Delivery

By Diana Prusik

Livi finds new purpose in her troubled life when she joins her family’s small-town florist shop. There, the strong and wacky Wilson’s Florist gang monitors the pulse of Mount Helicon, where customers carry stories even the local newspaper does not contain. Tales of birth and death, sickness and sorrow, love and betrayal, and even forgiveness—Livi hears them all. Privy to some of the community’s deepest secrets, she sometimes wishes she didn't know so much, especially when news arrives that a dear family friend is dead. Faced with servicing his funeral, she is blasted with painful memories she’s struggled for decades to ignore. Soon, guilt and grief over childhood and adult tragedies close in. Instead of turning to loved ones or God for comfort, she leans on alcohol, her long-time clandestine companion—but secrets rarely escape the close-knit flower shop crew, who makes Livi’s business its own. Fumbling through life’s challenges together, the Wilson gang often delivers more than flowers, yet when Livi needs delivery, can the bonds of faith and friendship dissolve her defenses?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers
• Release date: Jun 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781414366517

Book preview

Chapter One

November 1988

Three words ripped open scabs two decades thick on Livi’s heart: Bink Carter died.

When Olivia Wilson Jarvis agreed to help her daddy start Wilson’s Florist, she knew she’d sometimes face servicing the funerals of loved ones. But why Bink? Why now? She added those to her long list of life’s unanswered questions when the doorbell chimed. Livi glanced toward the shop’s front door, where Mount Helicon’s beloved Mom Robinson entered, clutching a paper sack. On a day like this, when the gravity of grief pulled hard upon Livi—and the temptation to numb it pulled even harder—sighting Mom felt like spotting spring’s first blossom peeking through a blanket of snow.

In her Dr. Scholl’s loafers, Mom shuffled through the saloon-style doors separating the storefront from the workroom. She pulled her cardigan across her stooped torso and sidled next to Livi, who toiled at the worktable with the shop’s three other floral designers. Mom’s hand warmed the small of Livi’s back, and her Ozark drawl, a remnant from her childhood home farther south, floated through the air. Are you girls doing okay today?

Livi nestled a bow into Bink’s casket spray and shrugged. She should be curled up at home with a good book since the scheduled rotation gave her the day off, but in the floral profession, their hours fluctuated with the workload, subject to change at any time. Servicing a funeral the size of Bink’s required a full staff today.

Mom nodded. Poor Bink.

The women’s faces grew long, and unusual silence descended upon the room. Only the display cooler hummed in the storefront.

A lump rose in Livi’s throat while she attached gold floral script to ribbon that swept across Bink’s casket spray. Beloved Husband and Father. Eileen Carter had requested that text as if those words added more significance to her husband’s life, but who needed a label to describe how much folks loved Bink, the Wilsons’ dear family friend?

Livi’s aching heart dredged up memories of another death, so long ago. Please, not now. She longed to visit the walk-in cooler, where comfort waited only a few sips of beer away.

Mom hoisted the paper sack onto the table. I brought you sweet girls a treat from Lawson’s Bakery, in case you feel up to a snack later on. She fondled a red carnation in the spray. Bless her heart. Eileen chose my favorite flower.

She sure did. And the wholesaler sent more than I ordered. Livi drew six red carnations from the bucket of flowers on the floor beside her, wrapped them in floral tissue, and presented the bundle to Mom. Why don’t you take these with you? I don’t want them to go to waste.

Mom took the bouquet, slipped her free arm around Livi’s waist, and squeezed. Her brown eyes glistened. God loves a cheerful giver, Olivia. Now, where’s that pretty smile?

Livi shook her head and frowned. I’m not sure what God loves.

Your work today is heavy, girls. Mom patted Livi’s back. I best be on my way. I’ll see you ladies at the visitation this evening, won’t I?

Veteran designer Miss Ellie nodded. Sure thing, sweet pea. With all these orders to fill, we might be a bit late, but we’ll be there.

Mom shuffled out the front door and onto the sidewalk, where sunshine lit her silver hair. With the bouquet cradled like a baby in her arms, she turned west to cross the intersection, toddling toward the Bank of Mount Helicon. Like a metronome, Mom’s weekly visits set a steady tempo for life on Main Street—and for Livi.

