Flora was as stunned as everyone else.

  Chapter Six

  “‘Dear Miss Kerner,’” Flora read aloud. “‘Do you remember me? Friedrich Sonnenschein from Baden-Baden? I had the honor of meeting you and your esteemed mother in January, and the proprietress at The Gilded Rose was good enough to give me your address. She sends her greetings.’”