Phoenix Rising

Thus began my mother's ritual of always having flowers in that vase on that table. If another relative died, she brought at least one bouquet home. When those flowers shriveled away, they were replaced with store-bought arrangements. They were a permanent centerpiece until her death, and a constant piece of contention between my parents.

From that day on, I also despised not just the flowers and the vase but the table itself. So much so that when my father passed and my mother moved to a nursing home, I turned down the antique. I didn't care that it had a beautiful oak finish, had been in the family for three generations, and had been built by hand with dovetail joints. It held too many bad memories, and I wanted nothing further to do with it.

The first time I received flowers from a boy, I thought I would puke. My frown apparently showed my distaste. It had only taken one other boy asking me out with a rose for me to get the reputation as the girl who didn't appreciate flowers. Unfortunately, that was the thing you bought a girl at the time I was growing up. Mostly because they were affordable. Besides, everyone argued, who didn't like flowers? Apparently, I was the only one. Boys tended to avoid me as a result.

I was twenty-two and working in the steno pool at a lawyer's office when I met David Finnegan. He was one of three pre-law students working there. The other two guys flirted endlessly with the other secretaries who always showed some cleavage. I kept my head down, ears open, and dressed conservatively. David later told me that was what had caught his attention: I wasn't like the other girls.

Fate had a plan the next Valentine's Day.

One of the lawyers bought a red rose for each of us girls. I moved the little pink-plastic vase to the furthest corner of my desk, trying not to breathe too deeply whenever I was sitting there working. At the end of the day, I discreetly tossed the whole thing in the trash on the way to my car. Or at least I'd thought I had.

The heavy footfalls of someone approaching from behind had me freezing on the spot only a few steps away from the trash can.

"What a way to go. Dumped before it could even enjoy the view from your apartment."

Oh, my God, David! I could barely look at him when he stopped next to me. My cheeks burned as though I had a fever.

"Did that one do something specific to hurt your feelings? Oh...maybe it's Valentine's Day as a whole?"

I mumbled, "Flowers in general. Long story."

"Hmm." He took a step forward. When I didn't follow, he stepped back, slid his arm through mine, and started forward again.

We walked silently together, me trying not to trip on my own two feet and him with a slight smirk on his face when I glanced up. At my car, he let me go, and I fumbled for my keys in my purse.

"Say, Meg. I know of this tavern that serves real brick-oven pizza and ice-cold beer. It's mostly just biker guys and the day shift from the factory. You won't see a single lovey-dovey couple there tonight. No flowers, either. We both have to eat. We can even go Dutch. Can I pick you up at seven?"

I knew right then that he was a keeper.

***

In the four years we dated, he had never given me anything with a petal on it, living or artificial. There was the occasional box of chocolates or a piece of jewelry on special dates if he'd insisted on giving me a gift at all, which I had not encouraged. I'd just enjoyed being with him. Our wedding had been at the courthouse at my persistence since there was no one I really wanted to invite on my side. Ergo, no worry about flowers there, either. I'd found over the ensuing years together, I even avoided patterns with floral print. Thanks, Mother.

Last week, when the funeral home director had asked me if I'd wanted the announcement to state "donations in lieu of flowers," I'd just sat there blinking at him. Trina had assured him that I would want flowers. Everyone liked flowers. I should have spoken up. Dammit.

Too soon, my private time with David was over. As the morning unfolded, I managed more than I had expected I would. Especially with that horrible stench from across the room. What surprised me the most was my lack of tears. I'd barely touched the box of tissues that had been provided.

When it was all said and done, I was just tired. Tired of people. Stories. Hugs and personal contact.

Trina backed off when I snapped at her that I didn't want any of the flowers. She silently drove me home with David's remains cradled in my lap.

I watched the snow swirling out the passenger-side window along the way. Of course, our path went past the Turner house. Or what remained. I scowled at the burnt-out frame that somehow still stood despite the whipping wind we'd had in the last couple of days. Wished I'd never made that purchase.

Almost too soon, I was home again. I managed to climb out of the car on my own. To let myself in. Trina said she'd be back later to check on me. I told her not to bother and closed the front door behind me.