When Mom disappeared from sight, Livi glanced at the clock and turned to her sister. Gretta, we better get these flowers on the road before Eileen beats them to the funeral home.

* * *

Livi peered into the coffin to see that Thomas Whitman, the town’s only mortician, kept his promise to the late Bink Carter. Bink’s body stretched upon the coffin’s pristine lining, dressed in his denim overalls, his favorite John Deere hat in his grasp. A tuft of chest hair twisted over his T-shirt collar. Even Thomas could not scrub years of tractor grease and cornfield soil from Bink’s burly hands and fingernails. If Bink were lying in the back of a pickup truck, he would appear to be sleeping off fried chicken and beer after St. Augustine’s Annual Catholic Picnic. Livi half expected him to rise up and ask for another Budweiser. If Bink could see himself now, he would be pleased. A smile played upon her lips, only to vanish when three yellow petals dropped into his ear.

Fussing, Gretta lowered the bulky casket spray onto the closed portion of the split lid. She nodded toward the stray petals. Grab those, will you?

Livi plunged both hands into her pockets. Are you crazy? You’re the one who shattered that mum.

The sisters peered into the casket, mouths agape.

After a long pause, Gretta checked her watch. Eileen will be here any minute. We can’t leave those petals there.

Try blowing them out.

Gretta shrugged, leaned toward Bink’s sunburned ear, and puffed, but the ear hairs twining around the petals held them hostage.

Come on, Gretta.

Why don’t you do it?

Just blow harder.

Livi caught the familiar spark that ignited in Gretta’s eyes whenever she hatched one of her hasty plans.

Gretta plucked a wad of gum from her mouth and shrugged again. No big loss. The flavor’s gone. Her nimble fingers rolled the blob into the shape of a worm. She mashed one end into a sticky stub and stabbed at the petals with it. When she tugged to extract them, the warm gum stretched into a limp string, one end attached to Bink’s ear hairs.

Livi’s chest tightened.

Hold this. Gretta stuck her end of the gum on Livi’s fingers. A wisp lingered between her thumb and Gretta’s until Gretta severed it and dashed from the room. Her footsteps faded down the hall, and her voice called, Be right back. A door clicked shut, trapping silence inside.

Livi stood with one hand still in her pocket and the other hand leashed to a dead man’s ear. She should have sent rookie designer Sophie to help make this delivery. She surveyed the familiar room, ringed with more floral sprays and plants than she had seen at one service in many years. Change rarely visited her hometown of Mount Helicon, Missouri, including the funeral parlor. The room appeared as it had that dreadful day so long ago—same wallpaper, same chairs. Even the same guest book table stood in the hallway where, over the years, each townsperson signed in countless times. One by one, folks of Mount Helicon made their way from signing guest books to filling coffins. Bink’s turn had arrived; she shuddered to wonder whose came next.

That does it. Sophie gets this job from now on.

Scurrying back, Gretta wielded her large handbag. She rushed to a nearby table, shoved aside a tissue box, plopped down her pregnant purse, and rummaged through it.

Aha! She held high the object of her search before dashing to the coffin. With tweezers in hand, she poised over the body. Sorry, Bink. In one swift jerk, she plucked out the petals, complete with gum and hair. Without hesitation, she deposited the sticky mass under the leaves of a potted begonia tagged with a card from Brand X, Gretta’s code name for the local competitor, and clucked her tongue. Their work is so tacky. Tacky, tacky, tacky. They’ll be out of business in six months. Mark my word.

Gretta cleaned the tweezers with a tissue, deposited the instrument into her handbag, swept the bag from the table, and fled the scene.

Livi beat her sister to the getaway van. Before Gretta hopped into the passenger seat, Livi had started the engine and held the gearshift in reverse. With Gretta struggling to close the passenger door, Livi backed the van into the street. The engine roared, tires squealed, and Livi sped away, wanting nothing more at that moment than to return to the shop—and to the walk-in cooler.

Chapter Two

November 1988

Later that afternoon, Livi sighed, tucking a pink bow into a vase of pink roses for Allison Calloway, Mount Helicon’s newest mother. Couldn’t this baby have waited to arrive until after Bink’s funeral?

Miss Ellie nodded toward the arrangement. I saw Allison at church last Sunday. Her belly was as bloated as a dead dog’s on a summer day, the poor thing. We all should have known to expect a new baby this week. Maternity wards are always busy when the moon is full.

