MORE THAN WORDS

by Linda S Barth

“I’ve tried so many times to think of a new way to say it – and it’s still ‘I love you.'”
     ~ Zelda Fitzgerald

With a time-softened scrap of linen, Vincent wiped away a feathery wisp of dust, all that remained to mark the place that once displayed a small enamel clock. Its hands had been halted, its chime silenced, its face marred years before he’d rescued it. But none of that had ever mattered. The clock had been tossed aside, unvalued, unwanted, but it had endured, and he treasured the attributes few others saw in it.

With the faintest whisper of a sigh, he stepped back from the bookcase. A pair of geodes, a stack of journals now claimed the places that had housed two additional clocks. It looked right –the closure, the balance – but that other space would remain as it was. The emptiness was only an illusion. He would always see the memory of everything the clock had been, everything it would always be.

A rhythmic clanging on the pipes invaded his reverie, waking him to a message he’d impatiently awaited. The coded pings declared that a critical step in a plan he’d devised early that morning had somehow fallen into unlikely place. “Like clockwork,” he murmured as a smile quirked his lips.

With a quick glance toward the flowery cover of an antique book on his desk, he strode from his chamber. In minutes, he reached a junction where the home tunnels met an offshoot that led Above. His heart beat faster as he watched a figure emerge from the brick-lined entryway.

“Here you go!” Cullen slapped a well-stuffed envelope into Vincent’s outstretched hand. “You made a bundle on those clocks, especially that fancy little blue one. Did you know it’s a genuine Tiffany?”

Vincent shook his head. “I didn’t. It resembled the typical style, but who would have discarded something so precious in a dumpster?”

“Someone who didn’t have a clue! My buddy at the antique shop said once they restore it – repair the chips in the enamel, replace the cracked crystal, rework the mechanism, that kind of thing — they’ll probably get a couple thousand for it.”  He shrugged. “They only offered us $300, though.”

“You accepted, didn’t you?”

“Sure. I figured it’s $300 more than you had yesterday.” Cullen frowned. “That was okay, right?”

“More than okay. It was wonderful. You have my thanks.” Vincent stared at the envelope. “It’s difficult to imagine so much money.”

“Well, you’ve got $560 in there. The other two – the Seth Thomas mantel clock and the little Chelsea ship clock – brought in the rest.” Cullen chuckled. “You’re better at this than Mouse. Maybe I’ll tag along with you some night!”

Vincent smiled at his friend. “I’d welcome your company.” He began to slit open the envelope. “I appreciate your efforts for me more than I can say. I want to share some of the money with you.”

Cullen shook his head hard. “Forget it, Vincent. I was happy to do it.” A small smile ghosted across his lips. “I know what it means for you to have this money. Fresh flowers don’t come cheap uptop. Consider it my contribution to the cause.”

Vincent rested his free hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, and I thank you for what you’ve done.”

“No problem.” He turned in the direction of his workshop. “I’ve got to put the finishing touches on my message for tomorrow, so I’ll see you later. Oh, be sure to tell Helena I said hi.”

“I will.” Vincent watched him amble down the passageway. Then, clutching the funds, he strolled toward the classroom chambers, hoping he’d be able to focus sufficiently on the scheduled lessons instead of on the evening to come. He murmured a wish, even while knowing it was futile. No matter how much he might hope otherwise, the summer sun would glow in the city sky for several more hours.

Still his heart grew light. Night would inevitably fall.

***

He settled a lightweight cloak around his shoulders, then patted the leather pouch fastened to his belt. A shiver of anticipation sparked through him. He had his list, the money Cullen had obtained, and – after days of discarded ideas – what he hoped would prove to be a successful plan.

He tapped an intentionally expeditious message to Father, and a half-hour later, he emerged into an alley behind several boutiques on the Upper East Side. His chest tightened, but a quick scan of the darkened area showed it to be deserted. Every window facing onto the alley was dark, save for one that beckoned like the final clue on a treasure map.

Dodging dumpsters and piles of discarded cartons, he pulled the hood of his cloak tighter and with swift, cautious steps, approached his destination. Although he gentled the impact of his fist against the steel-reinforced door, the sound seemed to thunder, forcing him to retreat to the safety of shadows. His racing heart, his throbbing pulse measured the tick of each passing second, eroding his intention, splintering his hope.

This is madness. He pivoted away from the door, only to turn back again. No. This is for Catherine.

A pinpoint of light twinkled from the security peephole. He held his breath as locks clicked and the door swung open.

“Vincent!” The young woman wiped her wet hands on her apron and hugged him tightly before pulling him into the shop as if he were as light as the tiger lilies strewn across her worktable.

Relief shuddered in his sigh as he watched her slam and double-bolt the door. “Shakespeare must have been referring to you when he said though she be but little, she is fierce.”

She tilted her head back to grin up at him. “My father always said he knew what he was doing when he insisted his preemie daughter be named Helena.”

“Emmett was a remarkably insightful man.”

“He was…” The light in her eyes dimmed but only for a moment. “So, why are you here? It must be something really important for you to take a chance like this.”

“I should have sent a note earlier, but there wasn’t enough time. In a few hours it will be –“

“Say It With Flowers Day!”

As he nodded, the hood of his cloak slid to his shoulders. “Yes, and I must find a way to send a message to…someone…but I wasn’t able to finalize my plan until this afternoon.”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t involve white carnations and pink roses, ‘cause if it does, somebody beat you to it. Geoffrey and Kipper were here this morning. They offered to help clean up in the shop in exchange for the flowers.”

“White carnations represent a mother’s love and pink roses are for gratitude. Let me guess – they wanted the flowers for Mary.”

“Yes. It was the sweetest thing, and I’m sure their message will touch her heart.” She tried – but failed — to suppress a smile. “I know you’re very fond of Mary, too, but I have an idea you’re looking for flowers for someone else.”

He felt a blush warming his neck, tingeing his face. “For Catherine. She was away in early August last year, visiting a friend in Connecticut, so this will be the first time she celebrates the holiday with us. And I want – I need — something very special for her.”

Her eyes softened at his words, and he knew she had heard everything he’d left unsaid. “Catherine will love the message you send her.”

He ducked his head a moment, then met her steady gaze. “Yes, although I was at a loss until I thought of your shop and you. There isn’t much time left, but I know you often work late.” He shrugged and exhaled a raspy breath. “So, I took a chance you’d be here and you might have time to help.”

