Laura Brown was 18, lounging among the blossoms in the orchard she loved, everything pulling at her senses. She squinted in the sunlight, eyes the colour of moss, hair wild as the surf. Laura pressed her fingers lightly to her nostrils and inhaled the delicate perfume of orange blossoms. Bewitched by the secret, she could not share.
Yesterday her life changed. Out of a cloud of dust, an old Ford pickup truck swung down the shingle road. Pale green and battered, it shuddered and came to a halt. A guy jumped out, dishevelled and tired, with an honest tanned face and deep blue eyes.
“I’m delivering roses to the markets to help pay my fees at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music,” he said with an attractive Irish lilt. “I took a shortcut and saw your flaming red hair and a face covered in freckles. It looks as though you need a lift?”
“I have a puncture, so I do,” she said. “I’m Laura, and I live at Orange Blossom Farm.”
“Brendan, at your service.”
He lifted her bike into the truck, carefully placed it beside the flower boxes, opened the passenger door, and passed her a bloom.
“Have a rose, the colour of corn.” Classical music blared out of the cassette player.
“Can you catch his voice? He’s a tenor,” he said.
Laura said nothing; she had never heard of a tenor.
“I need a cheap place to stay tonight,” he said
“Sleep in the orchard, under the stars; it’s spectacular,” she said.
It was dusk when they arrived at the orchard.
Brendan and Laura talked; he made her so comfortable that she couldn’t leave.
On a cushion of blossom petals, she drifted between thousands of stars in the Milky Way. Flickering, spinning, floating down close enough to touch. She took his hand and placed an imaginary translucent star in it. The glow sent warmth tingling through their bodies.
She thought about her father. He had chosen Adam to propose to her, an acceptable provider, stable, likeable, and hardworking.
She chose Brendan; she would never agree to have an arranged marriage. Brendon had charm, a peaceful way of closeness, a sense of humour and a passion for music.
Laura woke early. Her father’s words ‘pure and innocent’ rang in her ears. She searched for a bag and found the floral suitcase with its aged silk lining permeated by her mother’s sweet musky scent. She scrunched the silk to remember her. Tears flooded the bag as she packed to leave.
She ran down through the orchard, past the village, to the city stop. Like thieves running from the light, shadows swept across the road as the lamp swung above the bus stop.
Her leg caught a splinter of jagged wood from the seat where boys carved their names with pocket knives.
An hour to kill passed quickly; she walked around the village past the drapery, bookshop, and general store. The empty shop stopped her in her tracks. She leant on the wooden door and fingered the cracked paint and worn-down handle. Earthy lanolin and grass lingered in the wood from years of fleece sorting. She slid the envelope under the post office door, addressed to Mr Brown at Orange Blossom Orchard. The note said, “I have left home and will write.”
Her father was at early morning mass praying for the sinners and planning her life. He knew her future would be safe in the marriage that he would secure for her.
Laura took the bus to Sydney and headed to the harbour. Balmain flashed on the neon sign. She ran up the walkway to the ferry and settled for a seat outside in the fresh air. Spray splashed her face, and her hair swirled in the wind as she leant over the side. The boat jerked, and the engines revved when it pulled into the jetty at East Balmain.
The Balmain and Rozelle neighbourhoods were full of old-world charm, with the original butcher shop, delicatessen, fashion shops, cafés, restaurants and pubs.
At the Balmain Hotel, she sat on the balcony drinking a Midori and swung her legs in the breeze, people watching. She felt like she was in a village where she could walk all the time in safety.
Emilia’s Florist stole her attention with striped tulips, wildflowers in jam jars and Italian flowerpots in the window. Wooden floors, a Victorian desk, a chandelier, the perfume of jasmine mixed with unusual blooms and soft music.
The balcony looked across the park where the Moreton Bay figs grew.
Laura walked straight up to the counter. Her hands rested on the cold brass inlay while she plucked up the courage to speak to the woman wrapping the coral peony bouquet.
“I am Laura; your shop is beautiful. Are you interested in a volunteer for a few weeks?” she asked hesitantly.
“I am Emilia, the owner. That works for me. See you on Monday morning,” she smiled.
The first month had been fun. One Friday night, Laura celebrated at the pub. She arrived home at 2am, flicked on the television and discovered Andrea Bocelli and his son Matteo singing a duet. Andrea was a tenor; the music swelled through her heart; she closed her eyes and heard ‘Fall on me with all your light.’ She saw Brendan’s smile and wept. From that moment on, his music played in the florist shop.
Laura became an established florist. The years flew by; she was in demand. When the wedding flowers were late, she rushed to the venue and passed the wildflower bouquet to the bride, a perfect match with her pale cream dress and the rose petals around the hem.
As she stepped through the back door of the florist shop, the bell rang. A woman held a bunch of dripping white lilies.