I wandered around the quiet and slightly chilly house, hugging the urn to my chest. Stopping at various places in each room. Maybe I thought I'd get a sense from David for where he wanted to be placed.

Whatever I'd hope to find or feel, I didn't. I ended up in the bedroom, standing in the dark and staring at the bed. I felt drawn to it for the first time in a week. I cleared a space on my nightstand and set the urn down. After a moment, I turned it so the emblem faced the bed. Shedding my coat and toeing off my shoes, I snuggled under the covers and drifted into darkness.

###

=== FIVE YEARS LATER ===

"Just get the tile here by Tuesday morning. I have contractors coming to install it at one o'clock, and they are not as forgiving as I am with delays."

I ended the call, cutting off the apologetic voice on the other end. Staring at the blank screen of my cell phone, I felt nostalgic for the time when I got a sense of finality by slamming down the phone receiver in anger to release my frustrations. Jabbing my finger at a screen just didn't have the same effect.

"What's the verdict?" Trina asked, looking up from the computer on her desk.

"Fifty dollars for two-day shipping." I sighed and shook my head. "All for the right tile that should have been shipped in the first place...two weeks ago."

She typed something on the keyboard and glanced back to me again, giving me a half-frown, half-smile.

I cringed. "How bad is it?"

It was her turn to sigh and sit back. "Well, how much do you like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?"

"Shit."

"Meg, I know it's your business and you have money to spare, but you have to pay better attention to the budget when you set it. You need those extra funds to live on, not to make up the deficit when you dip into the red at work. The wiggle room on this project has gone from several feet to a few inches. It's supposed to be for major issues, like with the foundation or plumbing. Not the custom-ordered tile that didn't come exactly as you expected it to so you reordered it. The tile is just one of many incidentals that weren't originally planned. You hired me to help keep you in line. You've been doing so well. But these last two projects...we've barely made a profit. And the budget on this project hasn't been adjusted to compensate."

"If I don't put the high-end finishes on the houses, I won't get the prices they deserve."

"You have to have the money to buy those finishes, though." Trina made her way across the room and leaned down, cupping my cheeks in her hands. "We're not Christina and Tarek in California. We're Meg and Trina in Illinois. We don't have the same name or locale, and we definitely don't have the same clientele."

"I know that." I tried to stick out my lower lip, but it was difficult with her hands slightly squishing my cheeks together. My pouty lips felt more like duck lips.

She laughed as I made kissy noises. Then she released me and stepped back. "It's just a house. Someone will buy it. Maybe not for the price you want, but they always do. We produce quality work, and people know that. You've built up a good name. Don't fall into bankruptcy trying to one-up yourself. Just be patient...and more frugal."

I clamped my mouth shut before I called her 'Mother.' I'd done it on too many occasions, and she didn't deserve it. Even in jest.

Trina was like me: childless and single. The first part didn't bother me as much as it did her. She'd had two miscarriages before her husband, Greg, left her for a younger model. Literally. The camera used to love Trina. She'd gone on so many trips after high school for photoshoots. But she'd retired from the profession when she'd gotten pregnant a month after her wedding. She'd lost the baby five months later and struggled to get back into shape. They'd tried again, but she'd miscarried after six weeks.

Greg stood by her side for two decades. But one Sunday three years ago, Trina had shown up on my front porch. She'd gone to visit her mother for the weekend and came home to find a "Dear Jane" note and half of the dresser drawers and closet empty. She hadn't slept in two days, hoping he'd come back. Since then, they'd sold the house as part of the divorce, and she'd moved into her elderly father's place to save money. It wasn't the dream life she'd expected at fifty-six, either.

I nodded at her. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful on the next project."

She patted my cheek and sat down at her desk again. Her smile dropped, though, while she seemed to study the flat-screen monitor. "Fifty dollars? Really? You'd think they'd waive the shipping fees since they messed up the first time."

"Make a note not to use that company again. At least it's cheaper than paying the contractors to come back another day."

"True. Everything else is on schedule. Just no more surprises, okay? We need this one to go smoothly. Neither one of us have the nerves or the extra income for this to be any more of a predictable home-improvement television show."

