Loving Verity

by C. J. La Belle

“The greatest thing is to have someone who loves you, and to love in return.”

Winston Graham

************

Author’s note: The beginning of this story also appears in “Ghosts of Roses,” which is in the 2018 OnZine. But it is told here from vantage points other than Catherine’s. The story continues from there. “Ghosts of Roses” and “Loving Verity” are therefore companion pieces.

Also, Verity is a character first introduced in “Begetting the Rose,” which first appeared on the Batbland Challenges, by Judith Nolan.

This is the story of Verity and Roddy, and how Catherine and Vincent effect their lives.

We often discuss the difficulties those raised in the tunnels might face, as they try to live Above, and fall in love there. This story is partly inspired by those discussions.

************

“I won’t be long. I’m just going down to the bank.” Verity opened the front door of her shop, Panache Flowers. Overhead bells jangled. “Take good care of things for me while I’m gone.”

“Don’t I always?” Roddy, her assistant, looked aggrieved at the implication he would do any less. He shook his head at her.

“Okay, point taken.” Verity grinned, before letting the door swing shut behind her.

She wrinkled her nose as she joined the bustling streams of pedestrians on Duane Street, in Lower Manhattan. It would not do to have Roddy think he was fast becoming indispensable to her, even if it sometimes seemed like that was the case. And he was charming. That was a problem; a fairly unexpected one, for Verity.

No. Just… no. Verity brushed any attraction she felt for him aside. It would not do. Would not, and could not. She chose being alone for a reason. It suited her. And considering the secrets she was sworn to keep, it was something of a necessity. Being… unattached right now was the right thing.

Or it had been… She sighed. A sense of restlessness overtook her, and she lengthened her stride, trying to out-pace her growing doubts about her necessary state of aloneness, as she tried to out-pace the busy crowd, around her.

I need to go home for a visit. Sit with Mama and Papa. Say hello to Rebecca. Get a bowl of William’s stew and see how Mary is doing. Find out what Vincent’s been up to. It’s been too long. I need to remind myself of a few things, she chided herself.

Too many months spent Above, with little time for a visit home made it seem almost like a dream, and Verity knew full well it wasn’t that.

This weekend. Sometime this weekend. Sunday night, at the latest, she promised herself, weaving through the throng.

*******

Back in the doorway of the shop, Roddy shook his head some more. He hooked his thumbs into the side pockets of his jeans, as he watched Verity stride briskly out of sight, finally becoming engulfed by the pedestrian crowd.

And there she goes, he mused. Lately, his boss seemed to enjoy baiting him, and until now, he’d followed along. It was a weird kind of foreplay, where they danced around each other’s feelings, without truly saying anything about what was increasingly on their minds.

To Roddy, Verity was something of a puzzle. But she was a beautiful one, and her soft smile suited her. Her clothes were bohemian, and seemed as likely to be handmade as to have come from a good second hand store. He’d never seen her wear anything new, or sharply tailored, and unlike most women, she wore no jewelry, at all. Her handbag was a battered leather cast-off with a sturdy zipper but a tied-on strap. It was the kind of thing most people would have consigned to the refuse bin. Not Verity.

But the shop was doing fairly well, as near as Roddy could figure. She was making payments to Lady May, and as far as Roddy knew, they’d all been on time. There was some money to spare. She could afford a new purse, if she’d wanted one. She just didn’t seem interested in going shopping. That alone made her an oddity, in New York, as far as Roddy could tell.

She seemed to prefer books to TV, and admitted she didn’t watch much of the latter. One time he’d teased her over a missed inventory entry, and he’d told her “Lucy, you got some esplainin’ to do,” in his best Ricky Ricardo voice.

Puzzled, she’d simply looked at him and asked “Who’s Lucy?” He couldn’t believe she honestly hadn’t known. She was a smart, dedicated businesswoman. One who sometimes seemed to have stepped out of a different decade, or for that matter, a different century.

A dodgy radio they kept in the back was always tuned to a classical station, and it looked like a refugee from the nineteen fifties, rescued from Eli’s Repair Shop, on 3rd. An old fashioned treadle sewing machine sat in the corner of the basement, for whatever sewing she needed done, and she seemed very comfortable with it, and had declined any notion of trading it for a more modern one. A bright woman, she seemed far more comfortable with older things than newer ones. To Roddy, she seemed delightfully intelligent, yet fiercely private.

She kept to herself, often, and rarely discussed anything she’d done on weekends, unless it was about the business of running Panache. She lived in a tiny, hole-in-the-wall apartment that was literally right above the shop. Near as he could tell, she barely did more than sleep there. He wondered how she spent whatever spare time she had. And he wondered that, increasingly.

And none of this is going to get anything done before quitting time, Roddy scolded himself, turning to see what needed doing.

Roddy let the door close with a sigh, as he returned to the shop duties he had. Work to do, he reminded himself. He turned a pair of bonsai trees a quarter turn, in the display window, so they’d get an even amount of sun. They gave the shop an Oriental flair, and had been good sellers. He wondered if she’d order more, and figured he’d better leave her a note, to remind her to.

Normally very focused, she’d occasionally seemed… distractible, at times. Recently, she’d snagged her finger on a sharp thorn of a newly purchased rose bush; something she almost never did.

Roddy remembered her surprise, when it had happened.

“Stupid! I can’t believe I did that.”

“Careful. The thorns are sharp, Verity.”

“Yes, but… I didn’t get that kind of vibe from it.”

Roddy had no idea what a “vibe” had to do with a rose bush. A thorn was a thorn, and the plant in question had its share.

She’d continued to chide herself for not paying attention, even as Roddy had tended to her from the first-aid kit they kept in the shop’s back office. She’d watched him dress her small wound in silence, each of them aware of the subtle – and not so subtle – tension that seemed to fill the small room.

It had been all Roddy could do to stop himself from raising her abused flesh to his lips and kissing it better. He had badly wanted to do so.

Who knew where such an action might lead? He’d wished she would let her guard down, and talk to him about the awareness, growing between them.

I should have gone for it, he castigated himself. Hindsight was 20/20.

But Verity was already prickly enough, without adding such an intimacy into their mix. They didn’t need that, on top of their difficulties of being unable to broach the subject of how they felt about each other. With her fingers held within his, he’d felt her tremble, even as she seemed about to speak. Then she’d snatched her hand away, and blushed with confusion.

What? Tell me. He remembered thinking it.

But Verity, looking as if she’d wanted to say something, had clamped her beautiful lips together, set her firm jaw, and said nothing more.

She does that sometimes, Roddy mused. More than “sometimes.” Like she’s just about to say or do something… and then remembers some reason why she shouldn’t.

He straightened a selection of artwork they sold. He liked the craggy view off Montauk. Which was perfectly reasonable, since he’d painted it. He remembered surfing in the cool water, afterwards. It had been a good day. A small canvas of a brilliant yellow tea rose joined the selection. Its twin was on vibrant display, in the back room.

How much do you like what I do, Verity? he wondered, and not for the first time. She was an enigma, to Roddy. Perhaps more on the day she’d pricked her finger than on any other.

He couldn’t tell how much she liked his art, not really. Or his hobbies. Or much else about him. She rarely said.

Yet, there’s something… Roddy was sure he wasn’t imagining the energy that sometimes all but sparked, between them.

After her injury, the offending rose bush had been deposited out of sight, at the far end of the line in the greenhouse, at the back of the shop.  They had spoken no more of the troubling moment. But he’d replayed it in his mind, again and again.

I felt you tremble. I felt you want to say something. I know I did.

“Women…” Roddy sighed as he shrugged, before tackling some of the heavier aspects of his work.

Mindful that the bells over the door would alert him if a customer came in, he retreated to the back of the shop, and man-handled a stack of bagged potting soil mix back into its proper place. Working kept his hands busy, even as his mind wandered back to his many plans for getting Verity to finally agree to go out with him.

What more would it take? he wondered.

He already worked here for next to nothing, and helped out far more than he’d originally intended. He was no fool about the chemistry he had with her, and no fool about the fact that she was avoiding that, yet gave no reason for it. His patience was being stretched thin, and all for a relationship that wasn’t really happening, and for no reason he could clearly name.

He finished with the potting soil, then set to bringing out a few more of the paintings he had for sale. Allowing him to sell and display his artwork here was an agreement between himself and Verity. Anything he sold was his money to keep, she wanted no fee for letting him show his wares, here. Considering how minimal his salary was, it was a fair agreement, but he knew other places who’d want half his asking price, as a fee.

Verity was generous, in her way.

And damn close-mouthed, on the other, Roddy mused. Once he had the extra canvases the way he wanted them, he moved on to other things. He sprinkled fish food in a bromeliad-framed pond full of goldfish, and tended a potted palm. The small labor kept his hands busy, and his mind free to wander.

But before long, the shop doorbell jangled. Roddy looked up to assess his new customer.

He watched a well-dressed young woman enter, hesitantly. Lawyer. Or Wall Street, Roddy predicted, silently. He enjoyed playing the game of “guess about the customer.” She was dressed for the business world, and everything about her, from her salon-cut, ash blonde, shoulder length hair, to her thin gold watch, to her taupe heels, telegraphed her position in society. Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief, he recited mentally, realizing he’d hit on ‘lawyer’ twice, with the assertion.

He wondered if other people could look at him and guess “artist,” or even “surfer,” when they took a stab at it. Perhaps some of them could. Verity had. With a tube of zinc oxide often around his neck and a surf shop tee, he didn’t fit the usual profile of a flower-shop assistant.

Watching his latest customer move, he definitely settled on “lawyer,” because she had that poised, no-nonsense look of an attorney about her. She didn’t look like she was “browsing” so much as she looked like she was “assessing;” adding up various pros and cons, inside a well-trained mind. Lawyers did that.

Her clothing had a conservatively tailored, yet feminine flair, and she was focused on the matter at hand. An expensive coat, subtle make-up, and a leather shoulder bag that could easily double as a brief case added to her overall sense of style. She glanced at the bonsai trees in the display window, and Roddy got the feeling she’d cross-examine one of them, if she could.

He watched her inhale the shop’s constant fragrance: that of multiple plants mixed with good earth, and she closed her lovely eyes, briefly. A quite different look came over her, then, and she seemed to smile wistfully, as if remembering something.

Or someone, Roddy thought. Ah. A romantic. He knew a person’s occupation didn’t preclude that, as being part of their nature.

She opened her eyes and looked around cautiously, as if still unsure of her ground.

She’s not certain what she’s here for. She’s a little unsteady. So, maybe a newbie to gardening, then, he thought.

Roddy saw her grimace, as she frowned at a huge, hanging basket full of trailing ivy. Then, her dissatisfied gaze strayed to a shelf full of potted cacti. She even took a couple of steps towards them, and then she stopped moving.

Roddy edged closer, but still kept a selection of flower-filled vases, between them, shielding him from the woman’s direct view. He liked to study and assess. She had a firm jaw, firm as Verity’s, and she was setting it, now.

She’s had ivy before. But she doesn’t want to buy more of it. She doesn’t really want a cactus. She’s looking for something… else.

He was not often wrong in the customer’s final choice of a flower or plant. And he was close enough to hear her debating with herself. Her voice was breathily husky.

“I can’t really go wrong with ivy…” She turned back towards the pots at the door of the shop. “Or something artificial…” She sighed roughly.

He saw her lift her frowning gaze to one of his latest art pieces; one that he’d hung in a line above a shelf of potted plants. It was a good and safe choice. There was no upkeep in a painted rose. He watched as she almost reached for it, but she stopped, and sighed again.

Roddy smiled. She really is unsure. And she’s definitely looking for zero upkeep. Time to intervene…

“Can I help you, Miss?” he asked.

“Busted...” His customer grimaced, as she turned to face him.

She took in his long red hair, tied back with a leather thong at the nape of his neck. Her sea-green eyes assessed his old blue jeans and baggy t-shirt. And while those were innocuous enough, her look said she didn’t think he fit in here anymore than she did. In a way, he knew she was right about that.

Roddy knew his suntanned forearms and general appearance didn’t fit the mold of either a be-aproned shop owner, or the chief florist-in-residence of a business on the rise. Time in the sun had left copper streaks in his hair, even this far into the fall. He spent too much time in salt water for it not to. There was a paint smear on the knee of his jeans, and aside from the zinc oxide necklace, he wore a rubber wrist bracelet that said “Hang Ten.”  He knew he looked more like the surfer that he was, and not a retail assistant. Mentally, he shrugged. He got that look a lot.

Relaxing his tall, lanky frame, as he moved closer towards her petite one, and gave her his best welcoming smile. He allowed it to reach his eyes, warming their navy darkness to a lighter shade that most women seemed to find attractive. All, except one...

He saw the young woman visibly relax. It seldom failed.

“Do you need help making your selection?” he asked politely.

“I don’t…” She swallowed tightly. “I… I’m not sure. I was just passing. Someone told me this was a very nice shop, that the owner is very good with different kinds of plants. Ones that do well in the city?”

Roddy nodded. “I’m afraid Verity’s out right now. You just missed her. You’ll have to make do with me. I’m Roddy, her best assistant. Which makes me her only assistant.” The smile remained. “I make the deliveries and do the grunt work, mostly.” He held out his large hand, which the young woman briefly shook.

“I’m looking for a plant. I think.” She looked harassed, and glanced pointedly at her wristwatch.

Okay, so she’s on the clock and needs some room to think, and wander. Coming in here was something between an impulse and a decision. Right...

“We’ll soon get you settled,” he promised. “We aim to please.”

Roddy’s smile widened. Wisely, he showed no judgement on her capabilities, but knew that reaching for cacti or ivy was a dead give-away. They were the hard-to-kill plants that either needed next to no care, or were very forgiving, if they got neglected.

He hooked his thumbs once more into the side pockets of his jeans. “Well, you’re entirely right about our rep. I know a lot about what we sell. Was there something particular you were looking for? Or would you just like to browse?”

In spite of the fact that she’d glanced at her watch, something about her told Roddy to give her room, and that she’d come to some sort of conclusion mostly on her own. He’d have to see if that decision was the right one.

“Just browse, I think,” the shopper answered quickly. She cast one last look at Roddy’s paintings, before moving resolutely away. “I want to get my bearings. But don’t go too far. I’m probably going to ask a lot of ridiculous questions.” She huffed a dissatisfied sigh as her glance strayed to a section of dish gardens. “I’m afraid I don’t do this very often.”

Roddy grinned sympathetically. “Well, for starters, there’s no such thing as a ridiculous question. And there’s only two kinds of answers, according to Verity. The right one and the other one.”

“There are, indeed.” The young woman nodded. She even smiled, just a bit.

“So, our stock is pretty big. We should have just what you are looking for…” Roddy tilted his head, watching her indecision about where to begin. “There’s a lot in this section you can enjoy, but… for the very special stuff, you might want a peek back there.” He indicated a slatted plastic curtain over a doorway, one that led to the greenhouse, at the back of the store.

The doorbell jangled, and another customer came in. Roddy maintained his “best assistant” mode, guiding the newcomer towards the rows of potted plants she’d asked to see.

Out of the corner of his eye, he kept watch. His previous customer watched him work for a minute, then she continued to browse the laden shelves.

At last, she’d turned her attention to several low tables full of flowering plants. Instinctively, he knew they would displease her. That steady, assessing expression had returned to her face, and there was no smile to soften it, to indicate she was seeing anything she really wanted.

Nope, not marigolds. She likes the color, but not the smell. Roddy realized, as she sniffed a bright orange one, then put it down. Violets, maybe? He watched her take them in, then pass them by. Nope. Not violets. Too small. She was easy to read, for a man with an artist’s trained eye.

He guessed she was looking for a statement piece. Something to boost her newly-minted gardener’s confidence. If she liked what she got, maybe she’d be back. The season of gift-giving was still a few months away; perhaps she’d consider a wreath, or a centerpiece, as a gift for someone special. All flowering plants also had their seasons, and couldn’t be rushed.

Roddy guided his current customer to a selection of pansies, as he continued to watch the young woman shop. She passed by both the single-toned geraniums and the many colored mums, looking unimpressed. She finally stopped wandering, and nodded towards him, before she moved near the plastic curtain that led to the greenhouse area. He nodded back, as he continued to help the choosy female customer.

