I started my rental car and hesitated for maybe thirty seconds before going to Cindy’s Flowers instead of the Holiday Inn.

It looked like a prosperous place on the outside, with a very pretty Easter-decorated front window. I powdered my nose and inexplicably took the pins out of my hair and brushed it out before I left the car. The front of the store held displays of both silk flowers and live plants, and some samples of special arrangements for weddings and funerals. There was a huge refrigerator case, a small counter for paying. The large work area in the back was almost totally open to view. Two women were working there. One, an artificial blond in her fifties, was putting white lilies on a styrofoam cross. The other, who had very short dark hair and was about ten years younger, seemed to be making a “congratulations on the male baby” bouquet in a blue straw basket shaped like a bassinet. Being a florist was a rites-of-passage occupation, like being a caterer-or a minister.

The women glanced at each other to see who was going to help me, and the dark-haired woman said, “You finish, Ruth, you’re almost done.” She came forward to help me silently and quickly in her practical Nikes, ready to listen but obviously in a hurry.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

She had large dark eyes and a pixie haircut. Her face and her whole body were lean. She was beautifully made up and wore bifocals. Her nails were long and oval and covered with clear polish.

“Um. I’m just here for a couple of days, and I suddenly realized my mother’s birthday is tomorrow. I’d like to send her some flowers.”

“From the sunny South,” she commented, as she picked up a pad and pen. “What did you have in mind?”

I wasn’t used to being so identifiable. Every time I opened my mouth, people knew one thing about me for sure; I wasn’t from around here.

“Mixed spring flowers, something around forty dollars,” I said at random.