“Of course, I do! And I’m always happy to see you – but I shouldn’t be surprised, all things considered, even though the last time was months ago. At Winterfest, right?”

“Yes, when you and Alex donated those beautiful poinsettias. I never knew their blossoms could be white and pink as well as red.”

“Actually, those aren’t the blossoms. They’re a type of leaf called a bract. The flowers are the little yellowy green clusters in the center of a cluster of bracts.” Her impish smile grew. “Well, this has to be a first!”

“A first?”

“Me knowing some little factoid that you don’t! Alex and I have always said if there’s ever a tunnel trivia night, we’ll make sure we’re on your team.”

“It would be an honor.” He glanced toward the door leading to the shop’s showroom. “Where is Alex tonight?”

“Evening classes at NYU. You know he already has his degree in applied mathematics, so now we’re hoping by the end of next semester, he’ll have finished the requirements for his MBA.”

She pulled two metal stools from beneath a worktable. “You don’t have to rush off, do you? He should be back in an hour or so, two at the most.”

He shrugged off his cloak, then settled himself next to her. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time. But it would be good to see him again.”

“And he’d love to see you. You were his first teacher. You’d be so proud of what he has accomplished.”

“I am. Alex was a wonderful student. Always eager to learn, never letting difficulties hold him back. He was one of our most advanced students in math. It seemed to come so naturally to him, as if it suited the way his mind works – organized and focused but always eager to experiment, to try new strategies and ideas.”

“Then he hasn’t changed a bit! But I wish I’d known him when we were little.” She shook her head. “Dad didn’t trust me with his secret until I turned thirteen.”

“Emmett took his responsibilities as a Helper very seriously, and we were grateful for that, just as we are for your trust and support now.”

She rested her hand on his. “That will never change. And I’m grateful to you, too, for allowing me to be part of your world.” Her smile twinkled as she squeezed his hand. “And, of course, for introducing me to my Alex! Tell me more about what you remember.”

“He was kind and helpful, but as one of the younger boys, he had to put up with some teasing from a few of the older children. He always stood his ground, though, and spoke up for himself. In many ways, he was wise beyond his years…And he had quite a crush on Jamie.”

“Okay, that last bit is not exactly what I wanted to hear. Tell me something else!”

It made him happy to offer her the gift of his memories. “Alex felt safe and loved in our community, but he always knew that someday he would leave us. At one time, he hoped to become a professional baseball player.”

“Well, he does love playing pick-up games in the park when he can grab the time, and he just started coaching a team at the Boys’ Club up in Hunts Point.” She sighed. “Those kids are amazing. No uniforms, so they can’t play in an official kids’ league, and they have to take turns with the few pieces of worn-out equipment they have, but nothing stops them. They always show up for practice and they play their hearts out.”

“They won’t let anything destroy their dreams. Those children share that quality with Alex. He’s found a way to make one of his boyhood dreams come true. And I know he’s happy to put his other talents to good use right here in the shop with you.”

She twisted a stem of pale blue hydrangeas between her fingers. “It was Alex who helped me save this place. When Dad died, I wasn’t sure it would survive. You know he was the business manager, the financial mastermind. I’ve never had a head for any of that.” Her sigh rustled the clustered petals. “All my life, I’ve only known flowers…”

He took the blossoms from her and caught her hand in his. “Helena, everyone must find their own place in life. You have the soul and skill of an artist. Just look around.”  He glanced toward the flowers arrayed in ceramic, copper, and glass vases on the worktable, their colors gleaming in the lamplight. “Together, you and Alex have kept your shop and your dreams alive.”

“We have been…blessed. I can’t imagine life without him, without everything we share. I wouldn’t want to. It seems as if we were always meant to be together.” She blinked back a sprinkling of tears. “And you would understand that more than most.”

He ran a fingertip along the ruffled petals of a red rosebud. “Yes…”

“Will you see Catherine tonight?”

He knew she saw his answer in his eyes.

“Then, take that one with you when you go.” She tilted her head at him. “How’s the rosebush doing? Did the buds ever bloom?”

He smiled at the memories. “Yes, for the first time just a few months ago. Catherine worried she might kill it with her lack of gardening skills, but it looks healthy and beautiful.”

“I’m glad. It’s a very special plant. I think it was just waiting here for the two of you.”

“I think so, too.” In the comfort of their shared silence, the ticking wall clock seemed to shout a warning.

“I shouldn’t stay much longer.”

“Then, you’d better tell me why you came to see me in the first place, right?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “I have a favor to ask of you, one that might be very difficult to fulfill.”

“You must want some flowers for tomorrow, right? That won’t be a problem. Just tell me what you need. You know we’re always happy to give you whatever we can. You never have to worry about that.”

He shook his head. “No, I will pay for them, but the ones I need are out of season. Spring flowers – tulips, forsythia, jonquils, iris, violets…” His voice wilted on a sigh. “Just saying their names aloud sounds like an impossible request. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have – “

Her eyes grew wide. “How did you know?”

“I don’t understand. How did I know…?”

“That we have an unwanted shipment of spring flowers – all the ones you just mentioned and more!” She pointed to the stainless steel doors at the back of the workroom. “They’re in containers in there, just waiting to find a good home.”

“Orphaned flowers?”

Her laughter filled the small space. “You might say that. A local café owner ordered them for Restaurant Week. They were planning on a springtime fantasy theme — I have no idea why since it’s the middle of summer – but there was some snag with their budget, and they had to cancel at the last minute. We’d already received the flowers from our suppliers, so we planned to donate them somewhere and take it as a tax write-off.” She beamed at him. “But this is so much better!”

She jumped off the stool and headed toward the cooler. “Want to see them?”

“Yes! But it doesn’t seem possible that you already have exactly what I wished for.”

She unlatched the door and pulled it open. “Some wishes do come true, Vincent.”

A gentle wave of cold, damp air washed over them, and he followed her as if they were entering a fabled Arabian king’s cave of wonders.

To Vincent’s entranced eyes, it could be nothing less. Blossoms gleaming in the bright, clear light, a multitude of colors he never had seen, could never have imagined. Living jewels, delicate and strong, ephemeral yet unforgettable.