Hope she finds what she’s looking for, Roddy thought, as the “lawyer” pushed aside the clear, dangling strips of plastic, and stepped through.

He spent precious time helping his current charge. Mentally, he itched to seek out the previous one. He pictured her again, her winsome beauty and slender form, and a vision of roses suddenly popped into his head. That’s what she’d been drawn here to buy. He had no idea why, but it was an impression that would not be banished. She’d liked his picture of the tea rose. She was elegant, and classy, and so were roses. That must be it, he decided.

He finished serving his current customer with haste, totaled up the sale, logged it, and ushered her towards the door. Then, he turned to face the greenhouse, at the back of the shop. Hurrying to where the woman was, he was in time to see his notion of what would draw her being proved correct.

She was standing before the wall of rose bushes. Not touching, just looking. She seemed in awe of their selection. And confused by the display.

“Ah, I see you’ve found our best treasure,” he remarked, nodding towards the bank of roses, as he stood in the plastic doorway. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

He turned to tie the strips aside, so that she would feel comfortable being in the room alone with him, and so he could listen for more customers.

“They are,” she exclaimed, clearly admiring a yellow rose. “But, I’m afraid all I can do is look. These are way beyond my skills,” she admitted.

“Well, those are very special.” He walked over to one of the larger bushes, its sunny bounty on full display. “Yellow roses mean friendship. And that particular bush is descended from one that came from Robert E. Lee’s garden, according to its provenance. Do you like it?” he asked.

The young woman smiled, and inhaled the heady fragrance. “I do. I just don’t know if I’ve got the talent to grow something so… demanding,” she said, trailing her way down to the pink ones. She moved on to a peach colored blossom. It looked deeply ruffled.

“These are lovely.”

“The lady likes antiques! That’s an Adam rose. Hard to find them around here. 1835, on the original blooms. They’re one of the oldest varieties of tea roses ever produced. Most people like them as hedges, since the flowers are so large.”

“I barely have enough room for a good sized pot.” She shook her head, seeming deeply impressed with his knowledge. “I didn’t realize roses had dates attached to them.”

“The more highly prized ones do, the particular varieties. Were you interested in this one?”

She considered it, but shook her head. “I’m not really interested in growing a hedge. I live in an apartment. And… I’m not really much of a gardener.” She touched her hand to a pink petal so light it was nearly white. “Does this one have a name?”

“Antoine Rivoire. 1890’s. She’s younger than Adam, but just as pretty. But… the names of them aren’t so important. It’s more how it makes you feel, to look at them. At least… that’s how I always felt about it,” he qualified. “Horticulturalists might disagree.”

“I agree with you.” She studied the last few bushes, seeing that the final one had no open blooms.

“I think these are making me feel inferior, to tell you the truth,” she confided. “It must take a lot of time to do these justice. I don’t think I have that.” She glanced again at her wristwatch, and this time, she frowned at the dial.

Roddy folded his arms and smiled. “Now, don’t you go thinking that. A plant grows itself, doesn’t need you doing anything too special. Most people get all intimidated by the flower snobs, thinking if they don’t tend the plants 24/7, they’ll all just up and die. Truth is, a plant needs sun and water, some trimming, and fed a couple times a year.”

He indicated the small, stone fish pond in the middle of the room, complete with tinkling fountain. It was bubbling happily. Inside, the tiny gold and black fish darted. Water lilies floated and dipped, gracefully. An electric blue dragonfly skimmed back and forth across the water’s surface, deftly avoiding the possible danger of being consumed.

“Keeping these goldfish alive is much more demanding,” Roddy declared.

He drew closer to the remaining rose bushes. “Roses aren’t so picky. They just want to know you love ‘em.” He squatted down. “Water them from down near the roots, so you don’t get mold on the leaves, and keep them where there’s plenty of morning sun, and they’ll be good to you. Let ‘em dry out in between the waterings, and feed them a little bone meal twice a year to make up for the fact that they’re in a pot, and they should do well. I can sell you a small bag, if you want, but not right now. Ours have all been fed.”

The young woman walked quickly to a stand of pretty American Beauty roses. Her shoulders tensed with indecision. “I don’t know…”

She’s doubting herself again, Roddy noted.

He rose to his feet, but remained still, letting her look, and not wanting to pressure her. “We still have those pots of ivy in the front…or there’s the cacti. If you’d rather take the safe option.” Come on. Take a chance. Something tells me it wouldn’t be your first one.

The young woman frowned, narrowing her eyes as she considered him. Roddy waited for his words to take effect. He was becoming increasingly sure of his ground. She doesn’t like the notion that she can’t handle something, he assessed correctly.

“What about this one?” she finally asked, eyeing the last rosebush on the end. It had several closed buds, but no open blooms. “What color will it be?”

It was the very bush Verity had snagged her fingertip on, last week. Roddy wanted to warn the young woman to be careful, but she seemed disinclined to touch it.

“Oh, that one.” He shrugged. “That one is a bit of a mystery, yet. Kind of special. Verity says even she doesn’t know, for sure. We’re waiting.”

“You don’t know?” The young woman’s raised eyebrow told him she thought that was odd. Roddy had to admit that it was.

“Some things we get have a long provenance. Others… not so much.” Roddy compressed his lips. He took down a clip board hanging on a nearby hook. It was near a set of shelves that held large, empty pots.

“It says it’s a New Yorker, and does well in the area. Must not mind the cold, come winter, though of course it will be dead-headed, by then.” He maintained his position opposite from Catherine, close to the plant. “Must be a late bloomer,” he said, tracing a careful finger up one of the stems, avoiding the spikes. For some reason, I get the feeling you know a little about those. “It’s healthy, though. The paperwork on it says it might have more than one color of bloom,” he mused.

“Isn’t that … unusual?” she asked.

“All but unheard of, if they mean two really different colors, and not just variations on the same shade, like different pinks.” He looked at it, wonderingly.

“How is that possible?” She followed his gaze and traced up the stem with her eyes. The glossy leaves had the smile almost returning to her lovely face. Roddy noted it, with silent approval.

He shook his head. “You know nature. Something exceptional happens almost every day.” He moved back, leaving her to admire the least lovely rose bush they currently had. Most people wouldn’t buy a bush if it wasn’t blooming. Especially if you couldn’t tell what the colors were. The plant has a secret. Is that why you like it? Hmm. I bet you know a few of those, too, he pondered.

“My terrace gets morning sun…” The young woman’s eyes remained on the vigorous green rose bush. It was dotted with the closed buds, and they continued to draw her eye. “I should have enough room. My apartment has a small balcony.”

Roddy frowned, as he watched her beautiful face closely, trying to pierce the puzzle she presented. He was good at guessing, but this one was proving elusive to pin down. There’s a lot to you and yet you choose to keep a great deal hidden...

Still, he could feel her indecision.

“A terrace. Should be perfect for just about anything,” he said, as she stepped back from the bush to take it in, then stepped near it, again, as if drawn to it. Calling you, is it? he thought. This is the longest you’ve stayed near anything in the shop.

She knelt down next to it, imitating Roddy’s earlier position.

“Any idea what part of New York it came from?” she asked.

Roddy checked the clipboard, again. “Not really. Just that it’s local. Kind of a native.”

The barely-there smile grew. “Like me. So it should do well here,” she surmised, trailing her hand up a long stem.

“Careful. She’s got some thorns. She’s an old-fashioned girl. She hasn’t been stripped of all her protection, like the more modern roses.”

The woman maintained her slight smile, and her green eyes lit up with admiration. “That means she’s a scrapper. I like that.” Her steady gaze followed the path of the stem to where a tight-closed bud gleamed. “She was born, and she survived…” she whispered.

Roddy raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing to that, even though her observation was a very curious one.

When she glanced up along the stem, he noticed a raised scar on her cheek, in front of her ear. It told him the young woman before him had survived something terrible, herself. Perhaps something traumatic. He admired her for it. So… you were born. And you survived, too?

She stayed right where she was, seeming to allow the rose bush to draw her in. Roddy watched her expressive features. She was clearly thinking about it. She wants you. Wants to see what you’re hiding. Like a Christmas present, or some other kind of gift. He stayed quiet as he watched the beautiful young woman weigh her options.

Take a chance on me, the rose seemed to be saying. Roddy could almost hear the sibilant whisper, as he watched a connection being made.

“This one,” she decided, no longer questioning her instincts. “I’d need a large pot?” she asked, rising.

“Great choice…” Roddy nodded approvingly.

Roddy knew that sometimes, the plants seemed to call out to their prospective owners. Clearly, this was just such a time. He hoped Verity would be pleased that he’d sold it.

“There’s a big one right here. And oh, look. It’s on sale,” he said, hefting the large clay pot.

His customer started giving instructions. “I’ll need some potting soil.” She glanced at her watch again, and exhaled a dissatisfied sigh. “And now I’m in a rush. I have to go, very soon. Work calls.”

“Okay, we’ll make this quick. We have the best soil, for roses. I’ll get you some,” Roddy said.

He carefully placed the rose bush inside the clay pot, before adding a bag of enriched earth. They both heard the bell over the shop door jangle, as Verity returned. They emerged from the greenhouse area, together.

“Hey, Verity. Just taking care of this lady, right here. Looks like she’s getting your mysterious rose bush,” Roddy said, taking the pot to the counter.

“Oh, that one! She’s keeps her beauty a secret. Came in with a shipment from just outside of town. She’s a local girl, but I don’t know much more. I’m surprised you’re getting her. I can’t say for sure even what color she’ll be, yet. Colors. Maybe.”

“Roddy says it might not do that?” her customer asked.

“Hybrids tend to produce one color, though you’ll get varieties of that. Like when you mix a yellow and a red to get an orange, or peach colored bloom. The new bush makes only that color, though you might get some nice shade variations of that. It rarely throws back to visit its parents,” Verity confirmed.

She looked at the bush speculatively, as Roddy rang up the sale and took the young woman’s offering of cash.

“Good luck with it,” Verity said. “Did Roddy tell you everything you need to know? You really do need to be aware of her thorns.” She held up one bandaged forefinger. “She even bit me last week. My own fault.”

“Roddy has been most helpful,” the young woman said. “I guess I’ll find out if I can manage, soon enough. And I’ll be careful to give her the respect she deserves.”

“Well, then, that’s great. Thanks for shopping with us. Let us know if we can be of help,” Verity replied.

“My pleasure. Now, I really need to run. Or my boss will kill me.”

“Come on, let’s get you on your way, then,” Roddy said. He followed her out with a handcart and loaded up her car, placing the pot and bush very carefully, in the floor space of the back seat. He shifted the soil so the pot wouldn’t tip over, on a sharp turn.

“Those paintings in the shop. Do you know the artist?” the woman paused to ask, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Intimately,” he replied, knowing she had no time to chat. “If you ever want one, we keep them on display.”

On a last-second impulse, he dragged out one of the rumpled business cards he carried in his back pocket. It advertised the name and address of his art studio, which was really his tiny apartment, a few blocks over. He figured a well-connected patron could be good for business. He tucked it inside the pot, next to the business card for Panache.

“’Bye, Miss,” he said, shutting the back door. He knew she had to go.

He stood back and watched, as his customer fastened her seat belt and started the engine. She gave him a nod, then, with the ease of long practice, she pulled her sedan seamlessly into the stream of impatient traffic.

“Good luck,” he whispered under his breath, echoing Verity’s sentiment.

Roddy watched the rapid flow of cars swallow her up, before he returned to the shop to find Verity, straightening out the day’s paperwork, near the old cash register.

“Nice job,” she complimented, studying the register tape. “You’ve been busy, while I’ve been at the bank.”

“No problem,” he said, wrestling the handcart back through the jangling door. “I think that makes us decidedly cash flush for the week. Want to close early and go grab a pizza? Celebrate?” he asked.

Keep it casual. Not like a date. He kept his eyes averted from hers, as he wheeled the handcart over, careful not to bump it into any of the laden shelves.

“Sorry, I can’t.” Verity shook her head in the negative, sending her own red curls to dancing. Her shade of red was much darker than Roddy’s, though he’d once teased that they might be related.

It was a thing Verity very much doubted, given her circumstances as a Tunnel-born woman.

She tried to soften her rejection of his idea. “I have… someplace I need to be this weekend. I’m long overdue for a chat, with certain people. “And I have so much I have to do, yet. I still have that last-minute order for those wedding bouquets to get finished, before tomorrow. But, go ahead. Pull the shade and flip the sign,” she said, noting the clock on the wall now indicated it was nearly three o’clock. “…if you want to get away early, that is,” she added.

Roddy shrugged aside his casual offer of pizza and did as she bid him. Looks like surf’s up, he said mentally.

Verity struck the pot, rose bush, and potting soil off her inventory, mentally cataloging the chores that lay ahead of her. She liked to close early on a Friday afternoon, and usually did so out of necessity. It cleared the way for her important weekend wedding duties, when she had those.

And she knew that Roddy had places he preferred to be, like out of town, on any given weekend. He usually could be found at the beach, watching the waves roll in. He’d told her he needed the space to breathe, and to think. That it was good for his creative side, and usually left him inspired to paint something new.

She surreptitiously glanced his way, as he re-aligned the pansies into good order. He’d sold several, and was now tidying up the space. But she could tell that his mind wasn’t really on the flowers, or the shelves he was tending.

You’re thinking about surfing, Verity almost heard him do it. After he had the shelf the way he wanted it, she watched him pull down the green window shade over the door, indicating they were closed. It said “Come Back Tomorrow!” on the side facing the street.

Verity glanced at the book where she logged in her sales. It had been a good week. One of the best ever, once the receipts for the wedding came in.

Looks like Lady May is getting paid back a little early, this month, Verity thought, happy at the prospect.

Busy, busy, she mused. Then, for no reason she could name, she flashed on Vincent.

Probably because I’m thinking of dropping in, she thought, ascribing it to nothing more than that.

Verity knew that Vincent sometimes liked to stop by, but never when the shop was open, for obvious reasons. If he was going to do that this evening, she wanted the place clear for him. Perhaps he’ll want another rose for his lady. The woman Verity thought she had yet to meet.

She was still waiting for Vincent to request a bunch of red roses. He’d once asked her for a single one, and Verity knew it had been for someone very special. Vincent had never asked for a rose before. But time had passed, and the expected order had not yet eventuated.

Summer was over, and October had just begun. To Verity, that meant the holiday season was coming up, fast. A couple months, and we’ll be in the gift giving season, she mused. Maybe there’s hope, after all. Perhaps I just need to make a little extra push, to focus his attention, Verity thought, even as Roddy collected his denim jacket, from a hook behind the register.

She gave Roddy a companionable nod, even as she held out hope that her adopted brother would pay her a visit. She wanted him to open up and tell her more about the mysterious woman he loved.

I’ll send him a message. Then I’ll work on the wedding bouquets, and wait to see if he’ll arrive, she decided. She never retired to bed until well after midnight. It was a thing she’d always had in common with Vincent.

Sleeping is such a waste of precious time…

“You’re always so mysterious about where you get to,” Roddy complained, jerking Verity’s attention back to his presence. “Is this that same ‘someplace’ you vanish off to sometimes? The one that doesn’t even have a phone?” he asked, shouldering his way into his jacket. “How do I contact you?” he added. “I mean, in case of fire, or something like that.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” she deflected, quickly.

“Odd choice your last customer made,” she commented, purposely diverting him. “In a nursery full of blooming plants, she picked the one with no flowers on it, yet. And those thorns are not for the unwary. Hope she doesn’t get hurt, and change her mind before Monday. I’ll be on the, um, other side of town until then.” I really owe Mama a visit. And a chance to tell Papa that the shop is doing well. And Lady May is always keen for updates about all that I do…

Verity had liked the strange rose bush, despite its armor of thorns. She’d gotten one of her odd “feelings” about it, from almost the moment she’d taken it off the truck. She wanted to see it if it really would produce two different colored blooms. And if it did, she wanted it gone to a good home, with a good caretaker. She wasn’t sure if the chic young woman who’d walked out of here with it could provide what it needed.

