The Blue Iris, page 11
Tessa stared, stunned, as he clasped the shimmering strand. Her wrist dipped under the weight. A dress fit for royalty, these shoes, the earrings. Now this? It was over the top, even for Will. “I don’t know what to say.”
Will winked. “It’s no designer watch.”
They exchanged knowing smiles. He was referring to the one he gave her after she delivered the valedictory speech at high school graduation. Minutes after putting the watch on, the second hand stalled, ticking erratically. Refusing to keep time. Tessa watched Will, her cheeks growing hot as he gaped at her wrist, insisting she loved it anyway. The watch was perfect; the problem was her. She had weirdo magnets in her blood or something, because she’d never had one that worked properly. Will looked up at her, mouth parted, with a wonder she’d never forgotten. “Don’t you dare apologize. I knew you were magic the second I saw you.”
In the back of the limo, she laced her hand with his. Will’s gaze lingered over her ring finger once more, then drifted out the window. She studied the pale crescents of his nails in her lap, each as familiar as her own. Affection and apprehension rose to her throat in complicated measure.
She wanted so badly to tell him what he’d been aching to hear since February, that she was finally ready to tell her grandparents, then the world, about their engagement. But Pop’s prognosis was still uncertain, and truthfully, Tessa wasn’t ready to put that ring back on. The hoopla it was sure to unleash would pull her along, distract her from putting her own plans in place. It would be too easy to get absorbed by Will’s career, the wedding plans. Her big would fall by the wayside. She’d worked too hard to be a tagalong. She and her grandparents had invested too much.
Tessa turned from Will, looking out her own window and willing her focus towards the skyscrapers twinkling all around the limo, instead of the landmines now glowing inside it.
Spanish Moss / Tillandsia Usneoides
Voodoo doll stuffing.
CHARLIE
Twenty-Six Winters Ago, December 23
Hannah was tall, Sun-In blonde, smile straight off an orthodontics brochure. She walked into the shop wearing one of those cutesy, impractical holiday getups: plaid red sweater dress, cropped faux-fur jacket, gleaming white boots with dangling pom-poms. She introduced herself like it was redundant. Like she’d known Charlie for years. But Charlie had never served her before.
Sam told Hannah to pick whatever flowers she wanted, and Charlie would whip them into a gorgeous bouquet. “Charlie here’s a wizard with the cuts. She should be at one of those high-end florists in Yorkville. But we’d fold in a week without our Spider.”
Hannah giggled, and Charlie beamed. Both of them idiots.
Half an hour later, Charlie was running a carry-out. She spotted Hannah’s furry whiteness among the holiday throng, leaning against a sporty Mercedes with her tongue down someone’s throat. Her fingers groped at his shaggy hair. His hand moved inside the hem of her dress, her ass a pomegranate in his fist.
Charlie recognized the flannel sleeve.
When Sam waltzed back inside, he announced he was asking Hannah to marry him.
Tomorrow, on Christmas Eve.
After two whole weeks of dating.
Charlie retched in the bathroom until closing. Back at the house, she sank to the floor inside the door, sobbing. She was still there when Simon showed up with pizza, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and a file folder. He dropped to the parquet and held her for a long time. Then, he explained the paperwork in the folder—a permanent lease agreement, at a fixed rate easily covered by her seasonal wage. “This is your home, Charlie. You and the baby.”
Charlie looked at the address typed on the documents. It was this house, the one she’d been renting. Before this afternoon, she’d assumed that going forward, she’d be living at the Lodge with Sam. Her fury poured out. She was keeping the baby, but no way she was staying. She hated Sam. She’d never set foot on this block again.
Calmly, Simon reminded her the child was going to need a home. Why not a few steps from a stable, well-paying job and a family who lived in one place?
Charlie ended up signing the papers. For all her rage, she still carried a nucleus of hope where Sam was concerned. What if the sight of her swelling belly in the coming weeks changed everything—for both of them?
Meanwhile, she needed far away from here. She faked a family emergency, asked Rowan to cover inside, then caught a flight back to the deserted halls of student residence.
This time, it was a caretaker who joined her on the floor, after prying open the bathroom stall to find Charlie curled half-conscious around the toilet, soaked from the waist up in bile, her bottom half a staggering shade of crimson.
