Bucket of Daisies

Georgette spent the rest of the day on the sales floor. She wasn’t partial to sales, because she felt uncomfortable trying to talk people into buying more than they came for. But one of her sales reps had a dental appointment and she was left to fill in the spot.

She was over by the gardening tool section rearranging the hoes and shovels, when a voice behind her startled her. “How much for the hoe?”

With a clatter of noise, she turned to face Mr. Redden, a prominent political figure. She recognized him right away. He was a frequent face on the airwaves of Trip’s TV station.

“The hoe? We have different brands. Which one, sir?”

“Which is the best?” His eyes weren’t on the gardening tools.

“It’s not the tool that performs, but the person utilizing it. How much do you want to spend, sir?” As soon as she asked, Georgette realized she had handed him a loaded gun.

“Lovely lady, that depends on what I’ll get for my money?” His eyebrows resembled thick caterpillars, rising to battle. Georgette struggled to find a neutral reply. The arrival of another man saved her from the embarrassment.

“Congressman Redden, I’ve had the girl at the cash register to page the owner. No one seems to know where she is.” The man spoke with a hint of impatient. Then his eyes touched Georgette’s form a mere moment, before moving on to rummage around the rest of the area.

She cleared her throat, “I’m the owner. My name is Georgette Witt. How can I help you?”

The man’s dark eyes riveted back to her. He didn’t speak, just stood examining every particle of her. She returned his stare, willing her eyes to boldly examine him from foot to head. Her heart was pounding with indignation. She had never met a man who was so boorish. Georgette supposed his sun bronzed skin, masked brown eyes, generous nose and mouth could be a pleasant sight for most women. She hated to admit that the widow’s peak at his forehead dared her to brush his black hair back from his face and watch it feather back down in place around his temples.

The silence was becoming awkward, so Georgette repeated herself. “I’m the owner. How can I help you?”

“You’re the owner?” asked Redden, a gleam of devilment in his eyes. “I would love to hear about your business and how you came up with the name ‘Bucket of Daisies.’ Preferably over dinner, my dear. We really should have dinner tonight.”

With a blatantly impatient glare at Redden, the man hurried a reply, once again saving her from an awkward retort. “Oh sorry, Miss Witt. You’re not exactly what I expected. I’m Rod Hutchins and this is Ex-congressman Redden. Martin Schmidt suggested the congressman and I seek your advice on landscaping that will correlate with the downtown renovation project. Mr. Redden is the project head and I’m the architect. May we find a more private place to talk?”

“I read about the project. Also, Martin Schmidt is one of my closest friends. My office isn’t far. Follow me, gentlemen.” She wasn’t sure which set of eyes unnerved her the most—the dark impatient man’s or the roving hungry politician’s.

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Pink Cadillac

Jennifer had told Mr. Larkin a white lie—her appointment book was clear. She felt she needed some time to canvas the neighborhood of her potential new home. It was of vital importance that the surrounding neighbors were of the same caliber as her. She knew from observing loan applicants that most spent money on their upkeep, such as clothing, jewelry, hair/nail care and even automobiles, while neglecting important objects like their homes and lawn.

She had no difficulty finding the street and was satisfied that Mr. Larkin wasn’t at the house, trying to spruce it up in hopes to seal the deal. The grounds were properly maintained. Not a single oak or magnolia leaf littered the lawn. Bloomless azaleas bordering the front porch were trimmed. Jennifer allowed her car to idle in the drive, while she sat examining the house with calculating intent. The irregular shaped stones that made up the house were unique with various shades of gray. The wood trim and porch were painted a slate blue. She couldn’t find a blemish from where she sat, but that didn’t comfort her. So she turned the ignition off and inspected the grounds thoroughly. Just as she expected, there were a few minor things in need of repair. She made notes and then returned to her car. During the appointment with Mr. Larkin, she would be sure to examine every inch inside, as well.

As Jennifer was backing out of the drive, a vivid pink Cadillac came pealing out of the driveway of the house across the street. She saw a mass of blonde hair and the rude finger gesture of the driver for only a second and then it was gone. Jennifer thought that the owner must be in desperate need of attention, to own an expensive car pimped in a tacky color of pink. Looking at the house it came from, no wonder the car sped off. The woodwork around the windows probably screamed in pain as the paint peeled off. An immaculate lawn seemed at odds with the smudged windows and the porch that needed sweeping.

While she drove around the block and back, Jennifer mulled over the Cadillac, remembering the dream of her youth of one day owning a “love bug”, like in the Disney movie, except it was to have been pink instead of white. She thought of how time changes dreams, as she gracefully stopped for a traffic sign in her pale green BMW. Jennifer stole a glance at her wristwatch. It was close to the meeting time, so she drove back to the house.

Mr. Larkin’s black sports car looked at home in the drive. She pulled in behind him. He appeared on the doorsteps, standing tall with a shock of gray at his temples. Jennifer smoothed the wrinkles from her dress, before she strode up the steps to take his outstretched hand.

“Mrs. Swann, I’m happy you made it. Come inside. View the wonders.” He smiled down at her. She rarely met a man who made her height seem small.

“I’m impressed with the grounds. So immaculate and picturesque.” Her eyes scanned the foyer, as she spoke. “I’m not fond of wallpaper. I hope the rest of the house isn’t flooded with it.”

“With the right furniture and wall hangings, wallpaper can embody a homey feeling that every house longs for. Don’t rule it out completely.” He offered his hand again, “Shall we start upstairs and work our way down?
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