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The farmer’s market is gorgeous in the spring, overwhelmed by the scent of sweet fruits and flowers, and the grand rhythm of live music pulsing in the distance. Arms linked, Justine guides Thalassa down one of the emptier rows of the market, weaving between a sparse crowd of shoppers as she follows close beside her, white cane sweeping across the asphalt.
They’re shopping for flowers today, as they often do when they visit. They’re Justine’s preferred method of gift-giving, all she truly wishes to say hidden in soft petals and twisting stems when she can’t find the words herself. At first, Thalassa saw little appeal in receiving something so beautiful she could not see, a feeling quickly corrected with the bouquet she received after their first date.
“Sunflowers,” Justine told her. Thalassa ran a hand along the soft petals, along the bumps of the seeds in the center. “For loyalty and adoration.”
But they smelled of wood and earth, and the solace Thalassa felt in her company. To her, their meaning was comfort. Home.
So at Thalassa’s insistence, Justine gifted her more: pink peonies for romance, scented with citrus and new beginnings. Carnations for fascination and their first anniversary that smelled of cloves and passion. She began to gift them to Justine too, and though the meanings they found always differed, they brought them closer still. There’s always an odd sort of beauty in their interpretations, each profession of love never the same as the last.
With Justine’s encouragement, Thalassa even branched out and began giving them to others. To Valant, to Mr. Wright, and now, to Trucy.
She has a show tomorrow morning, broadcast nationwide and the first real use of Troupe Gramarye’s magic tricks since the family fell apart. Thalassa couldn’t be more proud of her, as distant and non-existent as their relationship still is. Flowers seem to be the most fitting way to show her support from afar, to be there for a daughter who isn’t truly hers.
“There’s a florist on our left,” Justine directs. “Let’s turn.”
She leads her to the booth, lowering her hand to the edge of the table so that Thalassa can slide her fingers down her arm and find it too. She lifts her cane, resting it against her shoulder as Justine begins to peruse the selection before them, describing all she can see. “There’s a fair assortment here. Roses, tulips, orchids, daffodils, and hyacinths. The latter is only in lilac, but the others have just about every color available.”
“Roses are the usual choice for performances, aren’t they?”
“At the risk of sounding pretentious, I feel those are far too cliche and without any fitting meaning.” Justine laughs a little at her own expense, at how reverently she treats the simple process of picking flowers out. “Would you like my recommendation?”
“Of course. You’re far better at this than I am.”
“The orchids would be best, a combination of yellow and orange. As bright as the sun and your daughter.” Thalassa finds her hand on the edge of the table and Justine guides her to the planter with the assortment of orchids so she can feel them. “Yellow for joy and a new beginning for the Gramarye name, and orange for the pride you hold for her achievements.”
As per usual, Justine’s choice is perfect. Trucy deserves something that warm and kind, and yet, just as Justine hides all she cannot say in the gifts she gives, Thalassa feels the urge to do the same. She remembers years ago, white orchids sent to a companion of Justine’s for an apology still owed. Now, she figures they’re a good apology to Trucy for all she could not do; all she has not done.
“Yellow, orange, and white, then,” Thalassa tells her. “I think that would be perfect.”
“White?”
“For innocence,” she lies. The ensuing silence makes it clear Justine does not believe her.
With the bouquet bought, they continue on with their shopping – fresh fruits and vegetables for dinner this week, bread and jam for breakfast, a small homemade pie to bring back to John. Justine says nothing of the flowers until the walk back to the car, away from the noise and hustle of the market.
“Thalassa,” she begins, her tone as careful and cautious as it always is on the subject of her children. It’s gentle and reassuring, the way she whispers and holds her arm tightly, just letting her know she’s there. “If you’re ready to talk to her – and to Apollo too – I think you should.”
“I don’t know if I am.” The distance is so much simpler; from here she’s a failure of a mother only to herself. Neither of her children can be disappointed in her if they do not know the truth.
“You’re never ready for something like this.” As they reach the car, Justine adjusts her arm again, not reaching to guide Thalassa to the passenger door, but reaching for her hand. She intertwines their fingers, soft and caring, and holds her tight. “But if the time’s come, it would be a disservice to avoid it any longer. I’ll be here with you through it all, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
Justine helps her into the car, and on their way back home, it occurs to Thalassa that she never actually stopped to smell the orchids she chose. She lifts the bouquet in her hands, breathing in the sweet scent of vanilla.
Hope.