Page 7 of Cocky Choices: Zoe Cocker

“The owner’s cousin came up with it, Mr. Johnson. He’s really into computers. It’s so she’s found first in search engines. And it’s worked.”

Angry and grieving, the rapidly greying man squints at me, not interested in the logic as his wife hurries up the hall toward us. “Hi Tom! Good to see you.”

I went to school with their son, not that Mr. Johnson remembers that. He was always working, never came to the games. “Hi Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry for your loss. I liked Carter.”

She gives a long exhale, coming to stand beside her husband. “Thank you, Tom. Cecil, you remember Tom. He was on the football team with Carter.”

Cecil Johnson nods with zero recognition, “Oh right.”

She looks at the full box in my arms, and I’m quick to tell her, “I have one more in the car just like it.”

“These are beautiful! Zoe Cocker sure does have a way with design, doesn’t she? They’re tasteful and — dare I say? — emotional.” Wiping a tear from her eye, Mrs. Johnson reaches for it.

“I can bring it in, Ma’am.”

“I said I didn’t want flowers, Louisa!”

“He was our son!”

“He was a crook!”

She inhales sharply and waves me in. “Ignore him. This has been a… shock for all of us.”

An unfamiliar voice shouts from behind me, “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson! How many of the Hollywood elite do you expect today?”

Looking over my shoulder I discover a well-dressed female reporter strolling up the path with a microphone, followed by a cameraman fixated on us.

Mr. Johnson pushes past me and shouts, “Get off of my property! You’re trespassing!” rushing to protect their family’s privacy, and it looks like he’ll do it by force if he needs to. “Get out! Where’s your human decency?”

Mrs. Johnson ushers me inside, darting a quick glance past me to see if physical force is about to be used. She decides not to find out and we walk further into their house, spotless for the event. I spin around, craning to see the yard, and find the two unwanted trespassers hurrying to safety as the reporter shouts, “Mr. Johnson, didn’t you have big hopes for your son?”

“I have big hopes you’ll get fired for being an asshole!” he barks, giving them the finger.

“Oh, goodness,” Louisa Johnson mutters, showing me into the living room, dining room adjacent in an open floor plan, couches pushed aside for table-cloth covered foldout tables they probably rented. “Would you mind placing the flowers on eachof these? Whatever you have left over can go on the piano, those shelves. Anywhere you feel looks good. I have to check the ham.”

“Of course.”

Distracted by all that must be swimming in her mind, Mrs. Johnson politely asks, “Tell me, how is Zoe these days? I haven’t been to her lovely little shop in at least six months.”

I place the box on the floor since the tables are set for dining and there’s no room for this big thing. Also distracted, I answer, “She’s beautiful as ever.”

Mrs. Johnson heads away from me, “Oh good,” but now slowly pivots back as if a puzzle has been solved. “You have a crush on Zoe!”

My back straightens. “Oh, I, uh…”

“Oh Tom, I needed some good news today. And romance is always good news.” Walking up to me, forgetting all about the ham, she tilts her head and pulls the hem of a black suit jacket down more tightly over the belt of her matching pencil skirt. A human tick, something we do when we’re thinking. “Does she know?”

Normally I wouldn’t divulge my private life to a customer, but seeing as this poor mom has been going through the ringer lately, and I always thought she was a nice woman back when I was on the same team with her son, I decide to give her something better to think about other than tragedy. “Mrs. Johnson, I uh… I’m pretty sure Zoe has no clue.”

“Why don’t you tell her!”

“She’s my boss. And I’m working my way through school right now so I don’t feel I have much to offer her just yet.”

Louisa Johnson lights up, years falling away from her eyes. “You plan to earn her!” She claps her hands together. “That’s so romantic! And old fashioned! I love such things!”

A grin spreads on me as I dip my head in thanks. “My sister and I were raised by my grandparents. Don’t know if you ever knew that.”

“No, I didn’t,” she frowns, asking a tentative, “And your parents?”

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