"God, please, don't remind me."

Ever since 'This Old House,' I'd dreamed of rehabbing houses. David and I had watched just about every fix-it-up show that came on the air. But as time changed, so had the shows.

Back in the day, there hadn't been the almost-scripted format. The one where someone wanted to renovate a different house to move into and they filmed them looking at various properties. They surprised everyone with their pick, the demolition started, and everything went smoothly until bam! An unexpected curveball. There was a call from the contractors or designers to give the homeowners the bad news and ask for an increase in the budget before the show sped up for the decorating and staging phases. Then there was the big reveal with their before-and-after photos.

As the years had progressed, so had the trends. Everything from restoring the originality of the architecture to knocking down the walls for open floor plans. Raising the ceilings. Covering the floors with painted cement. Putting shiplap on every blessed surface. The black-and-white color schemes. The pops of color in permanent pieces that would only be appreciated by a very specific type of buyer. Introducing modern styles into houses built decades earlier, or vise versa. And then there was the subway tile. Don't even get me started.

The day that I had learned the homeowners on almost all of those shows had actually already purchased the chosen house before filming... Well, I'd sat down with my husband and said I was taking my interior design business to the next level. I was going to start rehabbing and flipping houses. Right here in our own town. It had taken off like...wildfire. I'd just had a bit of a setback for a year or two.

When my best friend found herself suddenly alone, she'd quit her job as a CPA in town and asked to team up with me. She called it her mid-life crisis. Said demoing cost less than therapy, and she could help with the books.

"I'm proud of you for getting back into the business," Trina said. "I know it hasn't been easy."

"Don't make me cry." I stood, swallowing heavily as I remembered how slow the past few years had gone by. Most of them had been filled with depression. I'd taken the professional route. Seeing a counselor had helped. But as everyone kept telling me, it would just take time to get back on my feet. They'd been right, and I'd forced myself to get back into my old groove.

My partner shoved a drawer shut with a bang, snapping me out of my daydream. "Sorry. That's still sticking. I need to have Darren see if he can file it down or use some WD-40."

"No worries." I gave her a smile and checked my to-do list. "Let's call it a night. The painters start in the morning. Get some rest, and I'll see you on site first thing. It's your turn to bring the coffee and bagels."

"Yes, boss!"

I just rolled my eyes and shut down my computer.

Together, we closed up the office I owned downtown and walked arm-in-arm in the spitting mist to our cars. The weather alert on my phone this afternoon had called for freezing rain tonight. So far, it didn't seem cold enough to be anything but miserably gray.

"Remind me why I stayed here in the Midwest?" I dug my keys out of my pocket with my right hand, keeping one eye on the ground just in case for ice. "I hate winter."

Trina laid her head on my left shoulder and smiled at me, blinking her eyes. "Because you love your best friend and know she can't leave her dad."

She had a point. I had no clue where I would even start if I moved somewhere else. And with her dad recovering from a stroke in the nursing home, she needed my support more than ever. It was the least I could do after all the times she'd been there for me, especially since losing David.

We parted ways at our vehicles and headed in opposite directions to our respective homes. I had contemplated numerous times about selling the house David and I had shared. But I always decided to hang on to it a little longer. There was a sense of stability within its walls. And we'd shared a lot of memories there. Not to mention, it was paid off.

After the funeral, I'd developed a daily routine. Before I left each morning, I stroked two fingers down the side of the urn on the nightstand, kissed the top, and whispered goodbye to David. At night, I repeated the process but said I was home and then proceeded to tell him all about my day. But as the years had gone on, I'd moved the ashes to the mantel in the den. Stopped talking to it like he could hear me. Though I still found myself getting lost in my thoughts when I stared at it sometimes.

I swapped my slacks and blouse for sweats and a T-shirt. Dinner was zapped in the microwave. Then I reclined in front of the TV and watched a couple of my favorite cooking shows. Tonight, the current episode was on the best burgers from the East Coast. It enthralled me, although I'd never make it to any of those establishments. After the second episode was on pizzas, my stomach growled. Nuked freeze-dried pasta just didn't cut it.