The doctor called her lucky and sterile all in the same sentence.
Begonia / Begonia
“We are watched.”
TESSA
Gowns and tuxedos funneled into the storied brass-and-marble hotel, where the gala’s cocktail hour was underway. Functions like these wore heavily on Tessa, but Will said he only survived them because she was at his side, whispering wisecracks in his ear. Inside, she fixed her gaze a few inches above everyone’s heads; she could grin and bear anything for a few hours, knowing it would soon be the two of them again.
Food was top priority; Tessa hadn’t eaten since lunch. She was reaching for a passing tray when a cluster of reporters began firing questions assault-rifle style.
Will’s hand flew to her back. “Dad said to expect media attention, but this—” He spun her gently by the shoulders to face him. “You okay if we give them a few minutes?”
Speculation was feverish that Peter would formally announce his bid for mayor tonight, which, of course, he was, and why his team leaked the rumor in the first place. The gala had to go off without a hitch, and not just for Peter. If Will’s father got elected, Will would get his hard-earned chance to run the law firm when he took office. Tessa nodded, coaxing her smile bigger.
Will led the reporters to an ornate black and gold clock tower at the center of the lobby. A few minutes in, a tuxedo-clad Teddy strolled over from the men’s room, dabbing his nose with the heel of his hand. Will dismissed the reporters, shuffling Tessa and his brother behind a pillar.
Teddy slapped Will’s lapel with unnecessary force. “What’s up, Ken doll? Nice threads.” Tessa held her breath as he pulled her into an embrace. When it came to hugging, there were two types of men—those who carefully avoided a lady’s chest, and those like Teddy, who pressed with mammogram force. Will glared at him.
“No date tonight, Ted?” he asked.
Teddy shrugged. “No randos at the head table, Mom’s orders. God, I hate that bitch.” He eyed Tessa from top to bottom, head cocked. “We could go hit up a real party.” He winked. “Ditch the heir, test drive the spare?”
Tessa ignored him, looking to Will in horror. Head table?
Will winced. “The campaign team wanted the family front and center.”
“And you’re just telling me now?”
“We haven’t talked much lately, have we?”
Tessa’s eyes darkened. How many times did she have to apologize for working? Not far behind that thought, an uglier one; did this explain the gown, the shoes, the jewelry? Was her original outfit not head table enough?
Her thoughts were swimming, heels unsteady. She needed to eat. She needed out of here.
Will touched her elbow, pumping the brakes. “There’s an extra seat at Hunter’s table if you want. But I’ll be miserable up there without you. Please?”
Yet again, Will was caught between the man he truly was under the lapels, and the one his surname demanded him to be. Tessa sighed. No use making a fuss now, here. There was no one she’d rather sit with, and certainly not Hunter and his Barbie fiancée, Portia. “All right.” Will grinned and swung her into the open again, discharging another round of flashbulbs.
The Casino Royale-themed ballroom was a kaleidoscope of black, white, and red against arched windows and gold chandeliers. Tessa’s eyes went straight to the centerpieces: crystal candelabras exploding with poufy hydrangeas, dyed ostrich feathers, velvety flames of red celosia and Black Magic roses. Spectacular, and a bit tragic. Cut hydrangeas had been priced through the roof this week; these ones would wither to burnt lace by midnight in so little water. Tessa sighed. She may never look at cut flowers the same way again.
Peter waved them over, photographers in tow. Tessa did a double take; the tuxedo had trimmed years from his face, and the resemblance to Will was uncanny. Eleanor stood at arm’s length in mermaid taffeta the color of fresh blood, showering Will in gooey overtones. In the dim light—and because she seldom smiled in earnest—one could hardly detect the fillers packed into her face. When Eleanor’s gaze finally wafted over Tessa, colder than the air conditioning, a wry grin pulled at her mouth. “So glad you could join us this time, sweetie. New dress?”
