Candace’s feet ached. She’d been on them for hours, dealing with last minute Valentine’s Day orders. She hitched a hip onto the tall stool behind the counter and sighed as the pressure lifted from her ankles and arches. At the moment, the shop was empty. Not only empty of customers. It was empty of roses, freesia, baby’s breath, alstroemeria, lilies… Her brain was too tired to list the rest. Men were the worst. You’d think they didn’t know how to read a calendar. February 14th was the same day every year, for Pete’s sake. And the worst of the worst sauntered in on their way home from work, with only minutes to spare before closing, and were shocked, angry, dismayed, and petulant when she couldn’t magic up a glorious bouquet at their behest. She hoped the hearts of the women they had belatedly remembered wouldn’t be too battered at this evidence of their partner’s inattention. The bell above the door chimed. She closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and prepared to do what she could for the final poor sap of the day. When she looked over the counter, she had to adjust her gaze down. The boy was maybe eight, with a thin face and a wing of dark hair falling over his forehead. Bold framed spectacles gave him a scholarly air, despite his youth. The navy-blue puffy parka he wore only emphasized his gawky frame. “Hello,” she said. “What can I do for you?” “I’d like to get some flowers.” He pulled a crumpled bundle of cash out of his pocket. “I don’t have very much left,” Candace said with none of the impatience she’d offered the other latecomers. “I wish you’d got here sooner.” “I had to wait for my dad to get off work. I made him bring me.” The boy nodded over his shoulder. Outside the wide display window, a large truck sat at the curb, snow frozen on the hood, dirt and grime dulling its bright blue paint. “I see. Are the flowers for your mother?” She moved toward the cooler, wondering what she could scramble together. “No. She’d dead.” He said it so matter-of-factly that Candace had moved on three more steps before it registered. She stopped and looked down at the boy, standing at her elbow. “I’m so sorry.” “Thank you.” The words were polite but empty. “They’re for my dad. Mom always bought him flowers for Valentine’s Day. He’d say he’d rather have chocolates, that real men didn’t want flowers, but I know he was only teasing her because he always kissed her for a long time after.” Her heart splintered. “It’s lovely that you want to do this. Let’s see what we can find.” Real men might not want flowers, but real men who were raising a son with the perception and sweetness of this boy deserved something special. And after all the saccharine sweetness of the other bouquets, it would be a welcome challenge. She found a small clay pot in glossy black and stuffed it with florist’s foam. From a bucket in the far back of the cooler she pulled cedar fronds, pine fans, and thin birch branches. A couple of white carnations that had escaped her earlier pillaging added a pop of colour. She stepped back and studied it with a finger on her chin. “It needs one more thing. Wait here.” She hurried to the storage room where off-season items were kept. She rifled through a box of Christmas décor and gave an exclamation of satisfaction. Returning to the front, she plucked a thin but strong piece of wire from her supply table. After winding it swiftly around the front and rear axles of the old-fashioned truck she’d liberated from Christmas Past, she poked it into the middle of the bouquet. The truck was almost as bright a blue as the one parked at her curb, and it even had snow artistically painted on its fenders, roof, and hood. “What do you think?” She turned the creation toward the boy, who been unnaturally quiet as she’d worked. His face broke into a wide smile. “It’s not what Mom used to get him, but I think it’s perfect. How much is it?” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it was no-charge. But she didn’t want to belittle his gesture by refusing payment. “How much do you have?” “Twenty-one dollars and fifty cents.” “Isn’t that lucky! I sell this design for fifteen dollars. Of course, there are taxes on top of that.” He nodded solemnly. She rang up the sale, took the money warmed by his small hand, and gave him the change, just as the door opened again. “Everything okay in here?” “You weren’t supposed to come in, Dad!” Dismay rang clear in the boy’s voice. “I don’t want you to see until we get home.” Candace swiftly lowered the arrangement below the counter. “I’ll wrap it up to hide it,” she said. “Just give me a minute.” She ripped off a long strip of paper from the roll she usually used to envelope small, hand-held bouquets. Working on the floor was awkward, but she managed at last. When she lifted it back onto the counter, she got her first look at “Dad.” He was tall and thin, with the same shock of dark hair on his forehead as his son. Grey tinted his short sideburns and the lines on his face cut deep. She wondered if his wife had died recently, if the lines were grief or simple single-parent exhaustion. “You have a wonderful son,” she said as she handed the arrangement over to the boy. Love lifted some of the weariness out of his expression. “Yes. Thanks for helping him. I know you should be closed by now.” “Not a problem.” Father and son moved toward the door. As his dad opened it, the boy turned back to her. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she echoed. “Come again.” She said that to all her customers. But she really wanted to see this pair again. Wanted to see what the man looked like with a smile on his face. *** I'd love to hear what you think of this little story. 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