He breathed in their fragrances, breathed out their names. “Hyacinth, lilac, peony… alyssum, pansy, snowdrop…jonquil, daffodil, violet…” Even to his own ears, his voice was a prayer, a magic spell, a promise.

His hand trembled as he reached toward a slender branch bursting with vibrant yellow flowers. “It’s how I’ve imagined sunshine must look every morning on the leaves of trees in the park.”

“That’s forsythia, one of the first flowers of spring. It represents anticipation.”

He pretended he hadn’t heard a choking of tears in her voice. “And these? I know I’ve seen their picture in books, but to see them as they truly are…so many colors.” His voice was full of awe. “Irises?”

“Yes. There couldn’t be a better name for them, right?”

He nodded eagerly. “For the Greek goddess, the rainbow.”

“The blue iris symbolizes faith and hope. The purple is for wisdom, the white for purity, and the yellow is for passion.”

“Perfect,” he murmured as he wandered deeper into the enchanted realm. With a gentle claw-tip, he rustled a stem of fluted, indigo flowers, tilting his head as if he heard a secret song. “I think I know this one. Bluebells – for constancy and gratitude.”

She smiled, mirroring his gesture, sharing the phantom melody. “And everlasting love. They’re perfect for your message for Catherine.” She placed a glazed terra cot pot in his outstretched hand. “And you definitely need this one, too. Do you recognize it?”

He studied the small clusters of yellow flowers, bright as torches, pale as moonlight, sheltered in blankets of wrinkly green leaves. “Interesting. The undersides of the leaves seem covered in – hair?” Frowning like a frustrated detective, he brought the container close to his nose and shut his eyes for only a moment as he inhaled the blossoms’ sweet fragrance.

“Okay, time’s up, Sherlock! Let’s have an answer.”

He lowered the flowers but did not return them to their place on the wire racks. “Are they primroses?”

She sighed dramatically. “Just when I thought I had you stumped!”

“You almost did. I was going to guess African violets, but they mean maternal wisdom, and that seemed…inappropriate. And I recalled what you just said.”

“Which was?”

“That I definitely need this particular flower. And I know the message of the primrose.” He gave her an appreciative smile. “I can’t live without you.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Gee, Vincent, I’m really flattered, but you’ve got to remember I’m a married woman. And if Catherine finds out, you’re going to need to order a big bunch of lilies for my funeral.”

Their laughter echoed, warming the cool, flowing air. She took the primroses from him and set them aside, then pulled a small notebook and pen from her apron pocket. “So, as you can see, we have a lot for you to choose from. Tell me exactly which ones you want, and I’ll make sure they’re yours.”

He handed her his list. “Even a few of these would be wonderful. Or anything you can spare.”

She muttered under her breath, glancing up now and then to survey the flower-filled room, scribbling an ever-growing column of notes. A shivering of excitement bolstered him when at last she smiled. “We have everything you need! And, if you trust me, I can pick out several more for you. It’ll be great!”

Hoping his money would be enough, he eagerly agreed. “Of course, I trust you.”

“Okay, then let’s get out of here and let the flowers rest until they move on to their new home.”

When she had secured the safety latch on the cooler’s door, he rejoined her at the worktable, somewhat reluctant to leave all the wonder behind, immensely pleased to know it would not be long before he would share it with Catherine.

“This has worked out perfectly! So, now all we need is a plan for getting them to –” She frowned. “You never told me where you want the flowers delivered. Alex and I can handle that, but you need to supply some info. Are they going Above or Below?”

“My idea was to arrange them on the balcony of Catherine’s apartment, like a beautiful garden for her to discover…but now I realize I’ll need help.”

She tilted her head at him. “No kidding! We can work out the delivery details easily enough, but you might want to rethink the presentation.” She waited for a response, but he offered only puzzled silence. “It’s summer, remember? The forecast is for the mid-90s all week. If we put those flowers outside even late in the day, they’ll look like a pile of wilted weeds by the time she gets home from work.”

He sighed heavily. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Of course you hadn’t.” She gave him a playful punch on the arm. “You’re in love! Nobody bothers with practicalities when all they can think of is their soulmate and how she’ll adore your gift, and how you’ll enjoy telling her the meanings of all the flowers, and what will happen afterwards when –”

“Yes, I get the point!” Again, a rosy blush warmed his face. “And I greatly appreciate your help, but how will we get them inside Catherine’s apartment?”

She waved a hand, dismissing the problem entirely. “We deliver to her building all the time. I’m on a first name basis with Ed Wallace, the concierge. He’ll be able to let Alex and me into the apartment. We can drop off the flowers before she gets home; then you can show up as soon as it’s dark. We’ll set them up in her living room. I know it won’t be on the balcony like you envisioned, but at least they’ll still be alive when she sees them!”

“A very appropriate alternative. I bow to your expertise, Helena.”

She shrugged. “Just another service provided by Madison Floral Design.”

“It is much more than that. Know that I am grateful for your kindness and your friendship.”

“I know.” The stool tilted as she leaned over to give him a quick hug. “Now, just one more thing. Okay, two things. First, it stays light so late, and you need to be in her apartment before she gets home. But it won’t be safe for you until at least nine o’clock. You’re sure Catherine won’t be back before that?”

He nodded. “When we made plans to meet, she told me she’d be attending a fundraising dinner for the organization where she does volunteer work. She was certain she wouldn’t be home before ten.”

“Okay. Second, you want to surprise her, so you’ve got to be inside and ready just in case the dinner is over earlier than expected. Does she usually keep the balcony doors locked until you get there? Do you want us to unlock them before we leave? I’m sure it would be perfectly safe, especially for that short bit of time.”

His thoughts whirled – elation at the assumed intimacy existing between himself and his beloved, embarrassment at the possibility of admitting how very slowly such intimacy had progressed. And yet at last it had.

He thought of the small brass key secured in the suede pouch close to his heart. That must be what couples did Above when becoming closer, their lives entwining, meshing…He sighed softly. How little he knew of such things, how much more he longed to know…would know… perhaps, somehow…in time…

“Vincent? Should we leave the doors unlocked?”

He took a deep breath. “I, well — that is – that won’t be necessary.”

“Because?”

“Because I have a key. Catherine gave it to me a few months ago.” He looked at her from beneath a shag of tousled hair.

“Wonderful! Another reason I like Catherine so much!”