“Yeah,” Roddy agreed. “She seemed… drawn to it. And she seemed okay.” He shrugged, straightening the bags of plant fertilizer near the register. “I warned her to take care with it.”

Drawn to it? Was she now? Verity wondered, liking the idea of that.

Roddy shoved one bag on top of the other, so that the pile was more even. “She has the kind of face made to be captured in oils. But I don’t think she’s an artist’s model. Too classy for that. Pity, though. I’d surely like to have painted her.”

Verity knew that Roddy was a skillful artist, and he loved capturing the beauties he saw, no matter what kind of “beauty” that was. He’d wanted to paint her, but she had laughed off his suggestion. It was a very intimate exercise, and one she wasn’t sure she was ready for, with him.

Having Roddy’s attentions fixed solely on her as he’d tended to her injured finger last week, had only added to her rising state of confusion, about him. For a moment, she knew she’d wanted him to kiss her finger, to lave her abused flesh with his tongue, and draw her into his arms, all unresisting.

Frightened of the consequences of such a thought, she’d nearly screamed her instinctive denial, and pulled away from him, in haste.

We can’t, Roddy. Even if I want to, we can’t. You have no idea who I am. Or where I come from…

He’d allowed her to disengage, but she had seen the disappointment in his expression, and felt ashamed. Roddy was a good man, he deserved better than an attraction she could do next to nothing about. She’d tried to put distance between them, but short of firing him, she was at a loss as to what to do next.

This will pass. It will fade. He’ll find some other girl. He’ll move on. Even as she thought it, she wasn’t sure how that made her feel.

“I think she liked my paintings,” Roddy said. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll see her, again,” he added, still talking about their last customer, since that seemed to be what Verity was allowing them to discuss.

“So you think she’s a local woman?” Verity asked now, trying to distract her own thoughts. Roddy didn’t know about either her history, or her family “gifts,” other than that she seemed very intuitive, and good at matching people with the flowers they favored. Since he was fairly good at that himself, that wasn’t a thing he thought was odd.

Roddy frowned, considering her question. “Probably. She made some remark about being a native. She had New York plates and the car was in good shape. She looked like Park Avenue. No wedding ring, though. Divorced, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Verity replied, knowing that many women who worked in New York were well-heeled and unmarried. “You get a name?”

“Nope,” he realized. “She never said, and she paid with cash. It’s in the till. I’m gonna go straighten up in the back, then leave. You sure you don’t want to share a pizza? I haven’t had a chance to eat today, and I’m starving.” He tried one more time.

Verity opened the cash drawer to total up the afternoon’s take. “No, thanks. I really do have something to d —”

The last vowel died on her lips, as her fingertips contacted the twenties, in the old-fashioned till. The notes on top belonged to the mysterious young woman they’d just been discussing, their last customer of the day. And a sensation similar to a mild electric shock raced up Verity’s arm. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck rose.

Well, well, she thought, leaving her fingertips right where they were, directly over the picture of Andrew Jackson. Her hand fairly hummed. Mild waves of positive energy pulsed through her.

Maybe somebody very special took that bush home, after all.

Though Verity possessed a certain amount of sympathetic magic, thanks to her great grandmother, it was a rare thing when money sent her such a vibe. Money was often handled, and rarely sentimental. It was usually only a piece of jewelry or some special memento that sent her this kind of sensation.

The ivory rose Vincent wore in a leather pouch around his neck fairly shouted at her, and the king on Father’s chess board had had Jacob’s fingers on it more times than she could comfortably count, so she “felt” him, if she handled it. But cash? Not usually. Almost never.

Unless she’s somehow connected to money. To wealth. And now to the rose bush…

Verity looked up toward the shop door. She closed her eyes, still able to ‘see’ the young woman, and her soft, timeless beauty. There had been something about her she could not quite put her finger on. Some mysterious connection that was yet to be made.

Against the cover of her eyelids, she saw rock walls and candlelight. Smelled earth and candle-smoke, and glimpsed an enchanted underground world. Enchanted, and very familiar.

Her eyelids snapped open. For reasons she wasn’t about to utter, she now wanted a name and an address to go with her last customer.

The last time my hand felt like this, Vincent let me see the rose he wears in the pouch that hangs around his neck. He said the woman he loves gave to him on the night of their first anniversary...

Verity shook her head, to clear it. In time, all things reveal themselves, if left alone to do so. She knew she hadn’t sat down with her family to gossip in a good long while, and the time had just slipped by her. For reasons she couldn’t quite name, it seemed like it was past time for another reunion.

“Good thing I’m planning on going down soon,” she whispered to herself, adding up the drawer.

Since the shop was doing so well, Sunday was the one day of luxury she could afford to take off, if she had no wedding bookings to deal with. She was suddenly very eager to re-connect with her tunnel family. She’d missed last Winterfest, and barely made up for it by being there for her mother’s birthday. That was months ago. Getting Panache off the ground and keeping it going seemed to take up all her time. She didn’t mind that. But she was aware of it. Just as she was aware that she still owed Lady May for lending her the money to open it.

Roddy shook his pony tail loose, and hung around a few moments longer, hoping Verity would change her mind about going out with him. When it seemed fairly obvious to him she wasn’t going to, he shrugged away his disappointment. “Okay, later, Verity. Be seeing you on Monday.”

The money was still sending mild tremors up Verity’s arm. “Roddy, that woman that was in here, that last customer. Can you tell me anything about more her?”

Roddy shrugged. “Not sure. Why the curiosity?”

Verity frowned, counting up the twenties from the drawer. “Just humor the woman who signs your paychecks. Think of it as a way to avoid unemployment.” They both knew she was kidding. Probably.

“I’m a struggling artist.” He laughed back at her. “I work for tip money on the deliveries, and the small wage you finally agreed to pay me. But you couldn’t do without me now, and we both know it.”

“Says who?” Verity frowned as she considered him. A face that was not quite handsome, but was indeed kind, settled into a thoughtful smile.

“Says me,” he teased back, then shrugged. “Not much I can tell you about her. She was really afraid of trying a rose bush at first, then left with that one. Says she’s got a terrace, and-”

“A terrace? Like… an upstairs balcony kind of terrace?”

“I think ‘balcony’ was a word she used, yeah. She said she lives in an apartment.”

“Anything else?”

“She said it gets good morning sun. What’s this about, Verity?”

“Good morning sun would mean her face places east. She’s getting the morning sun as it lights that side of the city. Did she say anything else? Anything about living off the park?”

“No. Me saying ‘She’s Park Avenue’ is just an expression. Why? Is one of the bills she gave me fake?” he asked, suddenly concerned. He’d been trying to help out. He didn’t want to cost Verity any money.

“No, no,” she said, holding up the cash. “As a matter of fact, I get the feeling that this is the most real money that’s been spent in here in a while.”

Roddy had no idea what she meant. Verity often said odd things like that. “I haven’t got a clue as to what that—”

The money isn’t fake. And neither is she. Nothing about this is fake, Roddy. Verity was positive of it.

“It means once you’re real, you can’t be made unreal. Like it says in the book,” she replied, not meaning to sound cryptic.

“What book?” Roddy stared at her. He shook his head. His employer was sometimes a mystery to him. One he’d like to know better. But she had more thorns than the old-fashioned roses she sold. “Still clueless, over here.”

Verity pushed the cash register drawer shut, and wrote down the total on a piece of paper. They could go, now. There wasn’t enough cash to warrant a second trip to the bank.

“Children’s book. But more than,” she replied, initialing the log book. The store inventory wasn’t automated, and had no way to be that. What they ordered, bought and sold was largely kept in the ledger, and it helped Verity keep things straight. So far, it had worked.

“Children’s book, huh?” he asked.

Roddy stood before her, generously tall, and possessed of a steely kind of intensity that was not immediately obvious, unless you caught him in repose, without the mask of his trademark smile.

He was the kind of man who carried his strength on the inside, as her father was wont to say. He was a dreamer, yes, but Roddy was also grounded, and very honest. There was a practical side to him, and even a serious one; traits some might find unusual, in an artist.

“Yep,” she replied, settling the ledger below the counter. She glanced back up at him.

Roddy had arrived on a dark, rainy day last year, like a stray animal looking for a warm place, and a home. He’d not said much, at first. He saw she was very busy, and just started to help out around the place. His intimate knowledge of the plant world was quite staggering.

“The kind that start with ‘Once Upon a Time?’” He was trying to draw out their conversation. They both knew he should have been gone five minutes ago.

“Sure. You know the kind. Classic fable,” she replied.

“Like Cinderella?”

“No. Not like Cinderella. Kind of the opposite. Cinderella gets noticed for her beauty. That happens in a lot of stories. But not in this one.”

“Oh.” He left it at that, waiting for her to explain. Verity just gave him a look, which he returned.

Your childhood was lacking. And that’s about the only thing I can think about you that is, she thought. She picked up her purse, indicating they were done, for the day.

“We need to update your library card,” she said, heading for the door.

“I’ll look into it,” he promised.

The thing is, she knew he would. If Roddy said he’d do something, he could be counted on for it. She knew he had an easy way with the customers, one that was natural and winning. Shortly after he’d arrived, some of the regulars even asked to deal with him, regularly. Bluntly put, he was good for her business. The men found him helpful, and unthreatening. Some of the older ladies even brought him treats, and the younger women vied for his attention.

But for all that, Verity knew he often seemed to live in a world of his own creation. His paintings were proof of that. They weren’t just pictures of the way things actually looked. They were always, somehow… more.

I should send you away. I should have sent you away the minute I fell in love with your first painting, she thought, again, keeping her thoughts from him.

But now it was too late. He was good for business, bemused by any extra attention he received, and she had kind of gotten used to having him around. Like a well-worn pair of comfortable shoes, he suited her.

Yes, that’s it. He’s a pair of comfortable shoes. Nobody ever fell in love with a pair of bedroom slippers.

She walked toward the door and her “pair of comfortable shoes” trailed after her. How can you be so unlike everyone else, yet be completely ordinary? It was a question she’d often asked herself. And it was a puzzle she had no answer for. He was completely unlike the few other men she’d tried to date, either Above or Below. She’d found them all wanting, in some way. Most of the men who lived Below were very content to stay there, while she’d always wanted more. And as for the ones from Above, well. They hadn’t been the type you took home to meet your folks. Not her kind of folks, anyway.

Then again, nobody was quite like that, she knew. She opened her purse, and fussed inside it, for a moment. She watched Roddy through her lowered lashes. She’d been doing a lot of that lately.

“So, not Cinderella,” he prompted. “Something… more real.”

What? Oh. The book.

“Being real. It means… special.” Like the money. And the rose bush, she thought. Roddy simply looked at her, and waited for her to say something more.

“‘Special’ can mean a lot of things,” he replied.

“That it can, Roderick. That it can.” She shouldered the bag, and eased around him.

Roderick James Constantine, his New York State driver’s license had declared. He’d flashed it at her, when she’d demanded proof he was legal to drive, before she allowed him to make any deliveries in her van. But he’d never answered to that name, whenever she tried it out.

He’d said his grandmother had called him that, but only when he was hip deep in trouble. Which was fairly often, when he was younger.

Roddy sighed, watching her ease past him. She’s getting prickly, again. He wasn’t going to rise to her bait. “Real it is, then,” he replied easily.

Verity nodded. Farm boy. Artist. Surfer. You’re so many things, Roddy, and so different. And that scared her more than she cared to admit, even to herself. Her defense systems always went into overdrive, whenever she gave him space inside her mind. She was aware she had more thorns than any of her antique roses, sometimes, when she thought of him.

She smiled at him for no particular reason. Keep it light. Roddy is Roddy. She eyed his paintings. Flowers vied with seascapes, and even the ocean seemed “alive.”  These should be hanging in a high-end gallery somewhere, not here. It was a thing she’d told him, more than once. So far, he’d resisted all her attempts to get him to change his mind.

“Real is better than anything. It’s the best thing in the world,” she replied, realizing how “unreal” her life often was, as she said it. I live in a place almost no one knows about, and work in a place I’m trying to get well known. Irony. Being a woman of two worlds seemed to fill her life with it. “Real is the only thing worth wanting,” she stated surely.

“If you say so,” His response was a genial one, and he began buttoning up his jacket, his intentions to part from her, plain.

She eyed the dark indigo jacket, noting the spot of yellow paint at the cuff. She suspected he rather liked the starving artist angle. He sold some of his smaller pieces through the shop, when he needed to make ends meet. Larger works he often took to the weekend markets to sell. Whatever satisfaction that gave him, it seemed to be enough. As a matter of fact, she never recalled hearing him complain, about anything. That alone was a thing that made him unique among most New Yorkers.

Does nothing ever both you? You never say, she wondered.

He’d said his needs were simple and few, and that was all she knew. She was aware that he lived in a tiny, cold-water flat, over a deli, further down the street, and that though he sometimes offered to grab a bite to eat with her, he demanded nothing, from Verity.

Perversely she was beginning to find that habit somewhat annoying.

I touched the rose bush and got hurt, for it. You touched my hand. Something happened. She still wasn’t exactly sure “what.” Neither was he.

He wasn’t so unique a person as to remind her of Vincent. But then, no-one ever could be that. But on the other hand, there were things that did remind her of his friend: His willingness to help. His general lack of complaint. His heart seemed just as big, and just as reliable.

On impulse, Verity changed her evening plans, a part of her aware that she’d been fighting the urge to, for some few minutes.

Roddy just accepting they would part for the next two days, began to plan his drive out. If I make the bridge before the four o’clock rush starts, I should get there in plenty of time. While I’m there, maybe I can figure you out, he thought. He was planning his evening, and made no further request of her, as he fished his gloves out of his pockets.

Verity studied the clock on the wall, her keys still in her hand. “You know, I’m rethinking that pizza. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Maybe I’ll have time to share a slice or two with you, after all. And while we sit there, I’ll tell you the story of The Velveteen Rabbit. Your literary education needs some major revising.”

“Okay…” Roddy brightened immediately. Good-bye surfboard. Yay!

“I’ll be back in a minute.” Without further explanation, she retraced her steps and retreated through a dark fabric curtain. It hid the stairs that led into the basement area of the shop.

She wrote a note on a small chalkboard and hung it up for Vincent to find, warning him she was going to be busy, tonight, and likely not alone. Even if he happened to drop by. She wouldn’t be free for a visit.

She returned to the shop level, and reached for her jacket. “But, since we’re going out now, Roddy, it means that later, your time is mine. You’re going to have to help me with all those bouquets. It’ll take the two of us, if we’re to be done before midnight.”

“Sure!” Roddy replied, counting his good fortune, quickly dismissing the idea he had of going surfing for the weekend. “My grandmother grew a lot of flowers. But she was always too busy to tell me a lot of stories.”

Verity nodded, understanding that her own upbringing was fairly different. She’d been raised longing for green places, but awash in tall tales, myths, legends, and just plain “good stories.” They were opposites in many ways. Real opposites. My mother never grew a flower, in her life. She knew Roddy’s upbringing had been decidedly different. She told him as much. “My mom never had a garden. So I became a gardener,” she mused.

“There wasn’t a day I wasn’t covered in dirt. Or paint,” he replied.

They both knew that Roddy had been both working with and painting plants and animals since the time he’d been raised on his grandmother’s farm, in upstate New York. When the old lady had died, the farm had been sold to cover her large debts. Left with nothing, and no family, Roddy had become something of a drifter, finally ending up in New York. Once there, he’d plied his trade for almost a year, as a sidewalk artist. He wasn’t sure he quite fit in with the hustling, bustling, big city crowd. But it was where the art scene was, and he’d needed that. He said it fed his soul.

And then… Verity.

“Is that why you like the water? A way to get clean?” She asked, smiling up at him. He loved her smile. It looked like an invitation to play.

“Get sand up your suit on a wipeout, and ‘clean’ is the last thing you’ll feel like,” Roddy shared contentedly, as he held open the door for her. “I like water because I didn’t see much of it, growing up. Not like the coast. Not like the ocean.”

“A farm boy who likes the beach.”

“A girl whose mother never owned a garden, running a flower shop,” he returned.

Verity also seemed like a fish out of water, to Roddy. It was part of why he’d been nursing a secret crush on her. They were just better, together. If only I can get you to see that.

