“When she’s not at school, she helps take care of her sister. Molly is seven. When I get home and once Molly is in bed, she mostly shuts herself in her room and stares at her phone. Do you have flowers that say ‘maybe you should spend less time on social media’? It’s a thorny subject, so maybe those roses would be more appropriate than you think. Or perhaps a cactus.”

So there was a sense of humor there. Buried, possibly mostly forgotten, but definitely there.

“We can do better than a cactus.” Flora stepped out from behind the counter and walked toward the buckets that held an array of blooms. She’d been at the Flower District on West Twenty-Eighth Street before the sun was up, powered by caffeine as she foraged for nuggets of perfection and dodged trucks that were unloading crates. Only flowers could tempt her to leave her bed at that hour of the morning. So many growers focused on shelf life at the expense of color and scent, but Celia relied on her to choose quality and Flora would never contemplate anything less. Her mother had taught her the importance of seasons and now, at the tail end of winter she’d selected alstroemeria and amaryllis, carnation and chrysanthemum. She’d scooped up great bundles of foliage, tallow berries and seeded eucalyptus and stashed them on the metal shelves provided for that purpose. She could never walk past narcissus without adding them to her growing pile. Everywhere she went, she touched and smelled, burying her face deep into flowers and inhaling scent and freshness. She treated flowers as someone else might treat wine, as something to be sampled and savored and for Flora the early morning trip was a sociable event, not only because she knew so many people, but also because so many people had known her mother. It was familiar, a connection to the past that she treasured.

Finally, when she’d finished, she helped Carlos load up the van they used for deliveries and together they transported their precious cargo to the store. Once there her selection was sorted, trimmed of leaves and thorns, and the stems cut. Then her day shifted to customers and she handled walk-ins, internet orders and regulars. Her legs ached but she was so used to it that these days she barely noticed.

Her gaze drifted past the hydrangeas and lilacs, and lingered on the alstroemeria before moving on.

She thought back to her own teenage years, and then stooped and hand-selected a bunch of gerberas in sunshine yellow and deep orange. “These should be the main focus.”

He inclined his head. “Pretty.”

“The Celts believed that gerberas relieved sorrow.”

“Let’s hope they were right.”