He wouldn’t disappoint his friend by revealing how few times he’d actually used that key. To his relief, she dropped the subject and rose to her feet.

“Okay, then I think we’re all set.”

As he stood, he reached into the leather pouch tied to his belt. “Not entirely.” He offered her the envelope of bills. “I hope this will be enough to pay for the flowers.”

She thrust her hands behind her back. “I am not taking your money, Vincent.”

“But – “

She allowed him only that single word. “I already told you we were planning to give the flowers away. And they couldn’t be going to a better home! I’m honored we can be part of your plan to send such a beautiful message to Catherine.”  She pulled a yellow rose from a nearby arrangement and tucked it into a loop of leather at his waist. “And here’s a Say It With Flowers Day message to you from Alex and me.”

He smiled as the blossom’s fragrance drifted upward. “A symbol of caring and friendship. Thank you.”

“And don’t forget this.” She retrieved the red rosebud he’d earlier admired and wrapped it carefully in a damp cloth. “I’m sure you know what this flower stands for.”

“I do.” He secured it in a pocket of the cloak he’d draped around his shoulders, then pulled up the hood, shelter for his journey. Together they walked to the door, but as she checked the security peephole and flipped open the locks, he hesitated.

“Helena, are you truly certain this isn’t too much to ask?”

“Of course it’s not! You’re actually doing me – and the flowers – a favor. You’re giving them a chance for a new life. How can that be too much to ask?”

He nodded slowly. “If you’re sure…”

“I am. And this is a lot easier than when Catherine asked me to find white lilacs in the middle of winter.”

He chuckled and reached for the door handle when the ringing of a phone in the showroom drew their attention.

“I’ll let the machine pick up,” she began. “Oh, it’s Alex! Let me get that!”

As soon as she was gone, he retrieved the pen she’d left on the worktable. A quick scrawl across the envelope he’d pulled from his pouch and a fortunate hiding place in a basket of mail on her desk ensured the inevitable argument would be avoided. And the money she would not accept for the flowers would be put to good use for children who were dreamers just as Alex had been.

“He’s still at the library, prepping for an exam. He’s really disappointed he won’t get to see you tonight.”

“As am I. But tell him I’ll get a message to him very soon.” He gave her a quick hug before opening the door, pausing on the threshold to scan the alley.

“Wait!” She retrieved his list from her apron pocket and tapped her finger down its length. “I just want to double check. Hmmm…something seems to be missing…Oh, never mind. The meaning of the one I’m thinking of is completely appropriate for your plans…” She sighed heavily. “But it just isn’t a spring flower. Much more appropriate for next Winterfest. I seem to remember it was quite popular last year, don’t you?”

He bit back a grin. “It depends. Which flower are you thinking of?”

“Phoradendron leucarpum, of course.”

He let her have a few seconds to enjoy a smug smile. “North American Mistletoe. A member of the Santalales – or sandalwood – family. Symbol of romance, vitality, and fertility. State flower of Oklahoma –”

She pushed him farther through the doorway into the heavy, humid air. “Go bother Catherine! It looks like I need to study for trivia night!”

***

The moments they’d spent together had been all too brief, and he’d left her with the sweetest of kisses and the promise of the rosebud he’d pressed into her hand. Distractions of the following day had sustained him: witnessing his family’s enjoyment of the tunnel holiday; appreciating several messages he’d received from the children; trying not to wish away the hours until at last the sunset-colored sky darkened to moonlit shadows.

He dropped lightly to the tiled floor of the balcony, his breath rushed in the hot stillness of the summer night. The key’s brass teeth bit the palm of his fist as he hesitated on the shadowy threshold between the terraced world they shared and the cloistered world that remained hers alone. Her home, once a self-imposed forbidden fortress, had transformed to a protective citadel whose gates he’d finally entered only months earlier.

Yet no matter how welcome, how safe he’d shocked himself by becoming, the apartment would always be separate from his existence, inextricably meshed with a world that had never fully allowed him in, had always been a place apart and just out of reach.

Above.

As a child, the single word had promised wonders, threatened despair, proved irresistible. In time, its realities had filled him with indelible memories, unforgettable words, echoes of people and places that had only rarely made him welcome.

He’d shadowed through it, separate yet one with it, a familiar stranger who could never quite belong…until the night she changed his world forever. A night when he risked his wounded heart for an impossible dream. When he yielded to the threat of another rejection, another loss. When he’d journeyed beyond the reaches of his sanctuary and dared to see her, even if just for one last time.

He could still see the undisguised pleading in her eyes, hear her heartfelt fearless voice. “Don’t go!” And when he accepted the invitation – unbelievable, miraculous – offered by her outstretched hand, he knew a fragment of the world Above had finally taken him into its arms, never to let him go. With her he would be safe, with her he would find another home.

Catherine.

Now, the mere whisper of her name was all the magic he needed to vanish the doubts of the past and replace them with the certainty of the future. He stepped into the room and closed the doors behind him. His cloak rustled in the silence as he draped its cotton patchwork folds over a chair. He wiped perspiration from his face with the back of his hand, then grimaced at the slick moisture glistening on his skin in the glow of the table lamp he clicked into flickering life.

A hum of cool air drifting through the apartment, soft and scented, offered a respite from the cloying heat he’d left behind. A memory shimmered of his first steps into Helena’s magical realm, and his heart beat faster as he moved deeper into this room, imagining what he might find.

The sight took his breath away.

There on the low table before the fireplace, they gleamed as if the sun glowed from their hearts, the colors as brilliant, as improbable as he remembered. Candleflame yellow, swan feather white. Burnt orange rays of a forbidden sunset, indigo waves of the treasured night sky. Moss and celadon as soft and deep as her eyes. Blush and cameo as luminous as her skin. Peach and cherry blossom as promising as her lips.

The flowers spilled across the table in massed containers of glass and stone, waiting for him, waiting for her. His eyes misted, blurring his vision, and he blinked away tears of gratitude, tears of delight. It was perfection and promise, everything he could have dreamed.

Still awestruck by the reality of such treasure, he lowered himself to the cushioned edge of the recently purchased oversized couch. Unable to resist, he reached for a spray of amethyst-colored wisteria, then recoiled as if a dwarf adder encircled its stem. How dare he touch such splendor, a symbol of unending love, with hands stained in grime and sweat, the residue of his journey through the oppressive summer night to this haven of flawless beauty.

