Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary,

“Platonic flowers for platonic occasions.” It has become one of his mantras as he transitions from victim of unrequited love to being just her good friend. He does not want to lose the best parts of her for wanting all of her. As for flowers, he has never, nor would he ever, buy her roses. That is too cliché for someone as unique, amazing, and enigmatic as her. When she started her new consulting practice, he bought an orchid plant the size of a small tree. “She looks like a woman who would love orchids.” It was a lucky guess. A year later, remembering her excitement from the first, combined with a lack of originality, he bought another orchid for Mother’s Day. Three years passed before he bought her an arrangement of assorted flowers for “Best Friend’s Day”, a little-known holiday set aside on June 8th. For someone desperately in love with someone else, who rebuffs with “I think of you as a friend”, Best Friend Day seems a reasonable alternative to National Unrequited Love Day.

She writes him that she is setting aside a bit of her urban postage stamp backyard for a vegetable garden. Growing produce is avocational enjoyment for a vegetarian raised on an Upstate farm. She lays out tomatoes, eggplants, and peppers, all essential recipe ingredients for her pantry. Maybe, she will add some carrots and cucumbers. Zucchini seedlings will only make it in the ground if there is room and she still has enthusiasm. “Squash squeaks”, is her refrain. He had never thought about it until he ate some butternut one day. Her mom had taught her to shred and freeze zucchini for future baking in cookies and breads. Apparently, baking takes the peep out of squash.

“Squash squeaks” is one of the many observations she shares that makes him look at life and living with fresh eyes. It is why he couldn’t let go when she told him “Never!” on that fateful day, now so long ago. It isn’t like they ever dated or even kissed. It is the being with her, her presence, that fills his heart, and his head. She inspires – breathes fire and zeal into what would otherwise be the mundane.

His writings for her, originally all passion, have become increasingly measured. It did not happen all at once and likely will never be as newsy as she might like. “Platonic flowers for platonic occasions” is just one of the many creeds she wordlessly imposed. Others include: “When meeting for dinner in a deliberately unromantic restaurant, a short hug hello and hug goodbye is acceptable, and nothing more.” “Gifts can be expensive but must be relevant and not romantically suggestive.” He likes that about her. She does not refuse a present based on what she thinks he might have spent. She always is sincerely grateful. Likewise, she doesn’t fight for the check at the end of a dinner together. She is a strong woman without worrying about hollow symbols of feminism.

The garden is progressing nicely. She sends him pictures, her kids weeding alongside her. She is Welly-shod yet elegantly coiffured and hatless, with enough lace at her bodice. There is no mistaking – “Lady farmer at work.” Weather-wise, it has been one of those summers. Plenty of heat and plenty of rain, both making their way to her backyard from the Gulf of California. Harvest this year will be early and bountiful.

He reciprocates with pictures from his family reunion. It is part of the dance and another rule of their relationship that he violates, regularly, “tit for tat”. Like his mother, she would prefer he live by the precept – “Only speak when you are spoken to.” The family reunion pictures include neither first wife who is at the party, nor second wife, who is not. Too easy to read estrangement where there is none. Complacency, “No!”, he tells himself. That’s not the most accurate word. Rather, years earlier, a boredom bred of apathy and familiarity had defined his marriage. Each does as each wish. In that way, it is an old-fashioned marriage, a chattel arrangement. He might have moved to marital schism had she wanted more than friendship, but without her, perseverance seemed the most reasonable course. He has thought more than once that her “never” brought certainty. The certainty that he would never stop loving her and the certainty that she would never start loving him.

“Alas,” she writes, “The garden is under attack by all kinds of insect critters.” Her fencing has taken care of most of the mammalian creatures. Insects are another matter. Not surprisingly (to him at least), she is reluctant to resort to any chemical sprays. “I bought a two-gallon sprayer and filled it with soapy water, the number one Internet suggestion. I swear I witnessed two Japanese beetles taking a bath, little baby sponge and all. I had made a Mac and Cheese and the recipe called for 2 oz. of beer. What do you do with 10 oz. of stale beer? The Internet recommended - if I took my beer added in Epsom salt and mouthwash, that solution would do the trick. Given the number of ingredients in the world, divining those three as the perfect insecticide seems some budding chemist’s labor of love. My beetles treated it as the perfect spa treatment to rid themselves of the soap. Wonder if the mouthwash gives them a minty fragrance enhancing their sexual allure? Any ideas?”

Part of being smote by love is creating reasons to reach out, which he does regularly, but not incessantly. The surprise gift-giving is one element of his rapprochement. He calls the City Floral Center to assure a plentiful supply. He had often worked with Pine Street Landscape Design around the corner from her house when he lived in her metro area. He knows they will get the job done while addressing both the utilitarian and the aesthetic. Add in a cash bonus and he is certain it will get done today – the joys of capitalism.

After picking up the flowers, Antonio arrives in his white pickup at 10. He is wearing a broad hat, a white tee-shirt, and neat blue overalls with Pine Design and his name scripted on the cloth near the button. Since the pandemic, she is home during work hours. She has retrained her clients to do everything virtually, so visits to the office are rarer and rarer. She is earning more, spending less, and has more free time for kids and gardening and fun. She peeks out through the screen door, past the porch. Antonio is on the sidewalk that leads from street to the porch steps. She politely inquires, “May I help you?” Antonio responds in his best English, “No, senora, quite the contrary. I am here to help you. I have two dozen marigolds to plant in your garden. Just show me the way.” Her slightly mystified expression was sufficient response and Antonio continued, “Senor ordered these flowers first thing this morning and I was told to deliver and plant at house number 321. He said you have an insect problem. You and everyone else this year – climate change.” She mutters something inaudible and leads him to the backyard metal gate.

Antonio immediately tends to his chores. She gives him a glance and heads for her computer, the gateway to most communication with incorrigible him. And, there it is, the email she expects.

“Sweetheart,

The marigolds are especially efficient protecting tomatoes and eggplants from a variety of bugs. I know with your emphasis on Italian cuisine those two will need special attention. The flowers will also add some color to your garden. I hope they brighten your day, each day.”

As she surmised, this is all his doing, her persistent “senor”. The email continues as she knew it would - his inability to stop at the facts is as predictable as sunrise. He has an insatiable need to emote. Thus, the email continues.

“Neither you nor I are religious in the traditional sense. We are more painstakingly spiritual, less concerned with the mythology or the liturgy. Nevertheless, the marigold is the Virgin Mary’s flower. The act of opening itself to the sun is a metaphor for Mary opening herself to God’s grace. And so, it is with me. You have always been the light, the warmth, that stirs everything inside. I am your marigold, tightly closed except in your presence. I look forward to our next dinner together, perhaps, something we make together from your garden? I will bring the wine.”

She has since that fateful day carefully picked and chose to what she will respond. Her wordless ignoring of any expression that strikes her as implied seduction combined with her “Never”, underscore the truth. Among the too many “never moments” in their relationship, he will never see the inside of her kitchen nor any other room of her neat bungalow. He knows that truth, unstated, but life is aspiration.

She hits the reply. “Thank you for the very thoughtful gift. I hope they do the trick, and I will enjoy them in any event. Certainly, more pleasing than soapy water or beer solution.” She hits the “Send”.

The arrival of any email she authors has its own alert on his phone. Any response from her makes him smile. This one is no exception. He thinks to himself, “Platonic flowers for a platonic occasion”.