Page 2 of A Bloom in Winter

“Then why’s your phone in your hand?” In a louder voice, Judy said, “Nice to see you again.”

She squeezed out from behind the counter and approached the man like one of those circus wranglers who got into the ring with tigers.

“Would you like to enter the walk-in? I know you prefer to take your time picking.”

Judy went over and opened the glass door, standing to the side like an usher. And even though the giant man hardly seemed the type to take direction from anybody, he put his hands into his—leather!—pants, lowered his head, and went forward.

Ordinarily, Milly couldn’t stand that fridge being open for anything other than a quick pass through as you might as wellburn money leaking all the cold out, but like she was saying anything?

When he was inside, Judy let things ease shut and came back behind the register. As she punched another sprig of baby’s breath into the roses, she said, “Stop staring.”

“I’m not,” Milly shot over as she kept . . . well, staring.

Inside the glass box, the man was a living shadow that blocked the view of the flowers, the moon not so much eclipsing the sun, but devouring it and leaving nothing on the plate, no crumbs or scraps.

Or that should be petals or leaves, right?

Oh, whatever. She was terrible with metaphors. That’s why she handled the accounting.

“How long does he take in there?” she whispered as she studied his profile. “I think his eyes are closed.”

“He stands there for a while. Then he picks something out, gives me that ten-dollar bill even though I tell him I’ll just charge him two dollars, and leaves.”

Milly glanced at the cash register. “And he’s never tried to . . . ?”

“Good God, you’re suspicious.”

“You didn’t think the same thing the first time he walked in here?”

“Shh, he’s coming out.”

Milly grabbed for her purse and resolved that she’d hit him with it if he started anything. Although that would be like taking a flyswatter into a brass knuckle boxing match. But whatever.

He’d chosen a white rose, she noted. And a good one, one that had just started to unfurl from its tight curl.

“Nice bloom you got,” Judy said. “Milly will take care of you.”

When Milly didn’t move, Judy glared and took over, wiping her hands on her apron and then ringing things up with a series of beeps. The register’s drawer shot forth like the ten-year-oldmachine was sticking its tongue out, and the money changed hands.

“You sure about this?” Judy held the bill up. “I keep telling you it’s only—”

“Keep the change.” The man didn’t meet Judy’s stare as he turned away. “Thank you.”

“Guess we’ll see you tomorrow,” Judy murmured as she put the tenner in the drawer and closed things up.

“No,” he said over his shoulder.

“No?”

As he paused, those hooded eyes lingered on the fragile white petals of the rose. That big hand could have crushed the stem, fisted the bloom, and thrown it all to the ground so those huge boots could destroy the delicate bud. Instead, he held what he’d purchased with care.

“I’ve got no one to buy flowers for anymore.” That dark stare skipped to Milly and dipped down to her purse. Then he scanned the shop. “Habit sometimes is all we have, though.”

The nod he gave them was almost courtly, and then he walked out.

As thebing!of the door faded, Milly looked at Judy—and then, as it had always been between the two of them, they came to the same conclusion at the same time: They both hustled for the exit, and leaned out to see around the appliquéd sign on the glass.

No one was there. Not on the sidewalks. Not getting into a car parked in the angled spaces. Not walking in the glow of the town square’s peach-colored gaslights.

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