Rising to his feet, he hesitated and frowned at the half-open door leading to her bedroom and the bathroom beyond. His gaze flicked back and forth from his hands to the entryway, then he strode forward, only to pause at the threshold.

He tried not to look at her bed, its pale silk duvet still jumbled as if she’d just risen from beneath it, soon to return. He forced himself not to drift close enough to touch the satin and lace of the negligee that had caressed her through the night. He told himself he wasn’t breathing in the evocative scent of her hair, her skin.

With a shudder and a strength he was surprised he still possessed, he turned away from the as yet unaccepted invitation and slipped into the tiled room beyond. He rasped a sigh of relief that enough light filtered in from the living room to allow him to see adequately, yet left shadowed the mirror he could not escape in such a small space. Keeping his head bowed, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his chambray shirt and pushed up the sleeves before letting the water flow in warm, welcome waves over his soiled hands. Enjoying the efficient luxury but unwilling to waste it, he secured the stopper and watched the basin fill before reaching for an oval of pale pink soap.

The soft foam frothed through his fingers, floating miniature bubbles onto the wet fur coating the back of his hands and wrists, washing away lingering streaks of dirt and sweat. As he rubbed his hands together, a familiar fragrance drifted through the room, and he took deep breaths of it. The air around him was filled honeysuckle and acacia blossoms, lemon verbena, rose petals, and something else, something he’d long savored, secretly yearned for, inhaled in his dreams.

Catherine.

His hands trembled and he gripped the soap tighter, only to have it slide away and splash into the sudsy water. In an instant, his shirt was splattered with wavelets of scented foam, and instinctively he wiped at the froth with soaking hands, feeling the wetness immediately seep through to his undershirt, dampening his skin.

He rapidly unbuttoned the wet outer garment and began to shrug it off, then froze. He was not at home in his own chamber…

With an exasperated sigh, he quickly rinsed the sink of lingering foam, then carefully splashed cool water on his face and neck before reaching for a towel draped on a nearby rack. There could be only minutes left before Catherine’s return. She could not find him like this. Wishing he’d never given in to the temptation to venture further into the apartment, he quickly dried his hands, swiped the towel across his face, then faltered and froze.

The lingering dampness on its velvety surface, the elusive but unmistakable fragrance of flowers, and… something more, something he knew but could not allow himself to name. The towel was infused with it, and he pressed his face into its folds, his breath shuddering, his heart pulsing. Visions from his most secret longings swept over and through him, swaying him until he let the towel slip from his grasp.

Bracing his hands against the marble countertop, he took deep, measured breaths, feeling his body begin to calm. He promised himself all was well – until some relentless force urged his head up, and he looked at his reflection in the mirror, rasping a harsh gasp at what he discovered there.

Hooded eyes filled with cobalt flame. Tawny, soft-stubbled skin. Rugged planes and angles of cheek and jaw. Lips at once strange and compelling. It was a face of gentleness and strength, a face full of honesty that harbored secrets. A face perhaps like no other but ultimately that of a man.

For a breath, he felt he gazed at a stranger, but in his heart he knew the improbable portrait was himself.

It seemed impossible. Where was the monster he’d always avoided, the image he turned from at the Mirror Pool’s surface, or when encountering unexpected glares on panes of glass, or the shock of an unshrouded mirror? Who was this…person?

He shuddered, unable to tear his gaze from the face before him. Was this what she saw when she looked at him? Was this the image she dreamed of, longed for… desired? He shook his head. It couldn’t be, and yet, and yet…

He raised a trembling hand, needing further proof of what could not – and yet must — be. Of what she touched with soft sighs of pleasure, little murmurs of delight. What she called beautiful.

As the pad of one finger began to trace the edge of his forehead, he heard a muted metallic snap, then another, then a third. In an instant, he’d abandoned all thoughts but one and rushed into the living room just in time to see the front door swing open.

“Vincent!” She dropped her garment bag and oversized tote to the carpeted floor and shoved the door shut behind her before rushing into his outstretched arms. “I’m so sorry I’m late!” She snuggled into his embrace, her voice muffling against his chest. “The dinner ran even longer than I’d expected, and –”

He held her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

They were as they’d longed to be, now, always. He rested his chin on the crown of her head, savoring the nuzzling of her lips against his throat. He felt they could stay like this forever, but in moments she surprised him by taking two slow steps backward to look up at him with a quizzical smile.

He meant to ask the reason, but when he gazed at her heat-ruffled hair, the flushed glow of her face, the featherweight fabric of the summer dress drifting over the curves of her body, he could only murmur, “You look so beautiful.”

She let her gaze slide from his face to linger at his chest before – reluctantly, it seemed to him – returning to his eyes. “You look very attractive, too.” She shrugged as her smile widened. “And a bit wet.”

“Catherine, I’m sorry!” He instinctively raised his hand toward the moist splotches on her ivory dress, then just as quickly withdrew it. “I needed to wash my hands, but the soap slipped – and I forgot I was still wet – and now your dress! And –” As if the mention of clothing reminded him of something he’d somehow forgotten, he stared down at himself. Snatching the sides of his pale blue shirt together, he snagged one claw into a buttonhole. “I’m sorry. I should have –”

Her hands covered his and pushed them away. “No, you shouldn’t have.” She straightened the edges of his shirt, then gave them a little shake while spreading them farther apart. “And don’t worry about my dress. It’s still so hot out that a little dampness is refreshing. It feels…nice.” With a final firm tug on his shirt, she slowly let her hands drop to her sides.

He could not have thought of a single word to say even if there had been an unabridged dictionary open in front of him.

She tilted her head, not even trying to suppress a smile. “But wearing a shirt as wet as yours must be uncomfortable. Why don’t you take it off and let me throw it in the dryer? You’ll be fine without it for a while, right? You can still keep your t-shirt on.”

That was enough to snap him out of his seductive stupor. “No! It’s – it’s – I’m fine.” He watched her brows raise over twinkling eyes. “Really.”

She held out a hand. “Give me the shirt, Vincent. Really.”

His thoughts flashed back to the man he’d viewed in the mirror. The man she had always seen whenever she looked at him. The one he knew he was, perhaps had always been. The man who could admit to himself how much he enjoyed her wide-eyed stare as, after only a heartbeat of hesitation, he let the shirt slide from his shoulders. The man who savored her soft gasp as he pulled the sleeves over his muscled forearms, her trembling hand as he let her take it from his grasp, leaving him standing before her in an unprecedented lack of layered wool and suede, cotton and corduroy.