Sophie flicked her copper bangs aside. Now how can there be any truth to that? That’s just another old wives’ tale.

When you’ve taken as many trips around the sun as I have, you’ll learn those old wives knew a thing or two.

Livi’s shoulders drooped. She should be overjoyed for Allison, but how could she celebrate a new birth when Bink’s visitation would begin in a few hours? Mount Helicon had experienced enough death during her lifetime. So had she.

Tapping her watch, Gretta peered at her sister. Olivia, it’s time for the obits.

Livi scurried to turn on the old AM/FM radio. At four o’clock each afternoon, Radio Rob announced local deaths, and she didn’t want to miss hearing the obituary of a man who loved Mount Helicon as much as its citizens loved him. She adjusted the volume, and the girls paused.

A commercial for Whitman’s Funeral Home played out, urging listeners to arrive alive by using seat belts, and then Radio Rob’s voice boomed over the airwaves. Robert ‘Bink’ Carter passed away suddenly at the age of sixty-eight on Sunday at his farm north of town. A brief summary of Bink’s life followed, including his Army service during World War II, his lifelong membership to St. Augustine’s Catholic Church, and—what Bink had been most proud of—his support of his family with his fertile farm. No news to Livi. The Carter family grafted their branch onto her family tree long ago.

Radio Rob continued, Visitation will be held until nine o’clock this evening at Whitman’s Funeral Home in Mount Helicon. Funeral services are scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning at St. Augustine’s Catholic Church, with interment in the Mount Helicon Community Cemetery north of town. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the MFA Scholarship Foundation.

‘In lieu of flowers’? Livi silenced the radio. Is Radio Rob trying to put us out of business? She scrawled Allison’s name and hospital room number on an envelope, snatched the bouquet from the table, and marched to the back room to deposit it on the delivery table, calling over her shoulder, Remind me of this next time he barges in here soliciting radio ads.

She returned to find Miss Ellie inserting a gladiolus into an arrangement and shaking her head. Poor Bink. Thinking of that strong farmer body of his lying dead in that hayfield is more than I can bear. Knowing that Eileen found him that way almost makes me sorry for that prissy thing.

Sophie scowled. Miss Ellie, that’s my godmother you’re talking about.

You should know how Eileen feels, Miss Ellie. Gretta selected another order off the line to fill. After all, you’ve buried four husbands yourself.

Miss Ellie slapped her strong, wrinkled hands on the worktable. And not a one of them died a death as dreadful as poor Bink’s. God rest their souls. A smile softened her face. Bink and I go way back. We were friends long before any of you girls were born.

Gretta adjusted a rhinestone earring. Miss Ellie, you are friends with every man.

Sophie’s round cheeks plumped with a grin. Speaking of men, how is Walter?

When only silence followed, Gretta planted a hand on her cocked hip. How did your dinner date go with Potential Husband Number Five?

Miss Ellie’s blue eyes brightened behind her wire-framed bifocals. You girls quit that. Her wrinkled face burst into a schoolgirl smile. Walt is a very fine man. When any of you whippersnappers are my age, you better hope you find a man who still has a full head of hair, silver or not. I’ll bet every one of your husbands will be bald as cucumbers if you don’t quit your teasing. The Lord has ways of teaching lessons, you know.

Livi threw a quick wink at Sophie. Like how He taught us to stay out of your way the first day Walter entered this shop? You almost bowled us over to go wait on him.

Miss Ellie straightened. You know that’s not how it happened. Why, Livi, you were on the phone with a customer. Gretta, you were loading up a wedding to take to the church. And you. She shook her scissors at Sophie. You pulled your usual ignore-the-doorbell trick so you didn’t have to go out front. I was practically forced to wait on him. Miss Ellie looked in turn at each of the other girls as if to confirm she told the truth, her gaze coming to rest on Livi.

Livi pointed to the front door with the blade of her design knife. Miss Ellie Huntington, you couldn’t tell us a single detail about what we were doing the moment any other customer walked through that door. She smiled at her older friend. Face it, honey. You’ve been bitten by the love bug again.

Suddenly Livi’s smile wilted. Shame on us. Bink is dead, for goodness’ sake. How can we talk about anything else right now?

