The Blue Iris, page 8
Against the shop’s fluffy backdrop, Darryl seemed carved from titanium. But here, at arm’s length, he looked haggard and worn. The physicality of this job was no joke at Tessa’s age; Darryl had to be pushing forty-five. “It’s not even June,” she said. “How are you going to manage?”
“Don’t have much choice, do I? Another human sandbag like Tony or Luke would’ve been nice to have around. No offense.”
“Maybe Rowan can hire more people?”
“Tweety Bird’s tweaking out as it is. Thinks we can’t get by without Sam.”
Tessa hesitated. “Can we?”
Darryl considered. “We’re about to turn a profit on cuts for the first time in months. With Don Carlo eating out of your hand, we’ll probably have first dibs on product again. Could be a game changer for Trucks.”
Tessa smiled, then frowned. “Wait! What were you doing before today?”
Darryl scoffed. “Me and Rowan were two monkeys trying to fuck a football. Buying was Sam’s gig. My job was to get him there on time and stand there with my thumb up my ass until it was time to load. Rowan made sure he sent enough cash. The rest . . . haven’t got a goddamn clue.”
“Why not ask Charlie?”
“Fuck. That.”
“Bidding top dollar on the wrong clock is better?”
Darryl’s shoulder lifted. “We really thought my train wreck of a brother was coming back. Rowan’s been fronting his own money to cover the losses until Trucks starts ramping up.”
Tessa picked at a plastic sleeve. “I could go with you again. Until you get the hang of it.”
Darryl set his jaw. “Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Same time.”
She smirked. “What do you know? A broad, sitting in this seat. Helping you.”
“My mother sat in that seat. She’s the one who really ran things, I know that.”
“Ah, so it’s not all women, then. Just me?”
His shoulder lifted. “I didn’t want you up front.” He looked out the window. “Still don’t.”
Tessa made a strangled sound. “You’re impossible!”
“Ask me, Flash can handle kissing retail ass all day just to sell ten lousy flats of begonias.”
“I’m not quitting, Darryl.” Tessa meant it. It wasn’t even about her mother anymore—not entirely. As soon as this job ended, she’d have to face the uncertainty surrounding her next one.
“You ever let anybody finish? Two hundred flats from yard to road in under a minute. No sidewalk vultures swiping your colors. Another eight grand worth of orders being shouted at you from all sides. That’s not for everybody.”
“Is there a point somewhere in this story?”
“Point is, you can handle it. If you want to.”
Tessa stared into the road. Pulling orders was better than standing at the counter while customers whined and waffled. Plus, she loved that storage yard. “I’m game.”
Darryl nodded. “Welcome to Trucks, Princess. Try not to fuck it up again.”
Tessa grinned out her window. Moments later, she heard a rumbling and looked around the cab. Laughter? She lowered her eyebrows at Darryl. “What’s so funny?”
He gestured to the anthurium, a slew of phallic red-and-yellow wands bobbing about her head. “Those things really are ugly as sin.” The laughter escalated into roars, littered by the odd wheeze. “It’s like a whack of gonorrhea-dicks flapping off your face!” He wiped his eyes with his mammoth wrist.
“You’re disgusting!” But he was yipping so hard, Tessa couldn’t help laughing, too.
Back in front of the shop, he made no move to get out. He just sat there, exhaling one long breath that sounded like it had been locked in a dungeon for a thousand years.
Rattlesnake Root / Polygala Senega
Hermitage.
DARRYL
The little ball busters were clucking away as they unloaded the cube truck, their mocking voices clear as a gong through the cab wall.
“Hey, Darryl, is this truck a mirage?”
“Does anybody goddamn WORK around here?”
Darryl stayed where he was, at the wheel his father, and then Sam, had gripped before him. Willing the damn pills to kick in.
Tessa’s voice: “Guys, give him a minute.”
Carlo wasn’t wrong; in a bass-ackwards way, she’d reminded Darryl of his mother this morning, too. Iris wouldn’t have thought twice about milking some dead stranger’s memory to get the job done. And then, at Clock, calculating a dozen variables while the seconds ticked money away like some psychotic game show, like it came as naturally to her as breathing. It was reminiscent of Sam, who once set price on every lot in the place on a speedball and a twenty-sixer of Jameson. For the first time in weeks, Darryl didn’t feel entirely alone.