She shook her head as if emerging from a dream. “I’ll – I’ll be right back.”

He watched her scamper into the kitchen, heard the dryer rumble on, then waited until she rushed back to him. “It won’t take long. Then you’ll be comfortable again.”

He wasn’t certain he would ever wish to trade the way he was feeling now for the safe cover of comfort. And as she grasped his arm, sinking her fingers into the muscles beneath the silky covering of hair, he was completely positive that no, he would not.

Clinging to him, perhaps – he told himself — for balance, she slipped off her high-heeled strappy sandals and sighed with relief, murmuring “That’s so much better” before slowly sliding her hand away. “Why don’t I make some iced tea for us? Then we can relax on the couch.” She glanced toward the welcoming nest, then gasped. “Vincent! Where did they come from?”

He followed, watching with delight as she beheld his gift. “They’re from Helena and Alex’s shop. I hope you like them.”

“I love them! Thank you!” She dropped onto the couch and patted the cushion closest to her. “But why? I know there must be a reason, something special.”

He settled himself next to her. “There is. Today – August 1st – is Say It With Flowers Day.” At her questioning glance, he continued, “A holiday of sorts Below when everyone sends a message to someone else through the use of flowers. It may be done with a picture, a construction of paper flowers, a story or poem or song, or even real flowers.”

“What a wonderful tradition!” Her smile blossomed. “It sounds like something Mary would come up with. Is she the one who started it?”

He shook his head. “No, although she has always enjoyed the day very much. It was one of my teachers when I was a boy. She was always thinking of ways to bring light to our lives. To open doors we’d never even noticed until she led us toward them. And always with such kindness, such caring…”

Her voice was soft and gentle. “She was very special to you.”

He nodded. “She was. I will never forget her.” He gazed into the distance for a moment, remembering, cherishing, offering a prayer of gratitude, before looking into Catherine’s eyes. “And someday, if you wish, I will tell you more about her.”

“I would love that.” She squeezed his hand. “So, the purpose of the holiday is to tell something to someone. Are there certain rules? Does the message have to be about something specific?”

“No, it can be about anything as long as a flower is the messenger.”

“A flower?” She let her gaze linger over the array on the table, then grinned at him. “Or a whole garden of them?”

He laughed softly. “Well, usually a flower or two will convey someone’s message.” The lightness in his voice grew warmer, deeper. “But for you I found I needed many more.”

He felt the glow of her response through their bond, as ephemeral as the fragrance of flowers; and he felt it in the kiss she offered with her eyes, as eternal as the promise of her heart.

“Will you tell me about them? I know some of the traditional meanings of flowers…acacia, honeysuckle, lemon verbena, roses…but I want to know all about the ones you’ve chosen.”

They shared a secret smile, savoring the memory of her gift to him months earlier on Valentine’s Day, a handsewn silk and lace heart holding a blending of the fragrances he most associated with her.

His hand trembled as he reached for a spray of lavender, easing it from a clustered bouquet, offering it to her. “I think this would be a good place to begin. Lavender is a sign of devotion.” As certain as he was of everything he longed to tell her, he felt his heart race, waiting, wondering, then catching with joy at her response, one he’d never truly doubted.

“It’s a perfect place to begin.” She breathed in the timeless scent, then gently placed the flowers in her lap. “And next?”

He handed her a small glass vase of purple violets. “For faithfulness.” And then replaced it with a ceramic pot of pansies. “You fill my thoughts.”

As she leaned closer to inhale the flowers’ fragrance, their delicate petals brushed her lips. “Next time I visit Helena, I’m going to ask her for an entire basket of pansies for you. A very big, very colorful basketful.”

As vivid images of her hinted thoughts filled his heart, he wanted to tell her he shared each one, but instead, he let the flowers speak for him. Taking the container from her hands, he held it to his face, letting the blossoms that had just touched her mouth caress his.

The scented air around them seemed to shimmer as they gazed at one another until he set the pansies aside and freed his own voice. “Every thought of you, Catherine, every day, every moment, is a precious gift. I know I have not always found the courage, the words to tell you …and I hope the flowers will help me express what has always been in my heart.”

She stroked a soft hand along his face, and he leaned into her gentle caress, savoring it as he did the music of her voice. “I know your heart, Vincent, I always have. But I’ve dreamed of hearing the words…Tell me…”

Taking her hand, he led her, one by one, through the garden of flowers he’d created, blending his voice with theirs. “Forsythia.” He tapped the curved branch with his finger. “As one of the first flowers of spring, it symbolizes anticipation…how I feel when I endure the hours we are apart. How I long for them to end, how I dream of what is to come.”

She nodded. “That’s how I feel, too. It’s so hard to wait, even when I know we’ll be together again.” She fluttered a hand over the flowers closest to her. “Is there a flower for that?”

“Snowdrops.” With a careful claw, he uncovered a cluster of white blossoms. “They stand for hope and faith in the future.”

She touched the small but sturdy petals he’d exposed. “I’ve seen them in the park each spring, pushing their way up through the last patches of snow. They thrive in the place where they belong, just as we do with each other.”

“As we always will.”  He tilted the golden head of a daffodil. “What we share is like this flower, a light in the darkness. A symbol of what has been, what is always meant to be.”

“’Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the milky way.’”

“Yes.” He smiled at her recollection of Wordsworth’s expression of wonder and affirmation and pointed toward a tall stalk with a single, indigo blossom. “I learned from Helena that he might have written of this flower, too. Like the daffodil, the blue iris symbolizes faith and hope.”

She smiled up at him. “I know there are different meanings for various colors of roses, but I never thought about it being true for other flowers.” She reached for the vase, turning it to display another blossom, identical except for its petals of lemon and gold. “What does a yellow iris mean?”

He would have guided them there eventually, but he hadn’t intended to advance this far down the garden path quite so quickly. “I believe,” he murmured, “it stands for passion.”

“Does it?” Her voice glimmered with banked heat. “I was wondering when we might get to that.” She snuggled a bit closer. “Tell me. What other flowers go well with the yellow iris?”