“Looks to be a nice afternoon out,” Verity said, taking in the bustling, Friday afternoon street traffic. “There should be a pretty moon out, tonight,” she added.

Her hand still tingled, just a bit, and now, so did her other growing sense of awareness. Roddy was pulling on a Mets baseball cap, both as head gear and as a way to cover his bright hair.

“Should be,” he agreed, tugging the door closed, behind them.

So we’re going out for pizza. Who knows? he thought, inclining his head as his boss’s slender frame moved closer to his. He took her shop keys from her hand and locked up for her.

Turning back to her, he took Verity’s arm through his, in old-fashioned style. He felt the late afternoon start to unfold, before him. Roddy decided to take a chance, just like his last customer had.

Right now, pizza, and… maybe a movie?

“I don’t really care for movies all that much,” Verity commented, watching his expression. “And we have all those bouquets to get made, remember?”

Roddy’s heart jumped with confusion. He was positive he hadn’t said anything aloud. But, okay, if she was trying to make conversation with him, he was game. Still, it struck him how often she did things like that, seemed to anticipate him, before he said anything.

“No? Well, I do. Sometimes. I used to watch “How Green Was My Valley” with my Gran. You’d have liked her.”

Verity got the image of an older woman. Her face was careworn, and her once red hair was very white. But her eyes were kind, and she held a crochet hook in her left hand.

“Was she a southpaw, like you?”

“Sure, I guess so. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just chatting.”

“You do that a lot, you know?”

Verity knew that she did.

“That woman who came in. You were curious about her, too. You never did say ‘why,’” he prompted.

Verity looked up at Roddy with very expressive eyes. “Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.

Anything. You can tell me anything. Especially as long as you’re looking at me that way. And keep talking. I love the musical sound of your voice…

“Of course. You know I won’t tell.”

“Yesterday, I went in the greenhouse and made peace with the rose bush. Once you get to know it, it’s… truly beautiful. Inside and out. Even if it can be defensive at times. It just needs to learn to trust its new owner.”

“Oh…kay,” Roddy said carefully. He knew Verity to be a fanciful creature. But she rarely spoke of the plants in quite those tones.

She smiled mistily. “Somebody loved it very much. A long time ago, maybe, and then, even after. Love follows it. It just does. I think it’s got red roses, in those buds. Deep red.  And the other ones are white.”

You mean light pink. Like a hybrid,” he said, gently correcting her.

“No, not pink. The red is red, it isn’t pink, and the white is white. Pure white. No pink at all.”

He smiled at her, indulgently. Such a thing was very unlikely. Two colors of bush might exist on two different bushes, planted together in the same pot, but one? It didn’t seem possible. The tag description that had accompanied the bush said simply: “ 1 Rose bush. 2 dif col, NY native.”

“Verity, we talked about this when it came off the truck. We both looked at the stem and root. There’s only one bush in there. Science says it can’t have two completely different colors. Just different shades of the—”

“Science does. But magic says something else. Aw, Roddy,” she said, reaching to cup his strong jaw. “Sometimes, you just gotta believe in magic; believe in miracles. There truly are fairies at the bottom of the garden. You simply have to look for them. There truly are more things in heaven and the earth…” Her sweet voice trailed away, leaving the quote unfinished.

And if the woman who just left with that rose bush is who I think she is, maybe you have to believe in a little bit more than that. I have so much I wish I could share with you…

Roddy knew she was trying to tell him something, something profound. But he also knew that she still didn’t trust him enough yet to let her guard completely down. We’ll work on that. There’s time, yet.

He felt her hand lightly touching his jaw, and very much liked it. I’ll believe in anything you want me to believe in, if it gets me another hour or two alone with you, he thought, unaware that Verity’s smile meant she practically heard him think it.

“You’ve no idea some of the things I might ask you to believe in, one day,” she said, unable to resist the reply. “There are spirits in everything. And traces of all they leave behind. Ghosts of memories. Everything has a ghost. Even the roses. Their scent remains, always, even if their substance has crumbled to dust. The world is full of the ghosts of roses.”

They both knew were going to spend the whole evening together, in close proximity. Who knew where it might lead… Verity was intrigued; they’d thought it at almost the same time.

After all, sleep is such a waste of precious time…

“If you say so,” Roddy answered. “Though you gotta admit, it sounds just a little crazy…”

“Oh, I do say so. I very much, do,” she whispered, positive she was right. “And crazy, it’s not. Sometimes, the flowers, well… they go on an adventure, just like people do. And wander, or even get lost. And sometimes, just maybe, when the time is right, they even find their way back home again. It truly is one of life’s most enduring mysteries…”

“Perhaps it’s really true that anything is possible, and nothing is quite as it seems…” Roddy offered softly, as they walked, arm in arm.

“Perhaps…” Verity sighed. “Maybe, one day soon, we’ll find out.”

************

A few weeks later…

Vincent returned from taking Sam Denton his medicine, to find a yellow rose lying across the corner of his writing table. The single bloom was large, and its soft fragrance seemed to fill the air near it. Yellow roses meant friendship.

He touched a fingertip to the soft petals, and knew who had placed it there. He was only surprised it had taken Verity so long to show up. It had been more than a year since he’d first asked her for that red rose to go with his message for Catherine, one where he’d wanted to talk to her about Ridley Children’s Home. Vincent had visited with her some other times, mostly with news of her family, or an invitation from William, or Rebecca.

He was aware that Verity had been expecting him back, to ask for more roses. The expectation shimmered in her eyes, every time Vincent visited the flower shop.

So far, the request had not materialized.

“It has been a long while since you’ve been in this room,” he commented idly, keeping his gaze on the rose. “What brings you here, now?”

“Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?” The question floated down from over his head.

Vincent looked up. Verity was standing inside the overhead entrance, very near where he had stood the day that Catherine, in her bandaged face, had told him she knew he was there.

“No. But it has been… some time,” he replied, knowing how busy she’d been.

The red-haired florist moved her shoulders slightly. “I know. I usually only have time to see Mama, and sometimes Mary. Rebecca wants to talk about her designs for Winterfest, and William has a few ideas. He wants me to grow some fresh herbs. I told him that was a marvelous idea.” She trailed a delicate hand along the railing, as she came down.

“The idea seems like a… prosperous one,” Vincent replied, watching her careful decent.

“It should be.  Papa keeps harping at me, but I think I’m wearing him down. A few days ago, he even brought me some messages to the shop. He says he enjoyed the walk. But he was probably just there to check up on me, make sure I wasn’t dead behind the register.” She frowned as she said it.

“Your father has been concerned for you, yes. But we knew that was a thing you would have to contend with, Verity.”

“I missed you the last time I came down.” She brushed talk of her father aside.

She had indeed “missed him.” He’d been getting his hand sliced open by a machete, on the docks, at the time.

“I heard of your visit,” he said, as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “All is well?”

She nodded, but he noted that her smile was a little forced, and didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I like it when you come to the shop to visit me,” she said. “And I know you can’t, always, so…” Her dark eyes searched his. “It has been a while since we had time to really talk. I needed to come Below.”

Vincent shrugged out of his cloak, hanging it over the back of his great chair. “I saw the message you left on the board, a few weeks ago. I hope your evening went well?”

He stated it as a question, as much as a comment, a thing only Vincent seemed able to do, quite that way.

Verity had convinced herself she’d only come Below for information about her mysterious rose bush buyer, from a few weeks ago. She drew in a ragged sigh. Faced with Vincent, now, the truth could not be denied. Her reasons for coming home were larger and more complicated than she wanted to let on.

She kept up the forced smile, as she crossed to meet her host. “It was fine,” she replied. It was more than fine. It was lovely. Roddy was so attentive. He tries to make me laugh. He does make me laugh. He listens to every word I say. But there are things I can’t say to him, questions I can’t answer. He makes me want to grab hold of him and just… She let the smile and the thought drift away, as she glanced around the amazing clutter of his room. For the most part, the space seemed unchanged.

“I think the last time I was in here, you were convincing me to go and talk to Lady May. Open up Panache,” she said, realizing just how much time had slipped by since she’d been in his room.

“I believe that’s correct,” Vincent replied, noting the flushed look of her cheeks. She dropped her eyes. Anxiety radiated from her. Vincent knew that whatever this was, it was likely not just a social call.

“Truth is, I was thinking… I might come back.” She lobbed her unexpected bombshell. “You know. Below. To live, again.” she qualified breathlessly. She dared to raise her brown eyes, to search his blue ones.

They’re beautiful, she thought. But they’re not dark, not like Roddy’s. Roddy’s go so deep, it’s like diving into a mysterious ocean. Oh, Vincent. What am I going to do?

Vincent sensed the depths of her turmoil. “The shop is not… doing well, then?” he asked, knowing he knew almost nothing about running a business.

He’d thought it was a successful one. Lady May had mentioned nothing to the contrary, and Verity almost always seemed busy. Too busy, at times, even to make time for his visits.

He was aware she’d taken on a helper some months before. He knew that much. A young man she’d called Roddy. Verity had said he was an artist, someone who preferred to paint rather than eat.

Vincent shook his head. He knew the type. Kristopher Gentian was such a man…or such a ghost…

Roddy’s presence in the shop had been behind the need to install the chalk board message system. Gone were the times Vincent could just stroll into the basement after dark, and find Verity working alone…

Is her assistant the cause of her unrest?

“Yes, that’s it. The shop’s not doing well.” Verity grabbed at the too-easy excuse. “I mean, it’s doing okay, but the hours are absolutely grueling, and I work weekends, because that’s when weddings take place, so even when we’re closed, I’m busy, and there’s inventory to keep track of, and shipments to unload, and… and I just didn’t think it would be th-that much… that much w-work,” she stammered, lowering her eyes, again. They fell on her impromptu gift. The bush it had come from was a fine one. One of Roddy’s favorites…

“There’s just so much nobody sees,” she said.

Indeed there is, Vincent thought, quietly watching her.

She twisted her agitated fingers together. “I have to keep track of everything. Plus design and create all the store samples. There are wreaths and centerpieces, bridal bouquets and vase arrangements… Home shows and corporate events… It’s too much. The holidays make all of it that much worse. And…”  She stopped in mid-falsehood. “Oh, Vincent, something truly terrible has happened.” Her lovely eyes grew large, and frightened. “What am I going to do?”

She moved away from him and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. Her fingers picked nervously at the hem of the tunnel blouse she wore. It was a habit she’d developed in childhood, when she’d been caught out in mischief.

Vincent noted that she was wearing her tunnel clothes, rather than topsider. She’d clearly changed, after she’d come down, wanting the comfort and familiarity of well-remembered things.

So much nobody sees, indeed, Vincent thought. And yet, when you first opened Panache, all of it… elated you. Fed your thirsty soul.

“Perhaps you should tell me of this great tragedy,” he replied, moving closer to her. She was clearly troubled by something. Something she’d told to no-one else, as far as he knew. No-one had carried messages to him, sharing their concerns, or at least no-one had come with concerns he wasn’t already aware of. Verity’s parents, especially her father, did not like her living Topside. They were on constant watch for any hint of trouble, or failure.

Verity’s mouth turned down at the corners. “It started the afternoon a young woman came in to buy a rose bush. No, that’s not really true. It started the day Roderick James Constantine walked into my shop, and applied for the delivery driver job. He just walked in, out of the rain, and… never left again. And, now…”

Loose tendrils of red hair were escaping from the barrette she’d used to tame it. As the hair fell forward, it obscured her delicate, upset visage. “I think I need to come home now, Vincent,” she repeated. “It’s…it’s the safest option.”

“For whom?” Vincent queried softly. “Did this man… hurt you?” he asked, fearing the worst, for a moment. Even without his natural sense of empathy, he could tell she was upset. With it, he knew she was utterly in turmoil.

“No! No, I… yes. Yes, he did. Not that way, but…he is hurting me. This does hurt. Everything hurts.” She cradled her midsection, for a moment. “Oh, Vincent… how do you stand it?”

She stood up from the bed and paced the chamber. A single tear fell, and she dashed it away. “I don’t like this. I’m not like this.” She said it with a certain tone of mutiny, in her voice, and it was one he well recognized. “I think about him all the time, now. All the time. The first thing in the morning, the last at night.” She flipped a hand in the air to encompass the totality of her distraction, and it landed with a slap on her skirt-clad thigh.

“When he’s gone, I don’t like it. And when he’s there… when he’s there…” The voice grew softer, more wistful.

Vincent had a feeling he knew what this was. “When he’s there, you feel as if you don’t quite know what to do with all this turmoil and confusion?” Vincent asked and answered, divining what this demonstration of unease was. “You feel that the peace of your solitude is a… forgotten thing…” He described.

She stopped pacing and whirled to face him. “Yes, that’s it! But it can’t be.” She shook her head vehemently, and more red tendrils came loose. “You know what we are; what this place is.” She extended an arm to encompass not only his chambers, but the whole, secret realm that existed beyond it. Her face looked hopeless. “This isn’t my secret to tell. So I never can. Papa hated the idea of my starting Panache to begin with. Mama wasn’t sure. Father tried to warn me, when I said I wanted to go up Top. He said I would not find it easy. He said the world up there was cold, and uncaring.”

“I remember,” Vincent said.

She tilted her head and looked at the rose. “It turns out they were right. It isn’t…so easy.”

His deep voice was gentle, but insistent. “Indeed it is not… easy. But not for the reasons they say. Verity, if you’re trying to tell me that you wish to return home because you’re seeking to escape from falling in love…”

Her look was indecipherable, it changed so quickly. “I…no. No, that’s not…Well, yes. All right, yes it is. But I don’t want this love, Vincent. It’s not… convenient,” Verity stated, aware of how ridiculous she sounded.

She inhaled deeply, gathering her thoughts. “I’m content with who I am, and what I am. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to start a business? And make a success of it? In New York, no less?”

They both knew it was a rhetorical question. “Panache meant - means everything, to me, and I swore if I could make that work, I’d never ask for anything else, ever. I don’t need anything- anyone else.” The mutinous stance was back. It had served her well, in the past. It had opened Panache, for one thing.

Vincent wasn’t sure that “mutiny” was needed, here, however. Or even if it would help.

“I know a thing or two about being content with who and what you are,” Vincent replied. “But love is rarely …convenient,” he said, knowing that, as well. “And the choice of who, or what you love, is never yours, in the first place.”

He watched her as she fretted, and took in his words. He stayed near, and dropped his voice low, with understanding. “A flower, or a garden, or … someone you meet. It is never easy, Verity. And, yes. It hurts. Sometimes.” They both knew it was true.

“Vincent…” Verity spread her hands. “You should be telling me to get to my chamber. To unpack, and that I should never even consider telling him,” she stated, knowing that of all the vulnerable people who lived Below, Vincent was the most vulnerable.

Vincent stepped away from her, knowing she needed room to burn off steam. She began to pace, again, just as he predicted she would. His eyes tracked her every movement, seeing all she left unsaid.

“You should tell me it’s impossible. That it isn’t safe,” she said.

“Is that what you would like me to tell you?” he asked. “Would it make it easier, if I did?”

That brought her up short. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe. It would take things out of my hands, at least. You have always cared for me. Supported me, in my dreams. Looked out for me, even. Look out for me now, Vincent. Tell me what to do. How to be.”

“And that allows you to blame me, rather than yourself, for whatever happens next,” Vincent replied wisely, knowing that “blame” was too harsh a word, yet it was the one that most likely fit.

Verity took another circuit of the room, twisting her fingers, again, as she went. “I told him my parents lived in Florida. Back when we first met. He wanted to know all about me. It was a stupid lie, but I did it to explain why they weren’t around. Now, he’s asking to meet them, even though they live far away. Or talk to them on the phone, at least.”

Ah. I see.

“He wants to know if I have any brothers and sisters, and I don’t even know how to answer that. Everything would be a lie.”

She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I could tell him I’m an only child, and that’s the truth. Or I could tell him I have twenty siblings. More. And that would be the truth, too, don’t you see? It’s all… such a muddle.”