Miss Ellie lifted another gladiolus from her bucket. Would you look at this stem? Crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Livi, you better ask that wholesaler to give you a discount if he keeps sending you seconds like this.

Livi rolled her eyes. Miss Ellie gossiped about every other budding romance in town, but she rarely talked about her own. Snatching the crooked stem, Livi shuffled to a secluded corner in the back room and entered the walk-in cooler. She scanned dozens of buckets of flowers before plunking the gladiolus into one and selecting a straighter stem. As she turned to exit, her gaze fell upon the cluttered shelf to her left. On it stood a nearly empty bottle of Andre Pink Champagne left from the last Christmas party, along with various Tupperware containers which, like petri dishes, nursed exotic multicolored mold. Peering into the shadows behind it all, she caught a comforting glimpse of a six-pack of bottled Michelob Light, her personal stash.

Despite her goose bumps, she invited chilled air deep into her lungs. If only the cold could numb her thoughts. In a familiar reflex, she slipped a bottle from the six-pack. She popped the top and raised the bottle to her lips, old questions rising with it. Perhaps she couldn’t help it that Bink had died, but what about Buddy? And what about Sister Mary Margaret? Allowing beer to flow across her tongue, she closed her eyes and swallowed, hoping to drown her haunting memories with bitter brew.

Chapter Three

April 1961

Only a nun as mean as Sister Mary Margaret would lecture about hell on a day this hot. Livi’s gaze swept over her third-grade classroom at St. Augustine’s Catholic School. Classmates drooped in their seats with glazed eyes, flushed cheeks, and damp hair. Sweat rolled down Livi’s back and drenched the starched blouse of her uniform. Summer weather had arrived early, with the end of the school year still six weeks away.

‘And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.’ Sister Mary Margaret clutched her open Bible, her face pinched tighter than ever. A fan hummed in vain near the blackboard.

Livi slumped at her desk in the row nearest the windows. The lake of fire can’t be much hotter than this classroom. She glanced through the bare window. If only a breeze would blow. But the tree leaves sagged, limp and still. A dead fly baked on its back on the windowsill. Would she, too, burn up before the dismissal bell rang?

Sister Mary Margaret’s voice pierced the thick air. But, children, our heavenly Father gives us hope. Psalm 37:4 says, ‘Delight thyself also in the Lord: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.’

My heart desires someone to fix this window shade. Livi looked at the sun, the white blaze searing her desktop and skin. The blinding light tickled her nose, and she sneezed. A cloud of glistening droplets spewed from her mouth—and vanished in midair.

Four-eyed Francis leaned forward in the seat behind her. God bless you, Olivia.

How’d that sneeze cloud disappear so fast? Livi drew her breath, pursed her lips, and spritzed saliva into the sunlight. The marvel repeated as if the sun itself lapped up the moisture to quench its thirst. What other tricks might she perform with this discovery?

Livi licked her index finger and printed her name on the scorching desktop. The first two letters evaporated before she finished the word. She licked her fingertip to try again, with more speed this time. O-L-I-V-

Olivia Wilson. The nun loomed beside her. What in the name of heaven are you doing?

Livi’s hands retreated between her knees, and her eyes locked on her desktop as the evidence vanished in the heat.

The nun huffed. Class, it seems as though Olivia feels the need to ignore instruction today. A ruler slapped against Livi’s desk. Livi jumped. Young lady, you will look at me when I speak. When Livi’s gaze lifted, Sister Mary Margaret sneered, mock-licked her own index finger, and scrawled across the air.

Livi’s cheeks blazed.

Since Miss Wilson finds writing more important than listening to instruction— the nun’s sleeve brushed Livi’s arm as she drew her ruler upward to shake it at her students—take out your tablets—all of you.

Paper rustled as students obeyed. Sister Mary Margaret marched to the blackboard and wrote with such force that her chalk snapped in two, one half bouncing off the lazy fan blades. Copy this fifty times. She stepped aside to reveal a verse of Scripture scrawled in cursive, which the class had learned to write this year. For the wages of sin is death. Romans 6:23. She glared at Livi. It is a sin to ignore your teacher, Olivia Wilson. Even worse, it is a sin to ignore the Word of God. And the wages of sin is what, class? She pointed her ruler at the blackboard.