“The yellow tulip – it means I see the sun in your smile.” He hoped she might let this one slide, at least for now.

She didn’t.

“I wasn’t really thinking of color.” She nestled closer still. “And while that is a lovely meaning, maybe let’s go with something else?”

His gaze darted over the blooms waiting for him to find the right one amongst their offerings. But he knew he must proceed at his own pace despite what seemed to be the urging of the flowers. And what most definitely was the urging of his beloved.

His outstretched hand faltered, then brushed over the luxuriant pink petals of a peony. “Well, there’s this one. It is a symbol of beauty and romance.”

“We’re getting closer.” As if to prove her point, she quickly ducked under his arm, sighing softly as he let it settle around her. “But actually, I was thinking about those vines of honeysuckle. I know what they mean.” She rested her hand on his embracing arm, then softly stroked its length. “Do you remember?”

He felt he would be lucky to remember his own name at this point, let alone the meaning of a twining of little ivory flowers. His voice, when he recovered it, was a low rumble. “I’ll always remember…a never-ending bond of true love.”

As she nodded, her silky hair rubbed against his skin. “Yes, like our bond, Vincent. Always and forever.”

He wanted to tell her of celandine that whispered of joys to come and bluebells that promised constancy and everlasting love. He’d hoped to present forget-me-nots that told of true love and precious memories. He’d even believed he might finally offer her jonquils and camellias and tiger lilies, fiery decrees of desire.

But he ignored them all, and slowly, carefully pulled away from her, wincing at the sound of her murmured protest. Leaning forward, he searched among the waiting flowers and found what he now needed most of all.

Just as they had when he’d first seen them, they seemed to glow with an inner light. Blossoms at once delicate and strong, nestled in the shelter of leaves both prickly and soft, protecting the treasure they held.

“The other flowers hold meaning for us, too, but I can think of no message I want – I need – to give you more than this one.”

He placed the small terra cotta pot of primroses in her hands. “I cannot live without you, Catherine.”

Her eyes filled with tears as she repeated his pledge. And both knew it was more than the language of flowers they spoke to one another.

For long moments, their vows echoed in their hearts, until their bond simmered from promise to passion, from sweetness to seduction. Eagerly taking the flowers from her outstretched hands, he set them aside and pulled her into his arms.

“I love you, Catherine,” he murmured, his breath hot against the trembling pulse in her throat. “I love you more than life itself.”

She gasped as he trailed kisses along her neck, as he buried his hands in the lushness of her hair, as his mouth opened over hers. The taste of her, the fragrance, the delicate strength was a glorious addiction, the voice of her heart more evocative than all flowers. Beyond thoughts of constraint or control, he lowered her to lie upon the couch, trembling with delight as she pulled him closer still.

The hard planes of his body seemed to fit with perfection to the soft curves of hers, as if they were meant to be together like this at last, always. He stroked one hand along the curve of her shoulder, her breast, her hip. He heard her moan his name, felt her breathe words of longing for him, only for him. And he murmured them back to her, over and over again. It was as if nothing else existed, only this flight into a world he’d never truly thought to know. It was right, it was now, it was everything.

But when he felt her eager hands pull his t-shirt from the confines of his jeans, when he quivered at the first touch of her fingers searching through the rough silk covering the muscles of his chest, when his entire body tensed, he knew it was still too much, still too soon. And with a heart-deep groan, he wrenched himself away from her.

Overwhelmed by regret – hers, his – he longed to reach for her again, to take away the disappointment in her eyes, to soothe the tumult in their bond. But he did not, and could only watch as she slowly sat up and leaned against the curved back of the couch.

There were no flowers left to offer any explanation on his behalf. He would have to speak for himself. “Catherine…I’m sorry. I…” His voice trailed away. For once he truly had no words.

The minutes ticked by and still he floundered. He could hear her ragged breathing. He could sense her frenzied emotions. He could guess at the words she was trying to say. But when she said them, he found himself blinking in wary surprise.

“Did you bring the book with you – The Language of Flowers?”

Confused by the last thing he’d expected to hear, he could only nod.

She stretched out her arm and opened her trembling hand. “Give it to me.”

For several moments, the only sound was the flipping of pages, one after another. The raspy sound slapped at his frayed psyche.

He grit his teeth. Counted to ten – very slowly – twice, then once more. Tried to take deep measured breaths. Nothing helped.

The pages flipped faster.

“Catherine, please! Perhaps I can help you find whatever you’re looking for. Just tell me what it is!”

She cast him a raised-eyebrow look. “Oh, I’m sure you already know what I’m looking for.”

He wanted to release a somewhat frenzied laugh but found enough inner strength to suppress the urge. “If you give me some details — if you tell me how you’re feeling –”

“How do you think I’m feeling?!” Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. “I’m not sure the flowers exist that can adequately convey that message!”

Unable to think of a single argument to refute that truth, one he completely shared, he leaned closer to scan the pages as they continued to race past. At last, an image caught his attention and inspired hope that perhaps there was a way to salvage the passionate interlude he’d – once again — effectively derailed. It might have little chance of success, but at least there was some hope – and he was desperate.

He took a deep breath and waited, then pressed a hand onto the book to stop the rapid search she still seemed determined to pursue. “Catherine, may I have the book for a moment? I think I might know where to find the flower you want.” He slowly turned back several pages, then handed the book to her as he leaned in to point to a painted image of small, starburst petals, red, white, purple, pink. “Is that the right flower, the one you’re looking for?”

“Impatiens?! It’s certainly one of them!” she growled. “I might have to make a list!”  A swirl of her tangled hair stroked his face as she shook her head and muttered a single word. “Impatience!”

He tapped the page with his finger. “Even though it’s spelled differently, the flowers do symbolize their homophone.” He pretended not to notice her loud huff or yet another glare.

Still hoping his fragile plan might work, he hurriedly turned several additional pages as she held the book on her lap. “Maybe you’d like to add petunias to your list?”

“Which mean?”

“Anger.”

“Not a bad idea.” She handed him the book. “What else would you suggest?”

He found a watercolor of yellow carnations. “I think this would be suitable, too. It means disappointment.”

She sighed softly. “Yes…”

He turned the pages more slowly. “And perhaps consider astilbe.”

She tilted her head and squinted at the tiny writing. “Maybe you should read the definition to me. I’m not sure I can see it clearly.”