At first, Eleanor had explicitly objected to Will dating Tessa; he spent too much time at the coach house. His extra-curriculars were suffering. Tessa was teaching him irresponsible spending habits! When Will sided repeatedly with his new love, Eleanor pretended to be accepting, but only he was fooled. His mother stonewalled Tessa at every turn, without saying or doing anything, leaving Tessa with no factual basis for proving Eleanor detested her besides the unshakeable instinct it was true. In the end, Tessa opted to keep quiet; Eleanor’s love for Will was her only sincerity. How could she of all people come between mother and child?
“You’ve done it again, Eleanor,” Tessa said. “This room belongs on television.”
Eleanor trilled, then set about working the crowd. Tessa helped Will do the same—schmoozing clients, reintroducing herself to women who pretended never to have met her, posing for photos until her face hurt. Hunger built towards rage, which she longed to aim at these sadistic heels. She slipped to the ladies’ room, the marble counter cool against her palms. A chaise she did not dare to sit on mocked from the corner.
When she emerged, Will was waiting. Not surprisingly, Portia Taylor was planted in front of him like a point guard in a push-up bra.
Tessa hung back, scrolling through her phone. Portia’s father, Philip Taylor, was the surgeon whose malpractice suit put Peter on the litigative map. Her mother Moira sat on all the same auxiliaries and book clubs as Eleanor. They also shared a cosmetic surgeon, housekeeper and personal trainer. Indeed, they were close as two wealthy, narcissistic housewives could be. And so, wherever there were Westlakes, Taylors weren’t far behind. Portia had known Will since preschool, and despite being engaged to Hunter—Will’s best friend, now coworker—her aptitude for homing in on Tessa’s man remained shamelessly intact.
Will extracted himself, rushing over. “Why didn’t you save me?”
Tessa didn’t look up. “You know she has to get her Will fix.”
He slid his hands over her hips, then laid a strand of kisses in her mouth like delicate pearls, tongue teasing. “Well, I’m way overdue for a Tessa fix, so I told her to kick rocks.”
Tessa wanted to walk him straight back to that stiff-looking chaise in the ladies’ room, but they’d been missing from the ballroom long enough. “Speaking of Portia,” she said as they walked, “her dad came by work the other day. He didn’t recognize me.”
Will looked surprised; Tessa had met the man countless times. She told him how Phil, curt and condescending, had stuffed his Audi with their most expensive mixed planters, then drove off without paying.
“He said to put it on his tab! No wonder Uncle Rowan’s always hiding. They spot him and pounce, acting like they’re his best friends and shouldn’t be expected to pay.”
Will frowned. “Phil Taylor has more money than God . . . wait, Uncle Rowan?”
Tessa shrugged. “I nicknamed him. He’s always buying us sandwiches, coffee, smoothies. Between all that and the freebies customers give themselves, plus what I found in the binder, I’m surprised he makes any money at all.”
Will looked at her, piqued. Tessa felt a flutter of pleasure. This was the part she missed most—dishing with him, sharing confidences they wouldn’t dream of saying aloud in front of anyone else. She related how, after Darryl told her Rowan was fronting his own money to cover the shop’s losses, she went through the accounts’ binder. “There’s a ton of balances owing. Some people haven’t paid in years. I guess it wasn’t a problem before, but with Sam gone, he’s in real trouble.”
“This Sam guy was that big a deal around there?”
Tessa nodded, grateful he was finally starting to understand. “He ran the whole operation.”
“They can’t get him back? Offer more money or something?”
Tessa lowered her voice. “It’s not exactly public knowledge. Sam’s dead. Snowmobile accident.”
Will’s lips pulled into a silent whistle.
“Rowan’s hanging on by a thread. He’s not the type to demand payment, but he’s running a business! Why should people like Phil Taylor expect him to float that kind of cash? They can well afford their flowers!”
Will stopped short in the ballroom’s arched entry. Tessa glanced around, worried she’d spoken too loudly. When she looked back at Will, his expression held such ache, she felt the twist in her own chest. She touched his cheek. “What? What is it?”
“Tessa Catherine Lewis, you’re the realest person I know.” His voice broke. “I can’t do this without you, baby. I’m serious. I can’t.”
Tessa wrapped her arms around his tuxedo collar and pulled him in tight. “Then it’s a good thing you won’t have to.” She kissed him then, a kiss she felt all the way to her toes. Every neuron fired at once, a rush so slurry and consuming she forgot to care whether anyone was taking pictures while she did it.
