THE PERFECT ROSE

       Maddy and Don Mitchell chose Valentine’s Day for their wedding because anniversaries would be easy to remember.

Every year, Maddy gave Don a single red carnation in memory of the first anniversary when they had been too poor for roses.

Every year, Don picked up a dozen red roses at the florist’s shop on his way home.

And every year, they went someplace special for dinner and dancing.

           “Are you getting a dozen red roses for Maddy again?” Don’s assistant asked, noticing the red carnation on his jacket when she handed him the morning mail.

“Yep,” he grinned. “Happy Valentine’s Day number nine.”

           An hour and a half later, a client in Chicago announced it was holding an emergency board meeting Thursday afternoon. They wanted Don, their corporate counsel, to fly out Wednesday evening and stay overnight in the hotel they’d reserved for the meeting.

           He called the florist to check on his order.

           “Sorry, Mr. Mitchell,” the clerk replied. “We’re all out already. We might get another shipment in late tonight. Joe is scouring the city, trying to find some more red roses. It’s crazy this year.”

           Not waiting to argue with the clerk that the order had been placed months ago, Don texted his assistant to find the best flight to Chicago and a florist in Philadelphia who still had a dozen red roses. Then he texted his wife at her office with the bad news.

           At three o’clock, Don’s assistant messaged him that an Uber would pick him up at five-thirty, he had an eight-p.m. flight to Midway, and she couldn’t find a single florist in Center City with a dozen red roses, but she’d keep on trying.

When she poked her head in the door to say “goodbye” at five, she still hadn’t had any luck.

           As the driver took him to the airport, Don tried to figure out how he was going to get a dozen red roses to Maddy. She had messaged him back that she understood. They could postpone their anniversary celebration and the roses until the weekend.

           For Maddy to get nothing on Valentine's Day? Unacceptable.

           Looking out the window, he noticed a flower shop in a strip center. “I’ve got to get my wife some roses before I leave town or I’m a dead duck,” he told the driver.

           The driver smiled and nodded as he signaled for a turn.

           The shop wasn't very big, but there was a large greenhouse in the back.

           It was six-twenty. The shop closed at six-thirty.

           He was out of red roses, the owner said, suggesting yellow roses instead.

           Don looked at the yellow roses in the cooler. They were beautiful … but.

           As Don explained his dilemma, the owner directed him to some small, elegant arrangements that included a red rose or two.

           Unfortunately, Don said, none “spoke to him.”

“This is the only thing I'll be able to give Maddy for our anniversary this year,” he told the owner. “The roses have to be perfect.”

           The owner — probably retired, Don thought to himself — walked him to the door and out to the waiting car. “Sorry I couldn’t help, Mister,” he said.

           The driver was starting the car when Don heard the owner holler, “Hold it just a minute, Mister.”

           Don lowered his window.

           “I might have something left in my greenhouse,” the man said. “If you still have time, you can come on out back and have a look.”

           The driver nodded and said there was still time.

           They walked quickly to the large, dark building. The owner unlocked the door and turned on the lights as Don stepped inside.

He gasped. It was like entering a conservatory. He had never seen anything like it outside of Longwood Gardens, and he said as much.

           “I used to be one of the head gardeners over there at Longwood,” the owner admitted, a little shyly. “But I got tired of planning displays folks could look at but not touch. I told myself that when it came time for me to retire, I'd have a small place where customers could come in and get something pretty to take home. More personal.”

           Don nodded in agreement.

           “Now, let’s see what I’ve got,” the older man muttered, almost to himself. “Most of what I sell for big days like today I have shipped in from warehouses. But I do keep a few rose bushes out here.”

           As the owner pointed, Don walked toward several large bushes, all devoid of flowers, except for one. It had a single deep, rich, velvety red rose.

“It’s still a bud, Mister,” the owner apologized.

           “It’s perfect,” Don replied, reaching for his wallet. “How much?”

           The owner looked uncomfortable. “Well, you know, I really don’t sell these. Why don’t I just charge you for the delivery. The rest will be my present to you and the Missus.”

           “That’s splendid,” Don replied.

           “Sir?” The driver called out, stepping inside the greenhouse. “Sir, you’d better leave quick or you’ll miss your flight.”

  “Don't worry, Mister,” the owner called as Don ran to the car. “I’ll see that the Missus gets it tonight.” 

         The next Valentine’s Day was even busier but by now the flower shop owner was more experienced. He had ordered twice as many roses from the warehouses. There was a lot to learn about flowers retail, he told himself as he completed another sale. And one of those things was that the days were a lot longer than those at Longwood, especially holidays. It was already seven o’clock and there was a customer still looking around.

           “Did you find what you want, Ma’am?” he called. “I’m getting ready to close.”

           “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m looking for red roses.”

The owner pointed to the cooler. “Well, there are seven in there, Ma’am. Would that be enough?”

           “I guess so,” she sighed. “I was really hoping to get a dozen. It’s for a special occasion.”

           “Valentine’s Day is always a special occasion, Ma’am,” he said. “Next year, you might want to order ahead.”

           "You’re right,” she replied, a little sheepishly. “I could have. I work in Center City.”

           “Why didn’t you get your roses there?”

           “Well, you see,” she said slowly. “You see, last year my husband sent me a beautiful red rose for our ninth wedding anniversary. It was on Valentine’s Day. Just a bud. A rich, velvety, deep-red bud.”

           She paused for a moment, then smiled up at him.

           “The delivery box had your shop’s name on it. I wanted to get this year’s roses from the same place.”

           “Well, I’m flattered, Ma’am,” the owner said. “What’s your name, if I may ask?”

           “Maddy,” she replied. “My husband was on his way to the airport last year and he must have stopped here. At least, your name was on the box,” she repeated.

           “Sure, sure,” the owner replied brightly. “I remember him. Young man. Attorney, I believe. On his way to a business meeting in Chicago. Right?”

           “Right,” she replied.

           The owner smiled. “He was in a hurry and wanted to make sure the rose was delivered on Valentine’s Day, so I made the delivery myself. Left the box with the night watchman because it was so late.”

Laughing, he continued, “I guess this year it’s your turn to buy the roses.”

           She didn’t answer. She was looking at the floor, struggling not to cry.

           “No,” she finally replied. “No.”

           She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and started to dab at her eyes.

           “You see,” she said. “You see, his plane never made it to Chicago.”

           “Why?” The owner frowned. “What happened?”

           “The plane crashed shortly after take-off,” she replied quietly. “There was an explosion mid-air. Everyone was killed.”

           “Oh, no,” the owner said, stunned. “I remember that. It was a horrible accident. Your husband was one of the passengers?”

She nodded, tears running down her cheeks.

He stared at her. There was nothing he could think of to say.

He looked away, anywhere. Then he turned back and said, “I tell you what, Mrs.? Maddy?”

           “Yes,” Maddy sniffed.

           “You come with me to the greenhouse, like your husband did last year, and see if you can find something you like. Okay?”

           “Okay.”

           They walked together out the back door toward the greenhouse. As they entered, the owner turned on the lights.

           Like her husband, Maddy gasped with delight.

           “There,” she cried. “There!”

           She ran toward a rose bush with one last, deep-red, velvety bloom.

           “There! There it is!” she said, turning to the owner. “The perfect rose.”