It was still raining when I checked outside. I could call for delivery, but I suddenly craved the brick-oven kind from a certain tavern. A tavern that was still open for business after all these years...and within driving distance. I quickly redressed in suitable clothing for public eyes and went back out.

To say it was a dark and stormy night would have hit the nail right on the head. I think the weather channel had gotten this one wrong. Heck, we were having a thunderstorm in December. We might have a better chance at flooding than ice on the roads.

The dull lights in the tavern's windows were a welcome respite after driving past closed businesses. I managed to run inside without getting too wet.

"What brings you out in this crap, Meg?" Mack called from behind the bar while I shook my coat off.

"A hot date with a pepperoni and extra cheese pizza. You, Mack?"

Except for two guys at the far end of the bar and two others shooting pool, the place was empty. Some rock-and-roll song from the 80s was playing on the digital jukebox. I remembered when the selections had been on 45-records and then CDs.

"Gotta pay the bills. Plus, I live upstairs. What'll you have?"

I scooted an old stool up to the bar and crossed my arms on the surface that was overly shiny in places from being buffed over the ages. "Bud Lite draft. Medium on the pie."

He nodded and moved down to the tapper. "Eating here or taking home?"

"I was going to take it to go, but I think I'd rather stick around here for a bit. Weather and all."

"Yep, it's kept the regulars home tonight. Not too many bikers stupid enough to drive in this. Glad to have the company, though. I'll go put your order in with Lou." Mack set a pilsner glass before me and went down to where the other customers were sitting and there was a small window into the kitchen. He called out something to Lou, the cook, then came back and started wiping down the counter. He stared at the rag for a minute and then glanced up at me. "How you been doing, Meg? I haven't seen you in here in a while."

I shrugged and sipped the alcohol through the frothy head. "Just trying to stay afloat like you. Harder to do on one income, but it's been working so far."

He leaned forward on one arm. "I'm really sorry, hun. You two were always special customers. I'm sorry we kinda drifted apart."

"Thanks." I raised my glass to him and took a deeper drink. I licked my lips and gave him a half smile. "You know what? In two more months, it will have been thirty-five years since we came in that night for our first date."

"You know what, yourself? My grandkids already make me feel old. I don't need your help, too." He sounded gruff, but he was smiling when he said it. Then Mack shook his head with a laugh. "You're the only couple I've ever had come here for Valentine's Day. And the only lady I know who hates flowers. David sure found himself a good one."

"Yes, he did, Mack. Yes, he did." I stared at the decorations on the back wall when he went to check on his other customers. Things hadn't changed much over the years. Some of the bottles were newer brands, but the old classics still remained. Except they had drifted down from the top shelf.

Five minutes later, he brought me my pizza and refilled my beer. I gestured to him to have a piece, and he nodded his thanks.

I chewed carefully so I didn't burn my tongue or the top of my mouth. "How's Helena?"

"She's still got that bum left knee. I keep telling her to go get it looked at, but she's stubborn. Pops her two ibuprofen every night. Most days she's pretty good. But it flares up even more in cold weather like this. She'll be hurting tonight. Gotta love that woman for her resilience. She'll be happy to hear you were in...and asking about her. She loves you, Meg. Just like I do."

I smiled at that. Mack's wife was just as rough-looking as her husband, always wearing black and leather. If they hadn't been behind the bar the first night I had come in here, I would have thought they were just another biker couple. But they both had kind hearts, and they'd been like parental figures for me over the years. More before I lost David. Even so, they were one of the few people I'd looked forward to seeing at the funeral. They'd never disappointed me with their support.

"And the kids?"

Mack chewed thoughtfully. "Braydon still runs his insurance business in Indiana. Wife Linda now bakes cupcakes and those lollipop thingies out of their house. Dylan, their only kid, just finished his third tour in Afghanistan. Should be coming home for Christmas. He's a lieutenant. Can you believe that?"

"Really? Congrats, Grandpa," I said, both serious and teasing him. He hated it when I reminded him of his age. I could relate though, seeing that he was fifteen years older than I was, and I felt decrepit at fifty-six.