Sleeping with Anemone

you consume will be loaded with those same hormones, which can disrupt your endocrine system and have all kinds of harmful effects on your body?”

“That’s awful!” one of them declared.

I slid two glossy eight by tens toward them. “These are photos of hormone-injected cows. Take a look at those udders.”

“Oh, my!” the other said as both women drew back in horror. “They’re dragging on the ground!” Only a woman could begin to understand the cows’ discomfort.

People were starting to gather behind the pair, so, holding up my clipboard with the yellow notebook paper on it, I continued. “This petition is to stop Uniworld from opening their dairy farm factory unless they guarantee, in writing, that they will not inject cows with hormones. Will you help by adding your names to this list?”

“We’ll think about it,” the first woman said with an apologetic smile, backing away, taking her candy and most of the crowd with her.

“What’s there to think about except ending the poor animals’ suffering?” I called.

Before they could escape completely, I added, “Remember Bloomers when you need flowers.”

It was my first year exhibiting at New Chapel, Indiana’s, Winter Home and Garden Show, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. With the exposition center’s cavernous hall filled with businesses from all over the county, where better to make people aware of the impending opening of the dairy farm, as well as to drum up business for my struggling flower shop? Where else would I be guaranteed masses of people desperate to escape the winter doldrums?

Rather than handing out free flowers to draw people in, I was giving away samples of my mother’s jelly beans. Artisan candy was the latest in Mom’s long list of creative endeavors, which included her infamous neon- hued Dancing Naked Monkey Table, her ginormous bowling pin-shaped hat rack, and her clothing and accessories line made out of one-inch wooden balls that gave a whole new meaning to the term beaded jacket. As with past projects, my mom, an excellent kindergarten teacher, expected me to sell her designer candy at Bloomers. Luckily she’d tested her initial batch on her family before offering it for sale; otherwise there would have been lawsuits involving blistered tongues and seared tonsils caused by her use of red pepper flakes for both flavor and color. She’d since switched to a recipe she promised was naturally sweet and mild.

Mom had sent her new batch with my thirteen-year-old niece, Tara, who promised I’d have amazing results. I hadn’t had a chance to sample them myself, so I took Tara’s word for it.

“We’ll sign your petition,” a young couple offered, stepping up to the table.

“It’s like I said before, Aunt Abby,” whispered Tara, sitting beside me, “aim for the young. The oldies just don’t get it.”

“Okay, first of all, I have been aiming young. I held two rallies on New Chapel U’s campus, both of which were covered by the local newspaper.” On page ten. Of the third section. Sadly, although my rallies brought out a lot of college kids who were more than willing to carry protest signs, the rallies weren’t very effective because students didn’t have a lot of buying power. I needed to reach serious shoppers.

“And second, don’t let your grandparents hear you call them oldies.” I glanced around to be sure my parents weren’t heading toward us at that very moment.

“Don’t worry. Grandma and Grandpa know they’re cool. But you’re gonna have to do better than that”-she pointed to my pathetically undersigned petition-“if you want to stop that farm factory from opening.”

“I know that, thank you very much.”

“You need more media attention, like a video on You-Tube . I can help you make one.”

Tara was the only grandchild in our family, born when I was fourteen years old, which sometimes made her feel more like a kid sister than a niece. She had shown up at the center that morning allegedly to keep me company. While I appreciated her camaraderie, I was fully aware that Tara never volunteered for anything unless there was something in it for her. I had yet to learn what that something was.

Looking bored, Tara rocked her chair back on two legs. “So, when are you and Uncle Marco going to set a wedding date?”

Aha! There was her hidden agenda. “Grandma sent you here to bug me about that, didn’t she?”

Tara looked offended. “Nuh-uh! It was totally my idea to help you.”

Right. “Okay, fine. I’m going to say this once, so listen close. Marco and I are still in the discussion stage. And by the way, he’s not your uncle. Have some jelly beans.” I pushed the bowl toward her.

“Not now, thanks. And by the way, you’re lucky you didn’t have to try Grandma’s first batch. I couldn’t swallow for two days. If you ask me, she should stick to her clay sculptures, and you and Hot Pockets Salvare should set a date.”

“How about just Mr. Salvare?”

Tara made a face. “He’s way too cool for that. Hmm. Let’s see. What should I call my aunt’s boyfriend-and- possible-future-husband? Oh, I know. How about uncle?”

“How about no?”

Her chair came down on all four legs as she reached for the petition and added her name in balloon letters. “So, when is Mr. Not-My-Uncle Salvare going to show up?”

“You’re just too cute for words, you know that? He said he’d come by in the afternoon. He’s working on a private investigation this morning.”

“My friends are jealous because you’re dating him. How many boyfriends go from Army Ranger Special Ops to owner of a bar named Down the Hatch, plus being a private eye?”

“Your friends aren’t jealous because I own Bloomers?”

“They’d be totally jealous if you owned Bloomers and were married to Mr. Army- Ranger-Bar-Owner-Private-Eye Salvare. How about Valentine’s Day? It’s the perfect day to get married and it’s the day before my birthday. So, a year from next week on the fourteenth?”

“Tara, would you stop? We’re already getting enough pressure from our families without you adding to it.”

She grinned. “You are?”

“Your mother and your aunt Portia send me flyers from every bridal shop in the greater Chicago area, Grandma has caterers calling me once a week, and Marco’s mom keeps tearing pages out of bridal magazines and mailing them to me. So trust me, when we make a decision, I’ll let everyone know.”

“Whatev.” She rocked back on her chair. “So, going back to my birthday…”

Now we were getting to the real agenda.

“Want to know what I want for a present?”

“I’m dying to find out.”

“You know the Barrow Boys are coming here to perform, right?”

“Who are the Barrow Boys?”

“OMG, Aunt Abby, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of the BBs. They’re just the hottest new boy band to come across the ocean in, like, decades. My friend Sonya Hucks texted me last night that tickets are available right now because they added a show on Valentine’s Day.”

“So you want a ticket to the concert for your birthday?”

“Actually,” she said, “I want you and Dreamy Eyes Salvare to take me to the concert.”

The agenda unfolds. “You want us to escort you? Why?”

“Because Mom and Dad won’t let me go unless I’m chaperoned, and you and Macho Marco are cool enough that I won’t look like the biggest nimrod ever.” Tara clasped her hands together. “Please, Aunt Abby? I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me.”

I studied her hopeful little face and felt a tug at my heart-strings. Tara was so much like me-blunt-cut, shoulder-length red hair, pert nose, freckles, short stature, and already showing signs of having curves-how could I resist her? In her acid-washed skinny jeans, banded-bottom flutter-sleeve plum top over a white turtleneck, and turquoise Blowfish ankle boots, she looked like a mini-model.

“I want written permission from your parents first.”

“Awesome. I’ll text Mom right now.” Her thumbs worked her cell phone at warp speed.