It didn’t change the fact he was barreling towards a cliff with no brakes, or that he was too goddamn pissed at Sam to mourn the guy. Darryl’s tenth-grade finish and winning personality left few options outside the Blue Iris, though it burned like hell to see his parents’ ghost-flirting behind every shelf, hear his mother’s wisecracks on every jasmine gust of wind. It was just, all this time later, the shop was still all there was. And he was getting too old for this shit.
The shop in high season, with its now-or-never earnings window and back-to-back double shifts, was all-consuming enough. But buying for the shop was a different orbit altogether. Darryl went to bed while it was light, woke in the dark. Spring was sweaty hibernation while the rest of the city threw open their doors.
And those were the easy months.
Darryl spent his winters available twenty-four seven, dragging an uprooted Sam out of ditches, scraping him off glass-strewn floors. In between, he managed to eat, sleep and fuck, but not on anything resembling a schedule. He never imagined it would be forever. If anyone could wriggle back to normal after what went down that night in their parents’ kitchen, it was Sam. Especially with Charlie behind him.
She was the first to stand behind that counter who wasn’t his mother. Darryl, his whole world flipped and shaken like a snow globe full of rocks, loathed Charlie’s little bird-palms, wiping Iris’s fingerprints off the stapler. Her crushed gravel laugh replacing his mother’s soft morning hum. He resented her trampling their time-tested routines, how effortlessly she rendered Darryl redundant. But the worst of it was how she was always there, forcing him to face everything he didn’t feel when looking down at her feathery collar bone in a tank top.
Darryl had been so determined to un-gay himself, gay having triggered the whole bloody mess in the first place. It wasn’t like he couldn’t get off on girls; he’d slammed six beers and banged one in Timmy Butler’s garage after winning divisionals.
It didn’t matter in the end. Gay, straight, men, women—Darryl was too damn angry all the time. He hated pretty much everyone, and anyone who sparked real feeling got ghosted immediately for fear it might go down the same way.
He was no tall, golden jar of honey like his brother, whose demons settled to the bottom as soon as the sun came out. Instead, Darryl was a sack full of hammers. Sam had skimmed all the best genes in the pool, leaving Darryl with the rest—Iris’s gaslighting fetish; Henry’s blinding temper. How long before he dragged one matchstick too many? How soon after letting himself fall into some barf-worthy romance would it be his own fat fingers in some poor fucker’s throat? Better all around if Darryl just . . . didn’t.
Common Myrtle / Myrtus Communis
Souvenir from Eden’s garden.
TESSA
Planting weekend seemed like one long, blurry shift. Trays lay overturned, portulaca and cilantro swaying like seaweed. SUVs idled in the street as screaming matches broke out over parking spots, the last cherry tomato plant. Tessa climbed up the back of a Carlo’s truck, ready to offload the premium assortment. A customer in head-to-toe Chanel pointed a finger at the citrus-scented lantana on board, so laden with blooms its branches were sagging, and shrieked, prompting a horde to form. From the bumper, Tessa rationed out the plants until, minutes later, the truck was empty, its contents sold and carted away without ever touching the ground.
When at last the shop was caged in snow fencing for the night, the crew dispersed. Tessa, lagging tiredly, heard a voice calling and spotted a bucket hat in the enclosure, surrounded by the shrubs they’d stuffed up the aisles.
“Is this woolly thyme?” the customer asked, the beaded string of her glasses swaying, unfazed at having nearly spent the night barricaded among the flats.
Rowan, back from the bank drop, cursed under his breath. He and Tessa unfastened the fencing and cleared a path, hands outstretched search-and-rescue style until the customer and her four-inch pot of woolly thyme were safely on the sidewalk.
“How much?” she asked, as if this was a perfectly ordinary shopping experience.
Rowan glanced at the counter, now buried behind potted fruit trees and devoid of a register. “It’s okay, Mrs. B. This one’s on the house.”