Her lips thinned, and she begged Vincent for understanding. “But he’s so alone. He has no family, no-one to care about him. He thinks I’m like that too, in a way. How can I tell him nothing is further from the truth? And him… He came in like a stray cat, Vincent. In the beginning, I felt sorry for him.”

“Your family situation is not one you can explain to a stranger. Verity… you must know we have ways of dealing with this. You are hardly the first person to ever — ”

“I can’t see the future with him!” The words burst out of her lovely mouth, underscored by her rising frustration.

Ahhh. So that’s what this is about, Vincent realized.

“Ever since we went out! I look, and I can’t see anything! It’s like… once I started to fall in love with him, I stopped being able to see the outcome! I don’t know what to do!”

She continued to pace, and nearly knocked over an unlit pillar candle near the edge of his nightstand. Vincent reached over to push it safely away from the edge.

“Perhaps your heart is telling you that this is a thing you must decide without your gifts,” he concluded, clearly wanting to help her. “This is a matter for your heart to decide, not your mind. Not your… talents.”

“But… it’s never been like this!” Verity flared. “It’s just… I used to be able to read him! It was so clear! All of it! More than it’s ever been, with anyone. Vincent, I could practically tell you what he was going to say before he said it. I was so… in tune with him. I could hear what he was thinking as clearly as I hear you speaking to me, right now. Almost. It’s never been like that.”

“Is Roddy aware of your … gifts?” Vincent asked.

“He’s… he’s kind of aware of them, yeah.” She stopped pacing, and tried to re-gather her hair, and put it back into its clasp. “I told him about my grandmother’s side of the family, when he told me about his. He gets the idea. He’s not sure he believes, but… he’s starting to.” Verity slid her fingers through her loose tendrils of hair, tugging them back into place. “I say things that make him stare at me. I know what he’s thinking, but he’s too polite to comment.”

Vincent stepped closer.

“His understanding should not be a thing that causes you to seek the shelter of this world, Verity,” Vincent said. “He deserves better than that.”

Her large eyes filled with pain. “I know, but every time he gets too close, I end up pushing him away again. I don’t like this. It’s too… vulnerable. I think I want to come home, Vincent. I really do. Would you think me a coward, if I did?” she asked, clearly wanting his reassurance.

“I think you would think that,” Vincent said judiciously. “And Roddy might agree with you.”

Verity stewed over that.

“How do you do it?” she whispered. “How do you feel like this, every day, feel this in love, and not have it drive you mad?”

Vincent reached out a brotherly hand a settled an errant curl back behind Verity’s ear. “I have perhaps less faith in the future than you have, my friend. I do not know what is coming next for us, for Catherine and I. I have had to make peace with that. Almost since the beginning.”

“You’re making about as much sense as I am,” she moped.

Vincent paused, and inhaled, deeply, trying to explain. “I do not know if I am the blessing of Catherine’s life, or if I will ultimately be its curse, with what I may cost her. But I know I trust in her love for me. Even if I’m not sure I trust in what the future holds for us, I know I trust in that.” He let the declaration sink in.

“At times… that is the thing that sustains me. Trust.”

She took his huge hand, and squeezed it with her own small one. “But I didn’t have to just ‘trust.’ I knew. I used to be able to see the future, sometimes. It used to not even be a question. I saw the fish pond in Panache before we ever set it up. I just… saw it. I knew what it meant, that it would be there.”

“You knew that it meant your dreams for the shop would become a reality,” he confirmed.

She nodded. “And now… I don’t have to stay there. Don’t have to stay Above. Not to live,” she said, but her lip trembled, as she declared it.

Vincent decided to be practical, about her declaration. “Duane Street is a long walk from here. If you moved back, you would have to go Above before daylight, to prepare, so that you could open the shop in time. On those nights you work late… you’d not be in your bed until the wee hours. Our Helpers don’t live near there. And if any of them were to help you… the more they come and go, especially through your basement… the more they risk detection. The more help you need… well.  Some of the children are impulsive, and then there’s Mouse. One day, they may forget to look for the chalk board, and come in, unannounced, as they did when it was just you there.”

Verity knew it was true. Roddy had access to the basement. It was the workroom of the shop. Anyone she hired would be able to go down there. A rolling wet sink hid the secret entrance to the Tunnels. But how secret would it be, if one day, someone from Below came rushing in, and found Roddy standing there, rather than Verity?

“I know…” Verity nodded. So I either have to give up everything and quit, or keep going as I am. No way to compromise, she thought.

“I used to be able to sense him,” she mourned. “Know when he would make an art sale. Know when he was going to spend the weekend at the beach. It was easy. Too easy. Vincent… I was more connected to him than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Vincent knew how incredible a feeling that could be. Even though Verity’s empathic senses were far different than the link he shared with Catherine, he knew the power of that “connected” feeling.

“I couldn’t… will what he was thinking to come to me, but I didn’t have to. He was easy to read, like an open book. The future was, too. Sometimes.”

“And when you look at the future, now?” Vincent asked. “What is it that you see? Is it all blank? Is there… nothing at all?”

“I… I’m not sure,” she said, and he could hear the turmoil, in her voice. “I see Roddy. He’s working. Painting, mostly. Sometimes he looks happy, looks okay. But sometimes, he looks sad. Other times, he looks serious. But I don’t see me there. I’m not sure if we’re together.”

Her look became haunted. “He really has no-one, you see,” she repeated. “No family, at all.” Verity, in her abundance of family and friends, could hardly imagine such desolation. “I worry that Christmas is only two months away, and he’ll have nowhere to go.” She sighed roughly.

“Your heart does you credit,” Vincent replied.

“Yes. And now, I sound like my mother, determined to take care of all the waifs and strays.”

“There are worse people to sound like, than Deborah.” Vincent knew it was true.

“Maybe. But that doesn’t solve the problem, Vincent.” She went back to picking at the hem of her blouse. “I can’t read him, any more. And I think I need to. I need to know if he can be trusted with our secret. I need to know… more.”

“I understand your desire, Verity. Please remember, it’s you who lives by the notion that the future is a secret which reveals itself in its own time. Why are you no longer content that this is so?”

“Because everything depends on it!” she exploded. “Vincent… Roddy isn’t stupid. He’s known me for months, and all I can do with him is lie. It’s making him doubt, and rightly so. What if I tell him the truth and he’s appalled? What if I reveal all he wants to know, and it’s… not enough? Or it’s too much? Too much, for him to take in?” She faced him squarely as she said it. He knew she wasn’t trying to hurt him, with the words. He was well aware of the risks she was listing, having lived with them all his life.

She gave an unsteady sigh. “I can’t go to the council with those doubts, those fears, and ask them for permission. He’s… everything my family and Father distrust, normally. And that might take months, if they even agree at all. I don’t think we even have time for that.” She shook her head. “The closer we get, the more he knows I’m hiding something.”

She set her mouth in a grim line. “What if, no matter what I tell him… what if we just don’t work out?” Her voice was as plaintive as the rest of her was.

“What if you tell him, and you overcome all that stands between you?” Vincent countered. “What then?”

“You’re not helping,” she accused.

Vincent perched on the edge of the desk, and faced her squarely. “Perhaps that is because I am not trying to. Verity, I would be the last person to tell you that you must turn from love, for my sake. Or for anyone’s sake. That isn’t what this place is. It’s never been what this place is. Do you think I would ever have fought to defend it, if it was?”

His words were uncompromising, and the question was meant to prod her. Verity knew as much.

But she didn’t want to be prodded. She wanted to be held. When she stepped close and reached for his vest, he let her grab on, and come into the comfort of his enfolding embrace.

“This was easier for my parents. They both met here,” she whispered, speaking into the quilted fabric. “They fell in love, and got married, here. So did Olivia’s.”

“That didn’t happen for you. You tried,” he said, cradling her. “You found that falling in love inside these walls was not your destiny.”

“So did you,” she answered, pulling back to look up at him.

He chuckled a bit ruefully, at that. “Touche’,” he replied softly. His barely-there smile was full of wistful memories.

She looked at him with sisterly candor. “Vincent… I’m falling in love. It’s all wrong. He’s all wrong. He doesn’t know any Shakespeare, and he loves going to the movies. I don’t think he’s had books, the way I have. I had to tell him the story of The Velveteen Rabbit. The only music he listens to comes blaring out of the headphones on a Walkman, and it’s The Beach Boys. He paints pictures, mostly landscapes. Beachscapes. And he surfs, for God’s sake!”

They both knew that sounded like someone who would be unhappy, Below. But they also both knew that those details weren’t important, in the grand scheme of things. No one was suggesting that Roddy had to live here. Verity knew as much.

She released Vincent, and he allowed her to resume her pacing. Her steps were slower, this time. “But, he helps me. All the time. Sometimes when I don’t even know I need it. He wants me to go to the movies with him, and it makes me think I want to do that, too. I think he could eat pizza seven nights a week. And he makes me laugh. He isn’t lazy, he’s almost always doing something. He’s… creative. And kind. And so much more…”

“It all sounds… positively awful. You should avoid him immediately. And completely,” Vincent advised, letting her hear the touch of humor in his voice.

She stopped pacing and returned to place a gentle palm over his chest. “He has a good heart, Vincent. Like yours.” She became aware of the steady beat of his heart, and let it try to fill her, with its sense of peace. It wasn’t working.

“Thank you,” Vincent replied, leaving the smile where it was. Little sister. You’re growing up. I’m here for you. Always.

“It’s just… I’m going to fall so hard. Once-in-a-lifetime type hard. Like you. Like your Catherine. If something destroys it… I’ll be… broken.” The large eyes told him of her deepest fear. “I know I can’t tell. None of us can. It isn’t even a question.”

It was a truth all Tunnel dwellers were born and raised with. They both knew as much.

“But if he gets tired of my not being able to tell him the truth, and leaves me…how can I go on?”

“You must proceed with courage.” He placed a steadying hand over hers. “As we all must. You need to have the same kind of resolution that prompted you to leave the Tunnels for a life Above. You must have faith that this Roddy would sooner see himself come to harm, than you. Trust in his love, Verity. If it’s real, you’ll know it, soon enough.”

“I wish I could see. I wish I knew.”

“If he is the man for you, then you will know. When that day comes, we’ll speak to Father together; and we will take steps to welcome him, as we have done others.”

Verity shook her head, doubt plaguing her. “He’s a drifter. He has no ties to any one place. He has no formal education. He’s a Topsider. He doesn’t mistrust the world Above, he’s … fascinated by it, and making a place for himself, there. There’s nothing about him my father is going to like, much less yours. And that’s assuming they ever meet, which they can’t.”

“It is fortunate that our fathers are not falling in love with him, then,” Vincent said, knowing that Verity had stood up to her father, Ezekiel, before.

“I’m very afraid of this, Vincent. I shouldn’t have let it happen,” she replied. “I have promises to keep. To you. To everyone.”

Vincent’s smile held a touch of memory, as he rose from the desk and eased them apart. “Do you think I didn’t say the same thing, at least once? To Brigit O’Donnell, no less?”

“You told Brigit O’Donnell you weren’t sure what to do about you and your love?” she asked, amazed.

“I very much did tell her. Everything. Many of the words you are saying, right now. That there were oaths I’d sworn to keep, and people, I’d sworn to protect.”

“What did she tell you?” Verity asked, fascinated.

The smile grew wider, and just a bit conspiratorial. “To run. Run, and don’t look back.” He gave her shoulder a brotherly squeeze. “We both knew I wouldn’t. But it made her feel good to say it, I think. She stayed with her husband, Ian, and paid a terrible price for that love.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. Terrible prices, she thought.

“What happened after you told her?” Verity asked, having heard vague stories of the night Vincent had first met Brigit O’Donnell, nearly a year ago.

Then? Why… then, I spent the night walking the streets of New York, with the woman I love.” His voice became deep, with fond remembrances. “We ate and drank from a cart, simply because she insisted. We saw places I’ve only seen in postcards, or in books. I was… out there.” He lifted a hand to indicate the world beyond the walls. “Out there on the streets, with… everyone. We rode through the park in a carriage, then we walked and walked…” the low voice trailed away, and he sighed.

“We walked until the sun began to come up, and we found ourselves seated beside the 59th Street Bridge. Her hair was painted in sunlight, and I could feel its warmth, on my cheek.”

Verity was spellbound by his tale. Yes. Yes, I would wish that for you. Oh, Vincent. You, in the sun. How you must have felt.

“And in all that time together, no one looked twice.” Until I was seen, and had to return Below, he amended silently.

Vincent brushed a gentle kiss on Verity’s forehead, and she accepted the gift of it. That, and the sense of joy his memories had clearly given him.

That this gift could also be mine… she wondered.

Vincent’s smile returned, but she knew he wasn’t smiling at her. For a moment, he was still trapped in the memory of a beautiful day. A day which, even now, might repeat itself, soon. Halloween was getting close.

Verity knew he was still seeing that special morning in his mind’s eye, when he said, softly, “Catherine sat with me, as dark became dawn. We sat together, near the smell of the open water. The sky was pink and golden, and the day was beginning, fresh and new.”

Oh, Vincent. You. You, at dawn, near the water.

“She said she wanted me to know that there was beauty in her world.”

You must have loved that. You must have loved all of it, so much.

“I could only tell her I already knew that, thanks to knowing her.”

Verity tried to share the memory with him, and got a flash of the bridge, spanning the water, with the sun coming up. The sky was pink and gold, just as he’d said it was. The bridge looked magnificently strong, and powerful, a thing that spanned the water, linking two separate places. Smaller hands were nestled in his. And he’d felt… wonderful. Fulfilled. Blessed. She couldn’t see Catherine. He was looking at the bridge, right now. But she could feel the effect the beautiful Topsider had on him. The vision faded.

She tilted her head in acknowledgment of his tale. “You know, Vincent… I think… I think I met your lovely Catherine. I wasn’t sure at the time, but a woman came in the shop a few weeks ago, and she bought an unusual rose bush. One with two blooms. It was her… wasn’t it?” Verity asked.

He nodded his acknowledgement. “Yes. Yes, it was. I saw the card from your shop on her balcony, that night. Thank you for helping her with it.”

“You’ll have to thank Roddy… when you finally meet him,” she said, closer to thinking that would one day happen… somehow.

“The blooms… they’re red and white, aren’t they?” she asked.

“They are,” Vincent confirmed. “And they are very beautiful. Would you like me to ask Catherine if you can have one of each blossom?”

“Thank you.” Verity nodded, suddenly seeing them tied with a pretty white ribbon. The kind she used in the shop for wedding bouquets.

“Yes. Yes, I really wish you would. I think there’s magic in them. The kind that makes love last a long, long time.”

“Long enough for all the secrets to reveal themselves?” Vincent asked.

Verity smiled for the first time.

“At least that long. Maybe longer,” she said.

He watched her square her slender shoulders, and reach a decision.

“You will go back Above?” Vincent questioned gently. “To face your future with Roddy, whatever it may be?”

“It seems I have little choice,” Verity admitted honestly. “You taught me how to be strong, Vincent. And I know you’ll be here for me, if ultimately, I fail.”

“We will all be that. And you won’t fail.” Vincent hugged her quickly, before releasing her, and pushing her gently towards the chamber door. “I won’t allow you to do so.”

“Brave words.” Verity’s chin lifted. “I will hold you to them. Who knows, maybe by Winterfest, I'll be needing a little bit of a miracle. Tunnel magic, too.” She shook her head. “Or maybe I’m just being fanciful. What will be, will be, I suppose.”

She lifted her hand in farewell. ‘Bye, Vincent.” She waved as she moved through the door. “I’ll be seeing you, around. Soon, I hope.”

“I’m sure you will.” Vincent watched her disappear from view, before advancing to gather the yellow rose from his desk.

He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. Its beauty and sweetness surrounded him, filling him with joy. Suddenly, he wanted to see Catherine. The hour was not yet too late, and it was still the weekend. Through the nuances of their shared bond, he sensed she wished to see him too…

Gathering his cloak once more, he pulled it onto his shoulders, before following Verity’s path into the shadowed tunnel world, beyond.

************

“I didn’t realize Panache had tunnel connections,” Catherine mused, as Vincent stood with her on her balcony. “Lady May was most insistent I make the effort to visit the shop.” She turned to look at her rose bush. “I am so glad I did.”