Four-eyed Francis cleared her throat to join in the response. Death.

The wages of sin is what, Olivia?

Sweat trickled off Livi’s upper lip, salting her parched tongue.

Speak up, young lady. We can’t hear you.

Livi wanted to evaporate with her saliva. Death.

The nun nodded. Fifty times. You will leave your papers on my desk when the dismissal bell rings. Anyone not finished by then will remain after school. Begin. Red-faced, the nun planted herself at her desk, her habit fluttering in the fan’s breeze. She opened her grade book.

Livi studied her teacher’s sharp nose, hollow cheeks, and thin lips. Why hadn’t God sent a friendlier sort to instruct children? Sister Mary Margaret glanced up and met her gaze with a scowl, leaving Livi little choice but to pick up her pencil and focus on her paper.

I wish she would die.

How could she think such an awful thing? Yet didn’t her teacher deserve cruel thoughts? Of all people, a nun should treat children with kindness, but Sister Mary Margaret was so mean Livi repeated the wish with each copied verse—all fifty times.

* * *

Three days later, the morning tardy bell brought Father Broderick through the classroom doorway. Livi recalled parishioners whispering he looked wet behind the ears, but she wasn’t sure what they meant by that. He looked much more handsome than old Father Dunne, and he smiled sometimes during Mass. Father Dunne’s ancient face would have cracked and crumbled if he tried that. The entire parish seemed more cheerful since Father Broderick replaced its retired priest a year ago. As he entered the classroom, postures snapped straight, and the room fell into proper order.

Father Broderick halted near the teacher’s desk, checked the clock on the wall, and reset his wristwatch. Then he glanced out the window, examined the broken window shade, and cleared his throat. Bowing his head, he let silence dominate the room until students began to squirm. Was he praying or inspecting the shine on his shoes? Finally he scanned the room, making eye contact with each child in turn. Warmth flooded Livi’s cheeks when he looked at her.

Students, I have no easy way to say this. I must simply say it. Our beloved Sister Mary Margaret died in her sleep last night.

A few students gasped, and Four-eyed Francis sniffled.

Father Broderick continued to speak, but Livi heard only Sister Mary Margaret’s voice. The wages of sin is what, Olivia?

Livi’s jaw dropped, and the convicting truth stared her down. She gulped, imagining the lake of fire yawning wide to swallow her up.

I’ve killed her. I’ve killed a nun.

Chapter Four

November 1988

On the morning of Bink Carter’s funeral, Livi moped into the back parking lot to load a centerpiece into the Green Bomber, the shop’s old delivery van. Bink’s funeral Mass would begin shortly, but the slew of orders for it had put the Wilson gang far behind schedule. Here they were, loading up decorations for Arthur and Clara Goodwin’s golden anniversary party while most of Mount Helicon filed into St. Augustine’s Catholic Church. Livi frowned.

Sophie stared at the centerpiece with a sour face. Arthur Goodwin is as mean as the devil himself. How in the world has sweet little Clara stayed married to him for fifty years? She adjusted a yellow rose in the bouquet as if Livi had not done an adequate job. Livi rolled her eyes. Through the delivery van’s open back doors, she spotted Gretta seated in the driver’s seat, reapplying her lipstick with the aid of the rearview mirror. Typical Gretta, always putting on a good face despite the situation.

Miss Ellie rearranged items in the cargo area to make room for the centerpiece. Now Sophie, you’ve got him all wrong. Why, Arthur and I go way back. That man only seems gruff on the outside. Inside, he’s a marshmallow.

How can you say that? Don’t you remember the fit he pitched over the bill for his daughter’s wedding? If a grown man acts like that in public, imagine what he acts like at home.

Snatching the centerpiece from Sophie, Miss Ellie shot a stern look. "Clara and her daughter ordered enough flowers

Reviews for Delivery

[alekee_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This is a read that really highlights life, the good and bad, and the daily struggles.When the last page was turned, I still had some questions with no answers. We deal with some tough subjects here, along with untimely death, alcoholism, and Alzheimers, SIDs, along with a wonderfully caring community.Many here live their faith, and share their love. You will enjoy the banter that goes on between this group, especially at the flower shop! Never knew how really busy they become on those big flower holidays!I received this book through Net Galley and the Publisher Tyndale, and was not required to give a positive review.