“How kind!” She then requested a second freebie, which Rowan re-opened the fence to fetch. Tessa shook her head. No Good Deed Went Unpunished would be etched on his headstone. The woman gave her a funny look. “Sorry to keep you, Iris, dear.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
“Shh!” Rowan hissed, steering Tessa stiffly into the laneway, out of view. “I swear, that woman must have two acres of woolly thyme by now.”
Tessa pointed back towards the street. “My car’s on Cresthaven…”
Rowan frowned. “Park at the Lodge and cut through the yard from now on, especially if you’re doing buying runs. Safer than walking up here alone.”
“Thanks, Uncle Row.” She eyed the sidewalk again. “You think she’s gone?”
“Are you in a hurry?”
After the last three days, did he expect her not to be? She shrugged. Rowan beckoned her towards the yard, where the blooms, colors indistinguishable at twilight, stretched into one sleepy mass. He kept walking, all the way to the the scraggly swamp cedars way at the back, then . . . marched headlong into them? Tessa regarded the hedge with alarm; the weekend had left him delirious.
His copper head poked from a gap in the trees, visible now that she knew it was there. “You coming?”
Tessa hesitated. This was exactly what Will meant when he said she was too trusting. Then, remembering Rowan’s moral compass had just prevented him from taking three dollars off a senile old lady who legitimately owed six, she ducked through the hole. The ground turned soft, couching her achy feet. She heard the timbre of male laughter, the clinking of beer glass. An orange speck lifted off beyond the greenery. Rowan pushed aside yet another section of tree with a proud flourish, like it was a false bookcase, and for the second time since passing through that storage yard gate a few days ago, Tessa was transported to another world entirely.
Auricula / Primula Auricular
Pride.
ELEANOR
First, Mother’s Day brunch, and now a no-show at weekly family dinner? What was Tessa thinking?
Against the ivory tablecloth, Teddy’s phone seized defiantly. Will stabbed at his plate of microgreens; the poor boy struggled to keep his figure ever since the Lewises got hold of him. Eleanor didn’t have the heart to tell him it only got harder with age. Sometimes, she felt like throwing in the napkin altogether, shock every starched collar in this country club by ordering a nice gooey chunk of lasagna.
“Such a shame Tessa couldn’t fit us in again this week,” she said, motioning for a server to remove the empty chair. Across this room, dried-up debutantes would be salivating at the sight of Will untethered. Just imagine if they knew Tessa’s car hadn’t sat overnight at the penthouse for weeks.
“Mom, I told you. She’s working. It’s a big weekend at the Blue Iris, apparently.”
Eleanor drew the crystal globe to her lips, making a conscious effort not to stiffen in her chair. “The Blue Iris? On Morrow?”
Will huffed. “Yes. Do you even listen when she talks?”
Eleanor inhaled for a count of . . . six? No, it was supposed to be seven. Wait, no. It was hold for six, exhale for eight . . . or was it exhale for seven? Her head about to explode, she blew all the air out at once. The Blue Iris wouldn’t be a problem, she was fairly certain. With Peter’s help, she could make sure, but no way that was an option.
Will waved his fork dismissively. “It’s only a few weeks. I’m working around the clock anyway.”
Peter clapped Will on the shoulder, and Will beamed. Their first born was adamant he could handle Peter’s portfolio, and indeed, there was no better candidate for the job. Voters needed to see Peter confidently divested of private sector responsibilities, fully committed to the fine people of this world-class city. At the same time, the firm’s clients needed assurances their files remained in close, capable hands. Will had the name, the charisma, the drive and the mind. Still, it was a lot of pressure; Eleanor wasn’t convinced he had the stomach.
Teddy scoffed. “Will Westlake, Douchebag at Law. Didn’t think you had it in you, bro.”
Will sneered at his brother. “At least I’m not mooching off Mom and Dad.”
“No, you’re becoming Mom and Dad.”
“This from the kid living in their pool house.”
“Dude, you live in their penthouse. You’re driving their car!”
