Chapter Eleven
The Victorian “language of flowers” assigned meanings to many herbs and flowers. Those who were in on the secret language could exchange coded messages in nosegays. For instance, a white daisy (“innocence, simplicity”), a rosebud (“beauty”), a red carnation (“ardent love”), and fern (“deep sincerity”) could be interpreted as “I love your beautiful innocence with a deep sincerity.”
Some plants had double meanings. Lavender, for instance, signified both devotion and constancy and distrust and suspicion. The darker meaning arose from the ancient notion that asps (the deadly viper that killed Cleopatra) preferred to live beneath the lavender plant. An unwary admirer of the lavender might be bitten, so it was wise to approach the plant with a cautious distrust.
“The Victorian Language of Herbs and Flowers”
China Bayles
Pecan Springs Enterprise
Caitie and I didn’t get our girls’ night out, after all. She texted me to say that Sharon had invited her to stay all night, and since both girls were going to play rehearsal early morning, a sleepover made sense. I was glad to agree. There was something else, though, that Caitie didn’t mention in her text: Sharon lives across the street from Kevin, Caitie’s boyfriend, and I had the feeling that a get-together was in the works.
A few weeks before, Caitie and I had had the Boyfriend Conversation—not a talk about dos and don’ts, but about questions she needed to consider. We talked about what it means to have a boyfriend at fourteen, and how that might change at eighteen or twenty or twenty-three. (She’s curious, naturally, about Brian and Casey.) About why she wants a boyfriend and why (in her opinion) Kevin wants a girlfriend. About respecting her body and saying no to sexual activity beyond holding hands and (maybe) kissing. Since I knew Kevin, I didn’t think we had to go into the part about sexting or giving in to a boy who says if you don’t, you’re not cool.
But now there was a terribly unsettling complication: Kevin’s illness. Helen had said that the family didn’t plan to tell friends about it until after the surgery. But that didn’t mean that Kevin wouldn’t jump the gun and tell Caitie what was going on. In fact, I would be surprised if he didn’t—and that worried me. I’m sure she remembers that her aunt died of cancer. How would she handle this?
But since Helen had asked me not to broadcast the news, there was nothing I could do to prepare her. So I simply texted her back: Okay with me, sweetie. Be sure and thank Sharon’s mom, have fun, and behave yourself. (Of course you will ) This kind of Mom-talk is still new to me, and I’m not sure I always get it right, but I’m learning. Caitie is a good teacher.
With my husband and daughter both gone for the evening, I had a quiet evening alone, the first in a long time. That is, I was as alone as a person can be in the affectionate company of a basset with an agenda and a cat who adores laps. I ate my sandwich-and-soup supper with Mr. P lying across my knees and Winchester beside my chair, drooling over the possibility of a bite of sandwich and permission to lick my soup bowl. Winchester is devoted to food—any food, all food (but especially bagels and pizza). When we’re eating, he offers up a plaintive, whining murmur and an imploring expression that will win even the hardest heart. I can’t resist him, so he got the four crusty corners of my sandwich.
I was rinsing my few dishes when Blackie phoned with an update. Sheila was doing well, he said, but he was having a hard time keeping her out of uniform. With a chuckle, he added. “I may have to resort to sterner measures—locking up her badge and duty belt, maybe. She says to say hi, and thanks.”
Blackie’s call was followed by one from McQuaid, in Lubbock. He was in his element and loving it. As a former homicide detective, there’s nothing he likes better than sorting through a mess of conflicting testimony—lies, half lies, deceptions, and dishonesties—and coming up with the truth, or the closest approximation thereof. I wondered what kind of questions he would pose to my ghost, but I wasn’t about to ask him. He’s snarky about Ruby’s encounters with the Universe (“mystical claptrap,” he calls it). I was sure he would say the same thing about whoever, or whatever, was haunting my shop—if that’s what was going on.
So I skipped that subject entirely, and we talked about his investigation, about Sheila’s health, and about Dixie Chick and Extra Crispy and the incredibly black rooster who was capable of producing his half of thirty-five thousand dollars a year just by doing what comes naturally.
And then I told him about Kevin’s brain tumor, asking him to keep the news to himself. “Helen doesn’t want us to tell Caitie until the family is ready to announce it,” I said.
McQuaid was as shocked as I had been. “It’s just not something you think about with kids,” he said sadly. And I agreed. Surgery and radiation and chemotherapy don’t belong in a kid’s life. It was a somber end to our conversation.
After we hung up, I spent some time on my laptop, working on the article on Queen Anne’s lace for the Enterprise. I went lightly on the traditional contraceptive and abortifacient uses of the plant (a touchy subject for some readers) and paid more attention to its use as a wild forage plant and its evolutionary role in the ancestry of today’s garden carrot. Which led me to consider which of a half dozen recipes from my file