“I think it’s a secret she likes to keep. May is… mysterious, sometimes, and does things for her own reasons.”

“Perhaps she wanted me to see if I got the impression it was being run by an amateur,” she returned. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t. The shop is beautifully laid out, and its reputation is growing.”

Vincent slid his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her close to his side. “Verity has worked hard.” He nodded, as they looked out over the darkened park. “When she came Above, Lady May helped her set up the business, a thing Father sometimes frowns upon. But, as always, May went her own way in making decisions for her ‘youngsters,’ as she calls those of our children who want to make a life in your world. Having no children of her own, May likes to think she is mother to all.”

“I’ll bet that goes over well,” Catherine said, not meaning a word of it.

Catherine felt a soft laugh rumble through Vincent’s powerful body.

He shook his head. “Sometimes, both our Father and Above Mother can become quite entangled in each other’s business, and disagree, strongly. It has made for some… lively conversations. Neither is ever prepared to back down.”

“Why would Father object to such plans for those who wish to live Above?” Catherine asked, wondering at him. “I thought some sort of apprenticeship with a Helper was rather a normal thing. Everyone needs help. Like with Laura.”

Vincent nodded. “But this was more than a simple ‘apprenticeship.’ Opening the shop, acquiring the things your world demands…” He let the sentence trail.

“Ah. I think I see. This wasn’t just a… a simple donation of food, or clothing, or a place to stay,” Catherine replied.

Vincent could only agree. “For us… money is a very… mercurial thing,” he explained. Something we often cannot get, and are taught to live without.”

“Yes. But Verity needed cash to begin the business. Money to buy the flowers, secure the building, get the permits… There was no other way.”

“Verity made a solemn promise that she would work night and day, if she had to, to make sure Lady May’s investment was… returned,” Vincent elaborated. “Even her own parents weren’t sure if this was the wisest course. They’d once tried living Above, and found it too hard, and soulless. They came Below to find a new way. They have never gone back.”

“Did they want Verity to just stay Below, like they did?” Catherine frowned.

“They did hope she would find a love among our people, and settle down. All parents fret for their children’s future.” Vincent shrugged. “So of course, they hoped she’d stay, and be content. That, or perhaps work for someone else, at least for a while. Perhaps… stay with one of our Helpers, until she could establish herself.”

“But Verity wanted to run her own business. And Lady May is a Helper.”

“I think it’s a dream Verity has had since girlhood. To work with growing things. And to be something more than her origins.”

“I can understand that.” Catherine settled closer still, leaning deeper into his powerful warmth, as they both took in the panorama before them.

Vincent adjusted his cape so that it covered her more fully. October’s chill was growing more pronounced. “And now, as we are, Verity is truly caught between the pressures of both Above and Below. She, also, is a woman of two worlds.” He gave her shoulder an understanding squeeze.

“Because of Roddy. He complicates matters.” Catherine understood the dilemma.

“Yes. And it is a complication Verity is unprepared for,” he replied. “Bringing it up at council has complications all its own. And Verity says there may not be enough time.”

Catherine considered that, as she considered Roddy. Aside from Verity, she realized she was likely the only person with Tunnel connections who knew him, and she only knew him slightly. “He is a very nice young man; at least, that was my first impression of him. He’s bright. He knew a lot about what she sells. And I think he has hidden depths that Verity is trying not to see.”

“Because it will only make her love him, more?” Vincent asked.

Catherine nodded. “I’ve been thinking about those paintings in the shop. They’re good, and they’re his.”

“Verity says as much. But she says he is not from here, and all his painting, all his knowledge is … self taught. That he is an … explorer, to some degree.”

“You mean… like Devin?” Catherine asked.

“Perhaps, though without Devin’s… embellishments,” Vincent replied.

“That might not endear him to Father,” Catherine said.

Vincent nodded. “That may be part of the problem. And it would be difficult for Father to accept Verity’s judgment alone, in this, considering he would know she is falling in love,” Vincent said.

“And he and Lady May already disagreed about Verity opening the shop,” Catherine replied, seeing the trouble.

“Indeed. The less conflict from that quarter, the better, I think.”

Catherine considered, a moment. “I found his business card in the bottom of the bag. Maybe I could arrange to meet him. Tell him that I wanted to see more of his work?”

He turned to face her, liking the idea. “If you were to meet with him, it may help Verity’s cause.”

She turned, as well. “As I said, in the few minutes I spent in Panache, I did like him.”

“According to Verity, he seems to be a fine, young man. He has helped her a great deal in the past year.” Vincent heaved a great sigh. “But, he is not a Helper, and he has no ties to our community. Or even to this city, for that matter.” He stepped back a bit. The problem was clearly making him restless.

“I take it that’s a problem?” Catherine asked, wrapping her sweater around her waist just a little tighter.

Vincent inclined a thoughtful head. “He has no need of our protection, and he is not tied to this place. Such people are not… usually chosen to enter our circle.”

Oh. I see. He doesn’t need you, so he has no obligation to you.  “I can’t say that’s unreasonable,” Catherine allowed.

“Verity says he is kind. But his affability does not necessarily mean he does well with keeping secrets. The danger of others knowing about us is a great risk. Father is … the Council is… understandably careful about who is allowed to know.”

“It makes sense.” It keeps you safe, for one thing.

“One day, someone with no ties to our world, someone who knows… they could leave, and we could not be sure they would not speak of what they knew. Those who have no attachments here, they do not… owe us their silence.”

“Do you think that’s what would happen?” Catherine asked, concerned for Vincent’s safety. Loose lips sink ships.

Vincent felt her sudden concern, through their bond. “Father says the more people who know, the more we are in danger of being revealed. I can hardly dispute his logic.”

He gave a heavy sigh. “Verity is frightened of what she feels. She has no experience with this. Perhaps it would be better if there was a certain… distance between them. At least for a while longer.”

“If she approaches the Council…”

“They will likely tell her the matter needs to be investigated. And then take a good amount of time, doing so. They would make no decision until they were sure. Certainty can… take a while.”

Catherine followed his explanation. “You know, it’s not lost on me that had you and I not met the way we had… Father would likely have been as opposed to me as he would be to Roddy. More so, perhaps.”

“Yes…” Vincent nodded, before reaching for her. He took her hand and tugged her back into his warmth, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. “He told me I should never have taken you Below.” He brushed a soft kiss across her crown. Life without you. Unthinkable.

“I’m so glad you did.” Catherine smiled, as she envisioned him defying Jacob for her sake. Her entry into their secret world had been shockingly abrupt.

“Do you think Verity might do that? Defy the Council, if they don’t approve of Roddy?” Catherine asked.

Vincent stared at the lights beyond the greensward, wishing one of them had an easy answer to that. “I don’t think so. If she does, the consequences could be… terrible.”

“Terrible how?” Catherine asked, curious.

“Her father was never in favor of her going Above, though her mother was more understanding. At the very least, the community would shun her, for a time. Perhaps a very long one. Her father may not speak to her, out of his own choice. And if she actually brings Roddy down…” He shook his head, the implication severe.

“If she actually brings him down, Father will have no choice but to be … harsh with her,” Catherine said.

“The place where he enters would be bricked up. Verity would be told she is no longer welcome, with us. In effect, she would be… banished.”

“But her parents live there! Oh, Vincent. That would be awful. Much worse than when Brian followed me down!”

Vincent nodded. “That was an accident, and Brian was a curious youth. Children are more… flexible in their thinking, their ability to accept.”

Catherine could only agree with that, remembering both Brian’s willingness to keep her secret, and Eric’s initial reaction to Vincent. It had been… heart-warming. “Children…like Eric,” she said.

“Yes, like Eric. Brian could be made to understand the reason for secrecy, without questioning it, overmuch. And Eric did as his heart bid him to. But Roddy is not Brian, and his finding out would be no accident, on Verity’s part.”

“So the consequences would be much worse.”

“To circumvent the Council and reveal us… This would be far more… deliberate.”

Catherine understood what that might mean, even as her heart ached a little, for the young woman. “You once told me one either moves toward love, or away from it,” Catherine said.

Vincent nodded. “And Verity is caught between those forces, and all the love she has, for all of us, for everything: There is the love she has for her shop, and for her independence. The love she has for people she’s known all her life. For her family. For the community that raised her, and those within it who supported her dreams to open her business, Above.”

“Including you,” Catherine guessed correctly. “She’d feel she was betraying that. That she talked all of you into letting her have Panache, but then when she got that, she broke faith,” Catherine said, seeing the dilemma clearly.

“But to choose between two worlds is a hard decision to make,” Vincent replied, knowing only too well that he and Catherine faced that, as well.

“And then there’s her love for Roddy. Roddy, who doesn’t even know what’s going on,” Catherine said. She realized anew how she and Vincent’s terrible first meeting had avoided certain problems they otherwise might have faced.

“She says it is causing a strain. That his confusion is driving a wedge between them. He has caught her in a lie. The ones we must tell to keep our secret. She is running out of excuses to keep him at arm’s length.” His voice grew low. “She is fearful he will leave her. That he will think she is playing him false, in some way.”

She reached for his hand, meaning to offer comfort. “Has this never happened before? Someone falling in love, with a Topsider?” she asked.

Vincent shrugged. “Sometimes. When it has, it has been dealt with. When someone Below chooses to go Above, if they meet someone, they… move in the direction their heart takes them. They often leave the city. I think it’s… easier for them, sometimes, if they do.”

Catherine thought about Michael, wondering if that would eventually be his fate. But Michael was different from Verity.

“But Verity can’t do that. Panache is here. Panache, and her whole family. What about the ones who choose to stay?” Catherine asked, realizing she probably already knew the answer.

“If they stay, they can become Helpers, of course. Secretly.”

“Like Peter Alcott. It still stuns me to think his family doesn’t know.”

“There are reasons for the necessity of it. Lady May was wise enough to keep it a total secret, even from her husband.”

“Master Wong’s family knows,” she realized.

“Lin lived with us in the Tunnels, for a time. And she was a child. It is somehow… different, with adults.”

Catherine nodded in understanding. “People who grow up accepting your world… I do suppose it’s easier for them to keep your secret, to understand its importance.”

“That, or people who need us to survive,” he said, indicating people like Lena, and for that matter, Catherine herself, at first.

“Council meetings on this subject are very serious, and fraught with peril, for all. We… accept others, but only as an act of necessity. Father is always most insistent that as few people know as possible. Our world hangs by the most tenuous of threads, at times.”

Catherine knew that was true. Especially for Vincent, who needed the world Below like no other man could.

She sighed, and there was a world of understanding, in the sound. “For what it’s worth, I do like Roddy. Very much.”

Vincent took in her lovely, night-swept form. “Would you be willing to speak up for him, then, at Council?” he asked.

Catherine thought about it, and realized that she wasn’t sure she should. She’d only known him at all because she’d bought the rose bush from Panache. The fact that he was pleasant, knowledgeable about roses, and seemed friendly wasn’t necessarily all she needed to know about him in order to determine whether he could be trusted with a secret of this magnitude, she realized.

She also knew that Vincent would tell her to take a chance.

“I think I will. But I think I need to get to know him just a little better, first,” Catherine replied. She sighed.

“It would relieve me to be able to tell Verity that she may have another ally.”

“I have a very full case load this week, and not an evening free. But I’ll try to get to it before next week,” she promised.

She turned back toward the railing, and tugged him behind her, so they could look out over the city, again. “Now. There’s something terribly important we need to discuss.”

“And that is?” he asked, settling his large hands on her shoulders. Peace swept through him. I love you, he thought.

“Where you’d like to go for Halloween, this year,” she replied, smiling up at him.

************

Halloween came and went, and business at Panache threw itself into high gear. They had orders for multiple Thanksgiving centerpieces, two corporate parties, and one fall wedding being done in orange and yellow. Verity was busy. Very.

Either that, or she’s trying to avoid me, Roddy concluded, watching her as she helped him pull what looked like a veritable ton of chrysanthemums off a truck. The early November weather was decidedly chilly, and she was wrapped in a handmade knit sweater that was almost the same shade as her hair. He pushed the laden handcart, while she held the back door open for him.

“Nice sweater,” he said, noting the fine quality of the knitting.

“My Mom made it for me,” Verity replied blithely, rubbing her arms for warmth, as they pushed the last of their bounty into the greenhouse, where it was warmer.

“Nice,” he repeated. “She send you that from Florida?”

“Um… yeah,” Verity answered, logging in the number of plants they’d just received in the logbook. Thirty six. And I’ve got plans for every one of you, she thought, already seeing them in centerpieces, and arrayed in her front window.

“When did you get it? Yesterday?” he pressed, trying to look like he wasn’t pressing. Questions about her family often left him confused.

It looked like this time wasn’t going to be any different.

“Sure. Yesterday. She’s really good with a needle.” Orange in front, yellow on top. Some of the reds, scattered through. We’ll add some gourds, and maybe a horn of plenty… She was distracted by her thoughts, and unaware that she’d exposed herself, yet again.

She might be great with one. Roddy mused. But that’s not how you got that. He hadn’t been trying to “trap” her, but realization struck, just the same. That didn’t land here yesterday. Or the day before that. Or the one before that. Because I took all the deliveries off the mail truck the last two days, and the post office was closed, before that. It’s just a sweater, Verity. Why lie about it?

And it wasn’t just about this. He took the plants off the cart, as his mind occupied itself with the list of things that didn’t add up, about her.

Verity would talk with him about some things. She’d talk about plans for growing the business even further. She’d talk about working home shows, using Lady May’s contacts to get more corporate business, trying out a new selection of orchids, and so on. She wanted to start a section of herbs, something they’d never tried, before. She’d even talk about spending time with him at the local soup kitchen, and they’d both spent an evening doing just that, together. So it’s not like they lacked for conversation, Roddy knew.

And yet…

For a well-read, young, successful business woman, and one with generous backing, at that, she seemed very comfortable in a room full of destitute people. Comfortable in a way that implied she’d been one of them, once. She was friends with people from Lady May to the people running the soup kitchen, to Eli, who not only brought her a better second-hand radio, but fixed a stuck key on the ancient cash register, for her. The easy way they’d spoken to each other made it seem like they’d known each other for years, yet Verity denied they had, after Eli had gone and Roddy had asked her about it. Once again, the feeling she’d been lying stayed with Roddy, and stuck.

There were things they could talk about. Already, Roddy had dubbed those topics “safe ground.”

She read the newspaper and talked about whatever caught her eye or took her fancy. And she’d talk about floral design and more ways to grow the plants they sold than he could keep track of. She’d ask about how his art was going. She’d ask about surfing. She’d ask about growing up outdoors, in upstate.

But she almost never talked about people from her past.

It was a thing he hadn’t noticed at first, but after going out a few times, he’d quickly realized how one sided their ‘getting-to-know-you’ stories were. He’d told her a lot about himself, even before she’d ever agreed to go out for pizza with him. She knew about life with his grandmother, striking out on his own after her passing, and the few friends he’d left behind, to do that. She’d listened to him ramble on about what he liked, the height of the waves off Long Island vs. the ones off Montauk, and the obvious necessity of wearing a good wetsuit when you surfed off either, in November. He continued to notice how often she seemed to know what he was thinking, or what he was about to say. He put that down to coincidence, mostly.

But something seemed to happen to her when he asked about her childhood. She’d get stiff, and look away, and change the subject almost immediately. He was too good at reading people not to notice it, and in truth, it had been something he’d begun picking up on even before they’d begun “dating,” if what they were doing could be called that. While he had a framed photograph of his grandmother on his dresser, and another one of the two of them in his wallet, There were no pictures of her family, anywhere. When the phone rang, it was never from her parents, and when he posted the mail from the shop, or picked it up, there was never anything from Florida, for her.

And there was more.

She kept meticulous records on what went in and out of the shop. Yet, he knew that sometimes, there were items missing, ones she seemed unconcerned about. It wasn’t much, just a few plants here and there, and once, a large centerpiece he’d have sworn was destined for a large, corporate dining table. It would have fetched a pretty penny. But when he’d asked her about it, she’d waved off any concerns.

“Did you sell the big centerpiece?”

“Which one?”