“First of all, the car was a gift. Maybe if you got into law school . . . or kept a driver’s licence for ten minutes. And, I pay rent on that penthouse. You know, because I have a job.”
Teddy snorted. “Peter’s Bitch is not a real job title, FYI. I’m building my own brand.”
“Pumping teens full of booze and drugs on camera isn’t a brand, idiot, it’s an indictment. Ever heard of Joe Francis?”
“Enough,” Peter said. Teddy snatched up his phone, still twitching like roadkill.
“Is it too much to ask that you put that away while we’re eating?” Eleanor asked.
Teddy replied on beat. “Is it too much to ask that you’re not a raging bitch?”
Eleanor downed her wine with a tiny hiccup. Even in boyhood, Teddy’s angular face had been the sort that set one’s hand itching to slap it; she was beginning to wish someone had.
Now, Teddy had a glowing discharge report from rehab, and a thriving, if unusual business venture hosting exclusive parties in exotic locales and posting footage under a social media alias. So long as it suited him, he could walk the line perfectly well. Across the table, Peter gave Eleanor a look acknowledging that despite all this, their youngest was still very much a liability. They’d managed to keep Teddy’s escapades off the radar, but a mayoral race invited a much broader scope of scrutiny. Scandal on the home front could derail the campaign overnight.
Eleanor caught herself wishing Tessa was here. The girl pulled Will from his funk, his wattage increasing a hundredfold with her beside him, effectively banishing Teddy into the wallpaper. Indeed, when that couple walked in a room, they were like co-stars in a rom-com; people couldn’t look anywhere else.
Eleanor’s eyes sparked wide. They couldn’t look anywhere else.
If they kept the family lens trained on Will and Tessa through the campaign, Teddy would be all but guaranteed to go unnoticed. It gave her heartburn to agree with Peter here, but a fat diamond was the foolproof way; fairytale weddings were society column kryptonite. It would take only a few well-timed leaks: the dress (custom, the more expensive the better), the guest list (high profile, minimum five hundred heads), a candid of the happy couple cooing at somebody’s baby. As a bonus, they’d glue down the low-to-middle income voters, while cementing Will in the clients’ minds as a mature, well-settled, responsible successor for the firm.
Eleanor grinned, wondering why they paid that campaign manager at all.
The marriage was a foregone conclusion. Eleanor gave it two years, tops, but why not start the clock? The slightest nudge from Peter, and Will would make the engagement happen by breakfast, Tessa’s so-called career still pending or not. He’d stop at nothing to please his father.
But was that even more reason to avoid putting him in such a position to begin with?
Something about Tessa remained deeply unsettling. Will insisted she was painfully introverted, that being on in social settings wore her to the point of physical depletion. Yet Eleanor had watched her draw entire cocktail lounges into her orbit with infuriating ease, smiling at everyone from CEO to waitstaff, bewitching them in less time than it took to circulate the satay. It didn’t matter that she constantly humiliated herself, toppling welcome displays, shattering water glasses, losing an earring in the gazpacho. The same people Eleanor took years to win over found Tessa abso-fucking delightful on sight. It was off-putting. Downright weird.
But now, it could prove helpful.
Given the stakes, would it be so awful to watch Tessa become a full-fledged Westlake, unraveling that cum laude mind, motherhood ravaging that taut figure, deflating and swelling her in all the wrong places until Will’s well-groomed hands grew as nomadic as his father’s? Then, at least, there would be two women at this table with nothing to show for any of it besides children who will never understand the sacrifices, a husband who has long forgotten, and a big, sparkling house with no speaking role at all.
China Rose / Rosa Chinensis
“Your smile I aspire to.”
TESSA
On the other side of the cedar hedge, multicolored lights cast a jovial glow against trees that had been competing for sun their whole lives. Luke and Tony sat on overturned Clock pails, tipping beer to their lips. Charlie had one leg tucked on a lawn chair, hair wet and clothes fresh.
Darryl stooped inside a mini fridge, passing beer backwards. “What took so long?” he asked Rowan, who claimed the pail beside Tony. “We were locked up tighter than a nun’s—” Spotting Tessa, he straightened.
