The Perfect Blooms

Twenty minutes into the long drive to surprise Daddy, flecks of snow dissolve on my windshield. Had I watched the news last night, I might’ve known about this spring snow shower. I sound like Daddy complaining of being the last to know because I tell Mom everything. It’s just because he’s always on the road, remodeling homes for work. According to the location pin, he’s working on a house in Connecticut. I’m on my way there to make sure he’s the first to know my big news. I can’t wait to see his face light up when I tell him I’m pregnant! Our tight knit family of Mom, Daddy, and me will have a fourth member come fall!

Forty-five miles later, gray skies have faded to navy blue, roads are slick, and as I drive further north to Westport, the landscape of simple homesteads transitions to elaborate estates. Still, the best thing in sight is the beautiful bouquet riding shotgun.

Daddy’s love language is flowers and surprises. He’ll get a kick out of me turning the tables. Earlier, when I hurried into a flower shop expecting to buy roses and be out in five minutes, the elderly shopkeeper threw me off my game with her offer to help me “find the perfect blooms.” Her knowledge of each flower and what its color means fascinated me. I explained about surprising Daddy with my pregnancy news and my anticipated engagement—just like Mom hoped Daddy would propose when she was pregnant with me twenty years ago. They eventually settled on an unconventional commitment of just living together in New Jersey. The shopkeeper recommended I say it with anemones—white, to symbolize innocence and sincerity.

“The name is Greek, meaning daughter of the wind since the flower’s delicate petals can easily be blown away,” she said. A warm smile creased her face as she designed my bouquet. “In Victorian times, the English used anemones to convey messages of anticipation. This will be perfect for your announcement,” she said, handing me the arrangement like it was a fragile newborn.

“In three hundred feet you will arrive at your destination,” GPS says, guiding me along a private road lined with snow-flecked trees. The road bends then opens onto a circular drive where a Greek goddess sculpture is surrounded by shivering May flowers. At my right is a beautiful, three-story brick home with warm lights glowing in the windows. Wow! The interior must be stunning. I can’t wait to see Daddy’s work.

With fresh fallen snow squeaking beneath my feet, I approach the ornate door and ring the bell. A chubby, light-skinned, little boy with cornrows smushes his face against the sidelight then scurries away in New England Patriot pajamas. Hm. Maybe Daddy has left now that the homeowners are here. As I check my phone to update his location, the door opens and a teenage girl with waist length braids smiles pleasantly at me.

“Hi. We’re not buying any magazine subscriptions this year. Sorry.”

“Um, I’m not selling magazines. Is . . . is Darnell here? He’s a contractor?” I say slipping my phone back in the pocket of my pea coat.

The girl looks strangely familiar, though I’m certain I’ve never seen her before. With knitted brows, she glances at the bouquet cradled in my arm and asks, “Who are you?”

“Desiré. Desiré Bloom. Darnell is my father. I’m sorry. I thought he was doing some work at this address.” I turn to leave but her voice stops me.

“Daaad!” Her call alerts everyone in the house.

Seconds after one another, they appear behind her in the foyer like curious groundhogs: a very pregnant fortysomething woman holds the cornrowed pajama kid by his hand; a guy my age with Beats headphones pressed into his afro, gawks from behind a wall; and Daddy rushes in barefoot, wearing clean khakis and an unbuttoned shirt. He stumbles backward, stunned at the sight of me, and everything falls. My jaw. My heart. The flowers.