“Just these,” she said as the tears trickled down her cheeks. She murmured of the man she had loved for 50 years. A stroke in the night stole him from her. The woman touched Laura’s heart. She added a rose to the bouquet for enduring love, then reached for a single white velvet rose to match the lilies; the thorn pricked her finger. The blood trickled down, like when she had a splinter at the bus stop.
Laura wrapped the flowers in linen and then ran the scissor blade down the ribbon to create the perfect curl.
“There is no charge,” she said sympathetically as she handed them to the woman.
Pictures formed in her head, the orchard, roses the colour of corn. Was it real or a dream in the past?
Orange blossoms reminded Laura of fresh mornings, toes dipped in dew, risking the ground before the bees woke. The sparkle on the grass stalks and the mist warming at sunrise. She ached for her family and friends in the country; the sweet perfume of oranges took her closer each day. Nothing stopped her longing for the past. It was time to return home and fulfil her destiny as the village florist.
“Emilia, I love it here, but my heart is set on a florist shop in Berry; I’ll send you an invitation to the opening,” she said.
“It’s been fun; I will miss you,” Emilia said.
Laura lifted the suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe, opened it, breathed in the floral scent’s remnants once more, and then packed it before she changed her mind.
The old fleece shop was vacant in her hometown, the perfect space to create a store. Laura’s florist became a replica of Emilia’s: fine furniture, Italian pots, love in every arrangement.
She immersed herself in the community and leapt at the chance to judge the school’s garden competition.
**********
Brian’s sweet peas climbed the trellis. Their muted colours fluttered in the breeze, the air intoxicating. He gasped as his mother marched out of the kitchen door and threw over a pot of tea leaves which turned the flowers mottled tan. At that moment, Laura arrived to judge his garden for the school competition. Embarrassed, Brian felt like a failure.
At the prize-giving in the school hall, Laura passed Brian an etched gold card, written by hand with the simple message; Laura’s Florist. Third place: Brian Flanagan.
She whispered, “I love your sweet peas; without tea leaves, you would have been first.” He smiled shyly.
On the day of the village fete, Laura celebrated her return. Bands played in the street; children darted between sweet stalls. The florist window had pale blue jars overflowing with jasmine, alyssum, sweet pea, lilies and freesias. Wildflowers hung from the ceiling on twine. The ancient desk held a tall Italian vase filled with yellow roses, and Andrea Bocelli played in the background. Echoes of Emilia’s florist.
Pots of brown boronias on the veranda smelt like raspberries and enticed people to sample the food and treat themselves to lemonade, orange blossom water, or champagne.
Emilia and her father leaned on the counter, deep in conversation. He winked at her when she giggled as champagne bubbles tickled her nose.
He intrigued Laura; this could be a second chance at love for her father.
He waved Laura over. In his hand was a parcel tied with string. “This is for you, Laura; welcome home,” he said.
She pulled the string loose and opened the parcel. A packet of sealed letters fell out, addressed to Laura at Orange Blossom Orchard. She slid them under the counter to read later.
A man with a roguish Irish face, gorgeous dark curly hair, excitable blue eyes, and an angel’s smile entered the florist shop. He picked up a piece of orange blossom, brushed her face with it and attached it to his Levi’s jacket.
“Did you get my letters? I have been waiting for you,” he said.
“Maybe today,” she said.
He selected a yellow rose, leant over the counter; his eyes sparkled.
“Roses the colour of corn,” Laura said.
Her face was hot as noon on a summer day, and her head spun. She had to sit and close her eyes. Her mind wandered back. She lay beneath the orange blossoms; he took her in his arms and gently kissed her lips. Each time his mouth moved, she held her breath for another tender kiss. She stretched his soft black curl and watched it spring back. His eyes were deep pools of blue.
A shadow travelled across her face; she blinked and focused. After three years, Brendan was here. She gulped the champagne and fell into his arms.
He lifted her up and sat her by the yellow roses, her eyes filled with tears. He kissed her with the taste of orange blossom water. “So, you are a florist, and like Andrea Bocelli, I am a tenor. Do you have room for an artist as your husband?”
“My conditions are, you stay forever and make room for our two children to race around the orchard and, in darkness, share in the Milky Way and sing with you,” she said.
Her body ached for Brendan’s love and their time together in the orchard. She closed her eyes and saw fairies drinking tea from the lily of the valley flowers, a sign of good luck; she couldn’t wait to add the buds to her bridal bouquet.
About the Author
Judy Port is a poet and a writer who has travelled extensively. She studied fiction at NZ Writers College and Creative Writing Dunedin and is a member of NZSA. Judy lives in Christchurch with her husband, who shares her passion for food, love and adventure, the elements in her writing. A turning point for Judy was walking barefoot on fire at a seminar. No blisters cemented her belief that anything is possible in life.
