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out there on the country road by somebody who didn’t want a puppy. He called Lester at the hospital since he had his cell number, and Lester said he didn’t know anything about the dog and certainly couldn’t take her.
    â€œA baby is about all we can manage right now,” he told him. “I can drop her off at the shelter later if you want.” But Jimmy said no and brought the puppy back to the shop and by the end of the day, after a bowl of milk and a visit to the vet, and a warm towel where she took a long nap, Clementine had made her home with us; and since Jimmy lived in senior housing where dogs were not allowed and Nora preferred cats, I became a pet owner. That was ten years ago. Clementine has been at my side ever since.
    I blow out a long breath and think about my dinner. My tastes are simple too, but I want a little something more than canned chicken so I look in the cabinets and pull out a can of soup. It seems like a perfect night for a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup. I’ll even have a big glass of milk. Comfort food never seemed so comforting.
    After dinner I turn on a little music, soft jazz, a station from Spokane that is mostly news and interviews in the mornings, classical in the afternoons, and local bands, jazz and blues in the evenings. Tonight there’s a feature on a new album by Norman Brown, a guitarist from Missouri, a favorite of mine, his music always light and easy, his sounds compared to his contemporary George Benson. It’s a nice way to settle into darkness.
    I pour a glass of wine, sit on the sofa, lean back, close my eyes, and think about the day. I think about Jenny and worry about how frail she looked, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the pale color of her skin, the loose way her clothes hung on her body. Without family around to tend to her, I can only hope her roommate is watching out for her. I remember that Louise Tate is studying to be a nurse at the community college, so maybe she sees this as an opportunity to practice her skills and that in a few weeks we will all be able to confirm to her that she is going into the right profession.
    I hope Justin is up for what is ahead of them, that he manages to show just enough concern without hovering, that he is patient and easy with Jenny, that he somehow understands that a young woman with breast cancer has very specific needs and very unpredictable emotions. I hope that together they can weather this storm.
    I think about Cooper and his advice on the orchids. I consider Conrad and Vivian and still I am unsure they are ready for such a passionate exchange. I remember Stan, delivering the yellow roses to his wife, the celebration of another anniversary, and I recall the year she left him for three months, and the ragged way he was until she returned. I never learned the reason for her departure or return, but I knew it the moment she was back.
    It was in spring and Stan had met me at the door before I opened the shop and wanted to know what flowers I had that could celebrate a homecoming and make it so a person would never want to leave. I worked all morning on the presentation, so clear I was on Stan’s desperation. I used arching callas, long stems reaching from the vase, hands welcoming her home, white hydrangea, and bright green cymbidium orchids, deep verdant aralia leaves surrounding all the flowers. I called it Grace and Romance, knowing Stan would need a little of both to keep Viola happy, to keep his wife at home.
    I think of how there were tears standing in his eyes when he came back to pick up the arrangement later that day, how he couldn’t speak, but how much I knew he liked it. He tipped me a hundred dollars that day and even though I tried to make him take it back, he refused me. “It’s the only way I know how to thank you,” he said, the words muffled and choked. So I kept the money and bought exotics with it: bird of paradise, pincushion protea, red ti