“The one you were working on when I left. The one with pine cones and seed pods and evergreens all over it. The one you said would hold a candle, in the center.”

“Oh, that. Yes… yeah, um, I sold it this morning, uh… before you came in.”

Which would have been fine, except he’d practically opened the doors with her, that morning.

“You forgot to log it.”

“I… what?”

“In the book. You forgot to log it. And ring it up, apparently,” he’d said, checking the register tape.

“Oh. Um… I’ll get it later. Have you noticed how fast the weather is changing? We might need to move an extra heater into the greenhouse…”

She didn’t strike him as a pathological liar. But as he caught her in more of those, he wasn’t so sure…

************

Roddy walked into Eli’s fix-it shop with a dodgy toaster. It was poor cover, as a need for a visit, but it would have to do.

“The lever’s sticking,” he told Eli. “Think you can give it a look?”

Eli cheerfully accepted the old contraption. He recognized it as one he’d given Verity. She sometimes used it when she had tea with toast.

“Sure. Can’t have Verity going without her toast. That girl has been mad for toast since she was knee high to a grasshopper.”

Has she now? Roddy wondered. Interesting. For somebody who says she just met you when she opened the shop.

Eli turned a screwdriver on the bottom of the toaster. “Sometimes the crumbs fall down, and things start to stick,” he mused, sure he could make a speedy repair.

“I’m sure that’s all it is,” Roddy hooked his thumbs in his jeans, a sure sign he was thinking.

“So… you’ve known Verity a long time. You must know her folks.” Say it. Say they live in Florida. It’s what she says. Or don’t you know about that one?

The screwdriver stopped in mid-turn. And Eli started to choose his words with far more care.

“I might,” he replied noncommittally, shaking out old crumbs. “The secret to these is there’s more than just catches in the tray. Sometimes you have to give them a good shake,” the older man said, demonstrating.

Both of them knew he’d just changed the subject, intentionally.

She wrote on a chalkboard, last night. ‘Don’t come down. Roddy might be here.’ Why? Who is the message for, and why care, if I am? He’d made out the faint imprint of the words on the green slate – barely.

“Her father… what did he use to do? I don’t think Verity ever said,” Roddy pressed.

“Whatever he had a mind to,” Eli replied smoothly.

He’s a better liar than you are, Verity, Roddy admired the old man’s technique.

“She says they’re in Florida. Must be nice to be warm.”

Eli hastily put the toaster back together. “Must be,” he replied, not committing to knowing, one way or the other. He clearly hoped Roddy would leave.

“How much do I owe you?” Roddy asked.

“No charge. Tell Verity I said hello. And that we’ll have to visit, soon.”

Sure. So you can get your stories straight.

“I’ll tell her,” Roddy replied, taking the repaired machine.

************

Roddy paused in the open door of the flower shop, and settled the appliance on the counter, as Verity rang up an order for a waiting customer. A well-dressed older woman left the shop with a dish garden.

“Did the toaster need to go for a walk?” Verity asked, after the door jangled closed. He’d been in a mood all day. One she was sure she didn’t like.

“The lever was sticking. I took it to Eli’s.”

“Oh? How was he?” Verity asked, instantly on alert, and tried to pretend not to be, as she logged in the sale of the dish garden. Her shoulders tensed, and a slow flush was creeping up her cheeks.

About as cagey as you are about to try to be, Roddy mused, suddenly tired of all of… whatever this was.

“I’m going by the post office to pick up the seed packets you ordered. The box is in.” He held up an index card and pen. “Give me your parent’s address.”

“Why?’ Verity’s head shot up, and her frowning gaze held his. “You don’t need to mail my parents a packets of seeds.”

Roddy tightened his grip on the pen. There was no denying the tension in her slight frame.

“I’m not.” He sighed roughly. “I’ve decided it’s about time I mailed them a Christmas card. Since you won’t give me their phone number, I figure that’s how civilized people say ‘Hello’ to each other.”

He stood there, waiting. And he did so without his customary smile, a rare thing, for him. A long beat passed. Two. Five. He shook his head when she didn’t answer. He tossed down the pen and lowered the index card, hitting it against his thigh.

Verity went back to the log book, pretending a great interest in what it said, all the while watching him through her down-cast lashes, willing him to leave. She wasn’t sure if it was his challenging posture, his stubborn look, or the fact that she was utterly pinned, but she all but stammered, trying to frame her response. She knew it couldn’t sound more like a lie if she tried.

“They…p- probably won’t be…h- home. They…travel…a lot.”

“Surely you’ll be seeing them at Christmas?” he demanded, not missing a beat. “You said you did, back in February. You said you try to see them every year at Christmas. You said you gave them your word you wouldn’t forget to go down, even if it’s just for a few days.”

She’d used the story as cover, to explain why she might not be reachable, for a few days, as she went down to spend time with her family. Now, she realized the trouble that story was about to cause.

“Did I?” Verity bit her inner lip, wondering why she had said that. Because we’d practically just met, and I didn’t think anything was going to come of it, or that you’d still be here, a year later, she mused.

She pasted a false, helpful smile on her face. “Look, why don’t… why don’t you just give it to me, and… and I can tuck it into mine?” she asked. “Save you the postage.”

“Because I don’t want my future in-laws to have the impression I can’t afford a stamp,” he replied.

Roddy sighed inwardly. There. I said it…Future in-laws. Take that for what you will. Come on, Verity. I love you. Cards on the table. Tell me.

“I… no, Roddy, just… no.” Verity inhaled deeply. “I can’t…”

“No to which thing? Sending them a card or ‘future-in laws?’ Or just… all of it?” His tone was dangerous, now, and a red-head’s temper she’d never seen was now very near the surface. She now realized he’d been doing a slow boil for a while. Probably since he’d left Eli’s shop. Before that, maybe.

The one thing you must know, is that you can never tell. It is the only thing that protects us all. The rule her father had repeated the day she’d left to open up Panache echoed, in her sensitive mind.

“Roddy, please. What I feel for you is real. But…don’t… don’t push about this. Don’t--”

“You go places, and I’m not allowed to ask ‘where,’ or how to reach you. You make up a family that I’m starting to think doesn’t exist.” He rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension in them. He tossed the index card near the pen. It fluttered off the counter, and settled onto the floor. “You leave cryptic notes on a chalk board in the basement, and think I don’t notice, like I can’t read chalk after it’s erased. Who are they for, and why down there? Who goes down into the basement, when I’m not around?”

“No one.” And they don’t go down. They come up.

“I opened the shop, yesterday, while you met the truck around back. There were two cups of tea, in the sink. One was yours. The other one wasn’t. You never do that. You always drink out of your favorite mug.”

Verity kept her mouth stubbornly closed. I didn’t think about you being able to read the board, after I’d erased it. Score one for you, Roddy.

“You’ve been playing detective,” she accused. The best defense is a good offense.

“It’s either that, or play the fool,” he retorted, his tone letting her know he was happy with neither role. He crossed to the door and pulled down the shade that indicated they were closed, not wanting them to be interrupted.

“All the time I’m asking myself, ‘What am I missing, here?’” He held his arms wide.

Verity’s voice was unsteady. “I- I know you think these are all simple questions, but—“

“That’s just it. They are simple questions. Where are your folks? Who was your favorite teacher in school?

It was on the tip of her tongue to give him a name. And she knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t say “Vincent,” or “Mr. Vincent.” Not my secret to tell.  She kept her peace.

“You almost never use the subway, even though you can tell me where every rail line runs, and how far. Why do you like to walk, everywhere, out in the open, and how did you buy an old van for the shop, without even ever having had a driver’s license?” He pressed. “What year did you graduate? How long have you known Eli, again?” He didn’t let on what he knew about that, and how their stories hadn’t matched up. What would be the point? “What was your school mascot? What’s your dad’s favorite sports team?”

He let the questions stand, and realized she wasn’t going to answer any of them. And the heartbreak of it was, he could see she was trying to think of a way to.

His brow furrowed, struggling to understand. “The thing is, none of this makes any sense. How many lies have you told, and why bother to? Do you think I really care where you went to high school? Do your parents even… exist, Verity?”

“My parents exist,” she said, weakly, not bothering to address any of the other questions.

“And they … what?” he asked, his frustration with her apparent, in his voice. “Are they bad people? In jail? Is that it? Are you embarrassed by them?” He couldn’t believe her pride was about to cost them this much.

Are you having an affair with some guy who visits the basement? One they know about? Is that why I can’t meet them, can’t talk to them? Are you already married? One of those women who made a mistake and never bothered to go through with the divorce? What? Tell me. Please.

“Yes. Yes, that’s it.” She grabbed for his lifeline. “They’re in jail. They’re terrible people, and they’re — ”

“You’re just reaching for the lie I gave you. Stop it.” He wasn’t just frustrated, now, he was truly angry. Angry with her. Angry for her lack of faith in him, in them.

“Asking you is a waste of time. It will only make you lie, some more. You know what? Just… just never mind. Forget about it. Forget everything.” He crossed back near the door, then turned.

He stared at her, his gaze level and bleak. “For a while now, I’ve had the feeling I’m somehow in the way.”

“You’re not.” She knew what was coming. Knew, and was terrified of it. And she’d not needed her gift of inner sight, to discern it.

“I am,” he insisted. “It’s why you rush down into the basement, ahead of me, sometimes. Why things about you don’t match up. Why things are fine, until you have to … ‘go take care of something, somewhere,’ but can’t say where.”

“Mr. Vincent. He was my favorite teacher. Please, Roddy.” Surely just saying a name isn’t a sin. Surely Vincent will forgive me for it.

Roddy simply stared at her. They both knew it was a pathetic, inadequate, far-too-late thing to say. Also that she hadn’t wanted to give him even that much, and would be giving him nothing more. Her ensuing silence confirmed it.

He blew out a slow stream of frustrated air. “You know, there’s lots of places in the world I haven’t seen yet. Maybe… it’s just time to move on.”

Not waiting for her reply, he yanked the shade back up and left the shop, setting the overhead bells to cacophonous jangling, as he slammed out the door.

Verity, standing behind her register, burst into tears.

************

Vincent’s note had been an urgent one. Whatever it was Catherine was about to do, it was understood that she would have little time to do it, one way or another. Catherine sighed.

She studied the second floor row of apartments over a Jewish deli. She looked down at the rumpled business card in her hand, confirming the address, once more.

Roddy met her in the hall, his confusion at her sudden reappearance in his life evident in his raised eyebrows, and in the strained look about his mouth. He didn’t look pleased to see her.

“I ah… I was told this was for sale. That you might have another one similar to it?” Catherine stood on the industrial brown carpet, one of his beach scenes in her hands.

“C’mon in,” he replied, taking a few steps back and swinging the door wide. The room was a bit of a shambles. And it wasn’t the kind of shambles one associated with a lax bachelor, or a messy artist. Dresser drawers were open, and mostly empty. Closets sported lots of empty hangers.

He was packing. He was intending to leave town.

“Verity says you haven’t been by the shop in a couple of days. Are you… leaving?” she asked, aware that he was.

“My art is over there,” he said, indicating the far wall. Canvases were stacked against it. “Help yourself. Twenty bucks apiece, two for twenty five. I’m having a sale.” Some of the pictures had come off the wall. It was bare, and the multiple nail holes still showed. However modest this place was, Roddy had clearly tried to make a home of it.

“You’re going to have a tough time getting your deposit back,” Catherine said, eyeing the damage to the plaster.

“Yeah. I’m going to have a tough time getting a lot of things back, after this trip,” he said darkly, throwing a faded blue shirt into an open gym bag.

She walked over to the stacked artwork, keeping up the pretense of being here for a painting. What she saw caught her eye.

“These are pretty good, Roddy. You do know that, right?” she asked, picking up a shoreline scene. The grey Atlantic beat against the rock-strewn shore. “This is the view off the end of Long Island. The part that looks into the Sound. I recognize it. And the buoy.”

“Yeah. Tell you what. A hundred and fifty takes them all, if you’re that fond of them. I need gas money. There’s a long road ahead, and it has my name on the sign pointing away from here.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, thumbing through the artwork as if that was what she was still here for.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Doesn’t matter. I’ll know when I get there, I guess.”

Oh, so just pick a direction and try to outrun your heartbreak? Ah, Roddy. If only it worked that way…

There were some floral pieces, similar to the ones she’d seen hanging in Panache. But for the most part, they were landscapes, most of them small, but some larger ones. A heron looked back at her, as it strolled across a broken-shell shoreline. She flipped the canvas.

And then a woman gazed back at her. One she recognized.

“Is this for sale, too? Part of the hundred and fifty bucks?” she asked, standing over a likeness of Verity. It wasn’t a perfect portrait. Roddy wasn’t really a portrait artist. But clearly, he’d tried. It looked very much like her. He’d captured her with a smile on her face.

It was a look she wasn’t wearing, right now. Catherine knew that much.

Roddy came over to see what she saw, about to say “Sure,” as he approached the canvas.

“No. No, not that one,” he said, lifting it from the pile and setting it to one side. “Just the landscapes, and any of the florals still in there.” A picture of five surfboards, all stacked in the sand, greeted Catherine’s eyes.

He’s angry, and I’m supposed to make a determination as to whether or not he’s trustworthy. What if I don’t know? Oh, Vincent…

Her eyes scanned the room. She saw a pizza box in his garbage, and one on a small dinette table, clearly the remains of his last couple of meals. Two bottles of beer sat by the sink, both empty. If he was trying to drown his sorrows, either it didn’t take much, or he’d decided against it. Either way, that was probably a good thing.

Catherine let her gaze wander, and wondered if he knew how much she could discern. He didn’t own a suit other than his wetsuit, unless it was already in the bag. Though he was clearly in no mood to take care of anything, the dishes had been washed and were stacked neatly in the drain rack, waiting to be put back on the open shelves. A huge pot of ivy, probably from Panache, sat in the room’s lone windowsill, facing the brick wall of the building behind it, and the alleyway, between. Though the apartment was old, it was clean. It smelled of glass cleaner and turpentine, for his brushes.  His oil paints were sitting in a special case, as were his brushes. A fold-up easel was about to go into a bag. His surf board was leaning against the wall near the bathroom door, and the fixtures gleamed.

Roddy took care of things. Whether he owned them or not. The apartment was just a cheap rental. There was no reason to take much care of it. At least that’s how most people would have felt.

He squeezed past her to the bathroom, and emptied the contents of the medicine chest. Aspirin, band-aids, a tube of sun block for his nose, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. He tossed a comb and brush and some shaving gear into a small bag. Done.

Catherine had hoped for more information, and more time to make the decision she knew she had to make. Had hoped for something else that might help her gauge who this person was, and how far he could be trusted.

“Find anything else you want?” he asked, trying not to sound impatient to go, as he folded up the bathroom’s lone towel. It was a beach one, eight feet long.

“Still… looking,” she said, keeping herself near the artwork. Verity’s smile urged her on.

She flipped the picture of the surfboard forward, and found another painting that quite astonished her, again.

Well, if I’m looking for a sign, I don’t guess I could get one clearer than that, she thought.

“Why did you paint this?” she asked Roddy, holding the canvas up.

“A friend of mine introduced me,” he said. “It’s not a landscape. But you can have it if you want it. No charge.”

She looked at the picture. “I very much do,” she said. “And Roddy… I think I maybe need to introduce myself,” she said.

Listen to your heart, Catherine. She could all but hear Vincent saying it.

“You’re the lady who bought the rose bush a few weeks ago. Nice car. Good job. Probably. What more do I need to know?”

“My name is Catherine Chandler. And what you know about me is maybe just the tip of a pretty interesting iceberg…”

*******

“Tell me what we’re doing here, again?” Roddy asked, lugging several canvases into Catherine’s basement.

She’d needed to get him to her place, so she’d bought the artwork and told him she needed him to help her carry it over. Now, instead of going up in her elevator, they were going the other way.

“Just… stack them over there, by the wall,” Catherine said, indicating one. She began to move the boxes, then stopped.

“Roddy… I’m going to ask you to trust me with anything you will see and hear from now on. Please.”

Roddy frowned. He didn’t mean to give her a sardonic look. But he couldn’t quite help it. “Trust isn’t big with me, right now. When can I have the rest of the cash you owe me?”