It was a curse, sometimes, to feel too much. But it made the good parts so much better.
“I told you.” She cupped his jaw with her palm. “I’m with you all the way. And so we’re clear . . . I’m the lucky one.”
It was true. Sharing her life with a Westlake brought its challenges, but every second in Will’s arms was completely and utterly worth it.
Wood Sorrel / Oxalis Acetosella
Maternal Tenderness.
ROWAN
For a Friday night, his phone was pinging excessively. Rowan powered it down, kicking off his sneakers as he sank into the leather couch. Developers had been circling the Blue Iris site like sharks for forty years, but tonight was different. Like they could taste Sam’s blood in the water.
Rowan pulled the air in his father’s study deep into his nostrils. Somewhere in these cherry bookshelves, a trace of cigar smoke lingered. The creak of those wooden doors once transformed this room into their secret bunker, a safe place to wait out his mother’s moods. The credenza held board games and model airplanes, a true-to-scale replica of the solar system. He used to sit right here, feet dangling, eyeballs inflamed. Riveted. His father spoke unreservedly about economic inflation and free trade agreements, the Holocaust, the Civil Rights Movement, like the boy was already a man. And in the years that followed, if the conversation went past his third vermouth, Simon would broach the subject of the Blue Iris.
On Sundays, Rowan was charged with holding the zippered bank envelope and the sweating paper bag full of bagels. It didn’t matter how busy that corner was when Simon’s regal blue Cadillac drove up; Iris, a blush cloud of freckles and wildflowers, dropped everything to pull young Rowan into a hug befitting a soldier back from war, slipping caramels from her apron into his palm before floating back to the counter.
Rowan had one memory of his own mother touching him. In the looping driveway, by the waiting Town Car. Rebecca was in head-to-toe white, earlobes winking. Rowan abandoned his grassy fistfuls, pudgy legs pumping after her like a driver steering into the very deer he’s meant to avoid. Rowan got close enough to smell his mother’s perfume, then her pearl-rimmed eyes snapped into abhorrence. Her hand landed across his cheek with such force that the diaper he was too old to be wearing exploded with a splat against the asphalt.
His grubby hands never dared soil her again.
But on Sundays growing up, there was always Iris. Simon ran carry-outs, gabbing with neighborhood fixtures as Rowan rubbed petunias between his fingers, marveling at the sticky scent. He gave biscuits to passing dogs, secretly hoping Sam and Darryl would invite him to play hide-and-seek among the shelves. They didn’t, but with Iris’s golden wrappers crinkling in his pocket and her eyes watching over him with affection, the same royal purple-blue as her namesake flower, Rowan felt part of a real family nonetheless.
Iris’s death, so tragic and sudden, broke Rowan in two. He stepped up, covering shifts as needed, willing to do whatever it took to keep her store thriving. By age twenty-eight, he’d inherited his father’s majority stake in the business, and the prime real estate it sat on. His mother tried her damnedest to force a sale, but Simon’s will had been carefully worded with her resentment in mind.
Rowan took over as the shop’s business manager on top of his day job in the financial district. The living backdrop of plants, the bustle of Morrow Avenue, the gritty soap opera that was Darryl and Charlie and Sam, it was all so vivid compared to Rowan’s robotic existence. Jockeying numbers all day. Being jockeyed at home by the woman he married because she’d ordered him to.
Simon’s wholesale expansion proved a huge hit; for the landscapers servicing the mansions of Forest Hill and Hogg’s Hollow, the famed Bridle Path estates, there was no better place to buy product than the Blue Iris. Rowan’s thirst for the snap of cash between his fingers grew insatiable, but it wasn’t greed that drove him; it was finally feeling like a somebody. He traded cufflinks for blue jeans, the decision sending his wife straight into the arms of an orthodontist and unleashing his mother’s serrated cackle. But, he was certain, his father would have approved.
As the neighborhood evolved into one of Toronto’s most coveted pockets, purchase offers began pouring in. Rowan’s answer was unchanged; the Blue Iris was not for sale. For him, the place had come to hold everything that couldn’t be bought.