He felt a surge of hope. “I’m still waiting.”

“Hmmmmm…” She gave him a sidelong glance, and he rejoiced to see her lips pressed tightly together as if she might be suppressing a hint of a smile.

“Have you got anything else? There’s lots of room left on the list.”

“A few, but they’re for a list of my own.” He showed her hyacinth for regret, red tulips that whispered ‘forgive me,’ white carnations to say ‘I’m sorry.’ With each offered flower, he felt her turbulent emotions soften and slowly subside.

“I’m sorry, too, Vincent.” Her eyes clouded with tears. “I thought tonight…I hoped…”

“I know. I did, too, but –”

She sighed again. “It’s still not the right time, is it?”

He shook his head.

“But it will be?” He heard the hope in her voice, and it nearly broke his heart. How could he keep disappointing her and expecting her to accept his limitations with grace and fortitude? It was his greatest fear that someday, perhaps someday soon, her patience would reach an inevitable end.

He wanted to give her something more than a promise, but what could he say that he hadn’t already said on numerous occasions? There had to be a difference this time. He stared at the book clutched in his hands. Maybe it still held the answer, the message he needed to give her now.

“Vincent, talk to me. I need to know that tonight was more than just another beginning for us. Please say something!”

“Gardenias.”

“Excuse me?”

“They symbolize…” He should have thought this through a bit further. He most definitely embraced the sentiment, but found he couldn’t utter the meaning aloud, especially when he felt her heart beating as rapidly as his.

Ignoring the illustration he concealed under his hand, she tilted her head and swept her tousled hair behind her ear. “Maybe if you whisper it.”

He leaned so close his lips grazed her skin with a delicious shared shiver. “The gardenia symbolizes…intense desire…”

He forced himself to lean away, although not so far that he might miss her murmured response. But as she remained silent, a chill iced through him, and their bond rippled like a field of flowers bending in the wind.

For long moments he tried to find meaning in the tumult. Had he finally gone too far — or not far enough? Had his attempts to make amends failed miserably? Perhaps she could no longer forgive his pathetic apologies, let alone want to join in his attempt at playful seduction. Maybe she was thoroughly and irrevocably disappointed in him. Maybe her patience had at last run out.

He had to know. He pictured the man he’d finally met in the mirror. The one who would know what to do, the one who was, who had always been, himself.

He thumped the book shut, and gazed at her upturned face, at the questions still waiting in her eyes, and he knew he looked into his true mirror. For far too long, she’d let him get away with his relentless practice of advance and retreat, but that time had come to an end. There would be no more secrets between them, but to cross that threshold, he would need to ask one more question, to hear one more response.

“Catherine, can you forgive me…one last time?”

Her fingertip tapped out a rhythm on the book’s cover. “Vincent, I’ve heard what you said, and all the flowers you mentioned send a message I can appreciate. And yes, of course, I can forgive you.” She took a deep breath. “But there’s still so much more I want to say to you. And I need to know if you understand me, if you understand my feelings, as much as I do yours.” She handed him the book. “Maybe if you tell me which flowers you think I need for a message for you…”

He opened the book, each turn of the page paired to the beating of his heart. “The pink camellia?”

She read the inscription. “Yes, I am most definitely longing for something. Is there one that says I won’t give up?”

It was hard to concentrate with renewed hope surging in his heart, and the heat of her thigh pressing against his. “Magnolias.”

“Persevere with patience.” She nodded firmly, a smile tickling the corners of her mouth. “Oh, absolutely. And what else?”

He wasn’t sure he’d ever found a flower that said, ‘the man I love can be a frustrating fool,’ but maybe there were one or two she could justifiably use for that purpose. He showed her flax-leaved golden locks – “tardiness and delay,” geranium – “foolishness,” and white orchids – “cowardice.”

“Oh, Vincent, I’m not sure about those,” she began, then huffed a soft laugh. “Well, you might have a point. But let’s make a pact never to look at those particular flowers ever again. Agreed?”

He couldn’t answer fast enough. “Agreed!”

“So, maybe one or two more, something to give my message the happy ending it deserves.” She shook her head when he tried to return the book to her. “So far, you’ve been exactly right about my feelings tonight. But there’s still something you haven’t mentioned, and I need to see if you know what it is.”

He knew. It just was still somewhat difficult to say the words, even with flowers. But like edelweiss – courage, devotion – he was not about to give up now. He would no longer choose to retreat to shadows; like the sunflower, he would not only seek but embrace his place in the light.

“Catherine, I think you would end your message with arborvitae for unchanging friendship.”

“And…”

He turned a few more pages. “Baby’s breath for everlasting love.”

“You’re definitely getting closer.”

He didn’t need the book for the next one. Setting it aside, he pulled a lush red blossom from a vase and extended it to her, smiling at the expression on her face when he did not let it go even as her fingers wrapped around the stem.

“The red camellia, Catherine. You’re a flame in my heart.”

Her smile rivaled the fire that crackled through their bond. “Perfect!”

Without another word, they drifted closer together, sharing kisses and caresses sweet and sensual, full of restrained passion, restless promise. It was everything and not enough.

All too soon, she leaned back in his arms and looked up at him. He saw the faint flickering of hope in her eyes and heard the fluttering of acceptance in her soft sigh. “What was that flower for patience?” She murmured. “Magnolia?”

His soft smile mirrored hers. “Yes, but not only patience. Perseverance as well.”

“I think that might be a good flower to end our messages to each other tonight, don’t you?”

He nodded. “I do, except perhaps just one more.” He retrieved the book. “Its meaning pairs well with the magnolia. And I think it’s a message we’re both sending…but only for tonight.”

She tilted her head as she watched him page through the book. “I’m very curious.”

“Here.” He pointed to a sketch of a cylindrical plant covered in clusters of short, spiny points. “What do you think?”

Her laughter bathed him as she read the definition. “You’re exactly right!” She cast him a mock frown. “But remember, like you just said, this one is only for tonight. After that it goes on the never-to-be-mentioned-again list. Right?”

“Right. I promise never to bring you a bouquet of hedgehog cactus…or to speak of restraint.”

She framed his face with her hands, drawing him closer like a flower to the sun. “And what will you bring me next time, Vincent?”

Just before their lips met, he shared the final words of his flower-filled message. “Next time, Catherine, I will bring you nothing but red roses.”