She’d told him what she could about herself, but nothing about the tunnels. Not yet. But she knew he was hurting, and told him as much.

“Roddy, you’re in pain. A lot of that. I know what that’s like. I know what it is… what it is to think it isn’t going to work out, no matter what you do or don’t do,” she said, remembering the time she was packed up to go to Providence.

She was about to take a very huge step with him. One that might not be right. Or one that might save everyone involved.

“Verity is—” she began.

He cut her off. “You have no idea what Verity is. You only just met her a little while ago. Or was that a lie, too?” Roddy’s jump at the name was like it was a bullet shot from a gun.

“It wasn’t a lie. I’d never walked into Panache until the day I met you, and I have never met Verity. And I know you’ve known her much longer than I have. But… I think I also know something you don’t know. And it’s something you need. Very much.” She shoved the remaining boxes aside.

In for a penny…

Curious, he watched her as she moved them, not offering to help, having no idea why they needed to be moved. Was this still about the paintings she’d bought? Or about Verity? Or something else?

He was astonished when she pushed part of the wall open, to reveal a small ‘door.’ And even more astonished when she began to climb down a ladder, into whatever space waited below.

Catherine indicated with a beckoning finger. “Follow me. And from this moment on, you’re sworn to secrecy. On everything you hold dear and sacred. If you take this very large step, you can tell no one. Not ever. Do you understand?”

“Not even Verity?” he asked, naming the only other person he knew she knew.

“Just follow,” she said, lowering herself down. Beyond curious, he did as she bid him.

He followed her down, not certain that he should, but certain that if this had anything to do with Verity, he wanted to.

She turned around as he descended. After a moment, they were both standing in what amounted to a small, dusty antechamber bathed in a down shaft of blue/white light. And he had no idea why they were doing this.

“Where… what is this place?” he asked.

“It’s… just a place. It’s not where it is, so much. It’s more like what it leads to.”

“Does it somehow lead to Verity?” he asked. “Because if it doesn’t, I really don’t care.”

Bulls-eye, Catherine thought.

She gave him a measuring look. “Nothing I say here can pass beyond these walls. I have to have your word, Roddy. And I’ll accept that. But first, you have to give it to me. We don’t go a step further, otherwise.”

He eyed the beautiful attorney, not sure what she wanted from him, exactly. “I don’t like people who say ‘swear you won’t tell,’ then tell you something you know you should talk about,” he replied.

“You’re not making this easy, Roddy,” Catherine stated.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe it’s Verity who should be telling me, in the first place, not you,” Roddy replied.

A deep, steady voice pierced the darkness. “But Verity cannot tell you. She is forbidden to tell you. That is the source of the … great difficulty, between you.”

Roddy watched Catherine’s eyes swing toward the long tunnel that led into a shadow-cast darkness, and a tumbledown brick wall. A large shape loomed, framed in dust motes and gloom.

“Who are you?” Roddy asked, stepping closer.

He couldn’t make out the other man’s features, but both Catherine and Roddy knew a large, caped figure now stood just outside the reach of the light.

“Vincent… I wouldn’t…” Catherine warned. “Not until we’re sure.”

Vincent? Mr. Vincent? Roddy thought. Maybe the crumb Verity had given him would be of some help, after all.

Roddy watched Catherine step closer so that her small, slender form was now interposed in between himself and the large, shadowy figure who stood just outside his clear view. He got the feeling he’d have to fight her to get past, if things came to that.

“Surety may be a luxury none of us have,” the deep voice replied. “Is that not so, Roddy?”

Roddy agreed wholeheartedly, somehow unsurprised that the other man knew his name. “Yeah. I guess you could say that. Are you Verity’s… what? Teacher? Father? Lover? See, I’d like to say I understand, but Verity’s been good at telling a lot of stories, lately, and none of them make much sense.”

His anger was near the surface, as was his confusion. He was trying to sort out what someone like Catherine Chandler had to do with all of this, even as he was trying to manage his own heartbreak. He had no idea what this huge shadow of a man might have to do with any of it, or with the shop, Eli, or any of it. In between all that, he was hoping against hope that there was an answer that meant he could hang on to Verity. It was a tough juggling act.

“I am her friend, nothing more,” the big man replied. “And I taught her some of the better stories she knows. Her favorite was The Wizard of Oz.” Vincent took a step closer, but still kept his face out of the light. Roddy realized that his drawn up hood was a deep one.

The sudden urge to draw what he saw rose within him. This was magic and curiosity outside his usual fare. The fine hairs on his forearms and neck rose and he shivered. He told himself it was because the tunnel they were standing in was cold.

“Did you tell her to lie to me?” he demanded, more brusquely than he intended.

The hood moved. Vincent was shaking his head in the negative, inside it.

“No. I did not tell her to lie. But I may have been one of the reasons she felt she had to.”

“Vincent…” Catherine’s voice still held a note of warning.

“You have no reason to trust anything I say. But I swear I mean you no harm. And I am only here for Verity’s sake,” Vincent said.

“What do you know about Verity… other than she’s your… ‘friend,’ Roddy asked, still wondering if the word wasn’t a polite euphemism for something else. Jealousy had been gnawing on him, the last few days.

“I know that she loves you. I know that when she was a young girl, she dreamed of a life, Above.”

“Above what?” Roddy asked, confused by the term, and by the weight the deep voice had given it.

“Above this place. It is our word for the world that spreads beyond these walls.”

Roddy looked around and tried to process, slowly. Our? You mean… people stay down here? That Verity…

“You mean she—”

“I mean that she was born down here. In our world. Her… and some few others. It’s why she can’t answer your questions, Roddy.” He took another step closer. “It’s why she fears she’s losing you.” Another step, and the cape swung, with the motion. His boots were now in plain view, as were his patched pants, below the knee.

Roddy took in the oft-mended clothing, understanding that it meant whoever this man was, an abundance of spending cash wasn’t his problem. A sense of raw power imbued every movement, however slight.

“Her people are poor,” Roddy guessed. Is that what this was about? It didn’t sound like the right answer, but how many possibilities were there? Who else lived in a hole in the ground, but poor people?

“We do not… consider ourselves as such,” Vincent replied. “Though, yes. Others might.”

There was a sense of nobility in the soft, deep voice, Roddy thought. Just as there was about the man using it.

“They’d be wrong to do that,” Catherine spoke up for her love and his world, as she placed a restraining hand on Roddy’s shoulder. “Where Verity was born and raised… it’s the most… amazing place I think I’ve ever seen. It’s a blessing, for those who need it… For those who find themselves there.”

“But one that has to be kept secret,” Roddy stated, glancing between both of them.

Again, the deep hood nodded. “There is no other way, for us.”

Roddy glanced between the unlikely pair. He took a step back, indicating he was no threat, and hooked his thumbs back into the loops of his jeans, thinking. Okay, so she’s from street people who live where they can. Why not just… say that? Is she ashamed? Is that why she … took me in, in the first place? Because I seemed like one of them, to her?

Vincent watched a storm of emotions play across the slender man’s eyes. He’s still confused. Still… wondering.

“You’re the one she writes notes to. ‘Back in two hours.’ And, ‘Don’t come in, tonight. Roddy’s here,’” he stated.

“I am he,” Vincent replied, not elaborating. There was no need to. Roddy already understood they used the chalk board in her basement to communicate.

“Are you in love with her?” Roddy asked, even though the question pained him.

Vincent paused, a moment. “Catherine is my only love,” the big man replied. “Though my friendship for Verity is real.”

“‘Real.’ That’s a word she uses. From a story she told me about.”

“The Velveteen Rabbit,” Catherine said. She turned to Vincent. “He painted a scene from it. Wrote ‘This is what happens when love makes you real,’ across the bottom. I… I took it as a sign.” But maybe that was impulse. Catherine was at war with herself. This wasn’t Brian, or Eric, standing a stone’s throw away from Vincent. This was practically a stranger. They were taking a terrible chance.

And now it was Vincent’s turn to decide how to proceed with this risk. The deep hood nodded, again. “Roddy… we share something in common, you and I. We both hold Verity dear. And we both know what it is to be in love with… very exceptional women.”

Roddy watched as the booted foot took another step forward, then another. A wide belt came into view, and a quilted vest. The light cut across him, and Roddy could see a long lock of blonde hair, laying on his impossibly broad chest.

“And if there is one thing I know for certain… “Gloved hands reached up for his hood. He pushed it back. “It is that love is definitely what makes us… ‘real.’”

It was the last thing Vincent said before he stepped fully into the light.

************

“And you actually asked him, ‘Are you sure you’re for real? Those were the first words out of your mouth?” Verity asked Roddy, as they prepared for Winterfest, a month later.

“It’s not like I could say much else,” Roddy admitted sheepishly, helping fasten her necklace. It was a single pearl, suspended on a chain; a token from the ocean he loved, and a betrothal gift, from him.

“And he said?”

“‘I am certain that I am as real as anything else you will find, down here, Roddy,’” Roddy replied, imitating both Vincent’s cadence of speech and his lower register. “Not that that was much of a help, considering.” It had been a month of revelations, for him. “How many more times are you going to make me tell that story, by the way?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She grinned, admiring her other gift, the portrait of her Catherine had seen in his apartment. It now hung on the basement wall of Panache.

“We could move that Up Top,” he nudged, aware that he was starting to use the same language tunnel dwellers did.

“I like looking at it. And I work down here. Besides, it isn’t for sale. You even told Catherine.”

He took her into his arms. “I knew I couldn’t part with it. Or you.” But I admit it was damn close.

“You gave Catherine back her money.” Verity smiled.

“I had to. She gave me back my paintings,” he replied, pushing aside the wet sink.

“But you let Catherine keep the one from The Velveteen Rabbit. What do you think she’ll do with it?” Verity asked, pinning a pretty corsage onto her simple, midnight blue dress. A tiny poinsettia trimmed with a touch of holly looked just right for the season. Its twin sat waiting in a box, for her mother.

“Hang it in her apartment, I guess,” Roddy replied, making sure his white dress shirt was properly tucked into his jeans. They made a handsome couple.

“Maybe,” Verity said, not sure if she could picture a pastel image of the Old Skin Horse and his lupine companion hanging in Catherine’s New York apartment. But the beautiful attorney had definitely admired it, and Roddy had gifted it to her.

“Almost ready,” she declared, settling tissue around her mother’s gift, then closing the lid on the plain box.

Roddy collected “their” Winterfest candle. He was excited about this evening. He knew that it was a very special time, in Verity’s world.

“Oh, one thing. Will you carry down the long box?” Verity asked, indicating one. It was the kind they normally used to package bouquets in. Roddy peeked inside the lid.

“Red roses. Who are these for?” Roddy asked, knowing Verity was already holding her mother’s present.

“Vincent. Which is to say they’re for Vincent, but to give to Catherine.”

“Oh?” Roddy inquired. Clearly, he was curious, and lifted the lid further. An abundance of baby’s breath lay scattered among a dozen red roses.

“Since he first met her, I’ve been waiting for him to ask me for those, for her,” Verity explained airily. “I decided to stop waiting.”

Roddy frowned, a little. “A dozen red roses isn’t just a dozen red roses, Verity. Not between them. Heck, not between anybody. It’s more. It’s… it’s a declaration.”

“Of enduring love. I know,” she answered blithely. “He used to come and get a single one. A gesture, a token, for when he wanted to meet her, to let her know he was thinking of her.”

“And then she bought the rose bush.”

“Yes,” Verity beamed. “Love and roses. They go together. Especially for them.”

“This is more than just a gesture,” Roddy said, extracting one perfect bloom, from the pile. Verity hadn’t just decided to give Vincent a box of red roses. She’d decided to send him to Catherine with her very best. The still-closed blossom was nearly the size of a man’s fist. It, and its fellows, would be magnificent, when they opened fully.

In a workroom that always carried a trace of floral fragrance, the roses’ perfume was wafting upward, overcoming the other aromas. It was sweet, and heady. “These are… stunning. Exceptional. You said you’d save these for nothing less than a wedding bouquet.”

“They can be cut and changed into that, if need be,” Verity winked.

“Verity…”

She smiled as she touched the glossy leaves. Then, she got a flash. The empty box was sitting on Catherine’s tiny sofa, while the roses sat in a beautiful crystal vase, in Catherine’s apartment, just near her balcony. The French doors to her balcony were open, and Vincent was… kissing her, his love, in the December moonlight.

Roddy smelled the rose he’d extracted, and kept talking. “I saw Catherine, today. She’s very excited that her punishment for showing me the way Below is over. A month is a long time. Not being able to see him… that must have hurt.”

Verity barely heard him, as she stayed with her vision, for a moment. As the silence lengthened, she withdrew her hand from the leaves and answered him.

“Father called them both reckless. Vincent had to agree to stay away, too, though I’m not sure how he really managed it for the whole month. Vincent is stubborn. No matter what, he’ll be happy to see her, after their time apart. And who knows? Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe it will lead to something.”

“Lead to something? Like… you mean… like a proposal?” Roddy asked, still eying the bouquet.

Her grin became conspiratorial. “Stranger things have happened.”

After all he’d learned in the last month, Roddy could only agree. Stranger things had.

She gave the roses a loving touch stroke, careful of the thorns. “A man who proposes marriage to a beautiful woman, well, he just might find it fitting to bring her a dozen red roses.”

Roddy’s slight frown became a scowl, as he still held onto the single stem. “Verity, you can’t set the… man… up to propose marriage.” He barely stumbled over the word.

“There’s a sign over the door that says this is a florist’s shop. And as the owner, I think that means I can do anything with the flowers I want,” she stated, with all the aura of a boss making a decree.

Verity took the rose from her future husband’s hand, smelled it and then set it gently back inside the box. She settled the white lid down, thoughtfully. There’s love in here, she thought. The kind that builds, waiting to be released. Like the fragrance, when it’s in a box. Then someone opens the lid, and lets it go. The thought made her happy. And a bit introspective.

“She saved our lives, Roddy, Catherine did.” She stroked the closed lid. “Saved them. Even though it meant she had to stay away from the tunnels until tonight, as punishment. Even though it meant Father was displeased with both of them, she and Vincent stood up for us, stood up for our love.”

Roddy was well aware of Jacob’s displeasure at their unexpected meeting. He was also aware that Verity was right, about Catherine and Vincent, and the incredible chance they’d taken.

“I know they did,” Roddy answered, stepping behind her to give her a loving squeeze. “But you just wait. We’ll show them all it was worth it. Everyone’s in a good mood, for the holiday. I’m going to win Father over. Paint a picture of him, perhaps,” he declared.

She reached for an ivory ribbon and bow, and he helped her slip it up the long box, to keep it closed.

“I love that you’re an optimist,” she replied, giving the bow an affectionate pat. It practically tingled, with magic. Oh, this is going to be marvelous.

“Your Papa’s coming around. You don’t think Father can’t be budged?” Roddy asked, still talking about Jacob.

White ribbon… trailing. This ribbon. Catherine is going to ask for it to be included in her wedding bouquet…

The smile she gave him was a radiant one, as in her mind’s eye, she pictured Vincent going down on one knee, as the scent of antique roses filled the air, between the couple. The silky white ribbon lay just to the side of the box lid. Moonlight shimmered on its pale, gleaming length. It would indeed tie the flowers Catherine used in her bouquet. And maybe someday, something more.

A Christening gown? Verity flashed. As soon as the notion was there, it was gone. That was a vision for another day.

“I’m going to win him over. Just you watch. Oh, ye of little faith,” Roddy concluded, settling a soft blue shawl around her shoulders.

Verity gave him a kiss of thanks, as she wrapped herself in the soft fabric. Then she picked up the gift for her mother, and made ready to go. “Roderick James Constantine, if there’s one thing I’ve known since meeting Vincent, it’s that you can do incredible things, with just a little faith.” She settled the long white box of roses into his waiting arms.

Roddy returned her smile, wholeheartedly. As the man who loved Verity beyond all measure, he could only completely agree.

“It’s like he says,” Roddy stated softly. “Anything can happen once you’re real.”

“Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.”

Kahlil Gibran

************

No matter where you are, when you become real, I wish you love. ~ C.J.