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table. Hearing her name and the word
walk
has captured the dog’s attention.
    â€œOkay,” he says in agreement. “I will hang on tight.”
    â€œAnd you can only bring me flowers that come from your grandparents’ farm. You can’t pick flowers from other people’s property.”
    He nods.
    â€œI’ll pay you only for the ones I can use. So don’t pick a lot, because we need to see how I’ll be able to add them to arrangements. I want to make sure we don’t waste them.”
    He nods again.
    â€œHave your grandmother call me if she wants to talk to me about our agreement, okay?”
    â€œThank you, miss.”
    â€œRuby,” I say, since I hadn’t told him my name.
    He seems surprised.
    â€œMiss Ruby,” I repeat, and he smiles.
    â€œThank you, Miss Ruby.” And he turns and heads for the door. He stops just before walking out. “I really like Clementine, and your name is as pretty as a flower.”
    And I watch him jump on his bike and head in the direction of his grandparents’ farm. I shake my head. I don’t know what I have just gotten myself in for.

• S IX •

    I WALK inside my house and right away I feel her. Or I feel the absence of her. Sometimes one hurts as much as the other and I can’t even tell whether it is grief or longing that overtakes me. Daisy always filled up a room coming and going. In life and death she is simply bigger than anything else.
    Clementine ambles past me, heading to her water bowl. I take in a breath, shake off the memories and thoughts of my dead sister, place my keys on the table in the foyer, hang my bike helmet on the wall hook, shed my jacket and gloves, slide off my shoes, arranging them by the door, and walk to the kitchen. I pour myself a tall glass of water and drink most of it, leaving a little, which I pour in the small pots of African violets resting on the windowsill.
    â€œWhat shall we have for dinner?” I ask my dog, and she lifts her head from where she has found a spot to rest in front of the stove and then glances toward the refrigerator. I follow her gaze. “Chicken?” I ask, and she stands up. “You’re so predictable, Clementine. Wouldn’t you like a hot dog or sausage? Why is it always and only chicken?”
    Clementine shrugs and I pick up her food bowl, pour in two cups of dry food and get the container of canned chicken from the fridge. I sprinkle a little meat on top and place the bowl back on the floor. She immediately goes over and eats. I watch her for a few seconds. She has become very dear to me, my best friend even, although I know that sounds like a cliché.
    Jimmy gave me Clementine. He had picked her up when he was making a delivery out on the old farm road. Alisa Rogers had just given birth to her first child and Lester, her husband, had ordered her a tall vase of Asiatic lilies, yellow carnations, lavender cushion spray chrysanthemums, and pink roses. It was a summer special; I called it my Pastel Ever Pretty Arrangement and I sold it for twenty-five dollars including delivery.
    When he called, he asked about blue flowers—Alisa had given birth to a boy—but all I had on hand were a few bluebells and one or two light purple irises, so he finally agreed the special was best. I put it together and Jimmy took it out just a couple of hours after he called. They were coming home from the hospital and Lester wanted flowers awaiting them, and he told Jimmy where to find the house key and exactly where to place the arrangement so that it would appear that Lester had bought the flowers and put them on the kitchen table before he left for the hospital to bring her and the baby home.
    Jimmy was walking back to the van when he spotted the puppy out in the ditch near the house. She was huddled near the bank and when Jimmy walked over, she hardly moved. He picked her up and could see she was hungry and frightened and had probably been left