Page 8 of A Bouquet of Dreams

“Oh boy.”

“What’s wrong now?” Jim Something’s annoyance was growing. “Don’t tell me your shop is out of yellow carnations.”

“We have yellow carnations. The thing is ... if your girlfriend knows flowers—”

“She does.”

“—then she is sending you a very clear message.”

“She’swhat?”

“Flowers convey meanings,” Claire said. “Yellow carnationsrepresent disappointment or rejection. Most likely, a breakup is imminent.”

Jim Something paused, considering her remark before rejecting it. “That is rubbish.”

Claire shook her head. “It’s not rubbish. It’s historical. It comes from the Victorian age.” She tipped her head. “Are you not in the flower industry?” If not, why was he here?

“Yes, of course I am. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. Turner Flowers.”

Sophie looked at him, awestruck. “You’re part of Turner Flowers?” The entire circle gasped, all together, as if they suddenly discovered they were in the presence of royalty.

Grinning, he puffed out his chest, nearly bursting his shirt buttons. “I sure am. Jim Turner. Third-generation florist.”

Sophie broke out in song. “‘Turn her day around with Turner Flowers.’”

Ick.That annoying song. Claire couldn’t stand it. It was the kind of tune that got stuck in your head. “I never understood that ditty.”

“I composed it.” He gave Claire alook. “What’s wrong with it?”

Well, he asked. “Your commercial makes the assumption that only women would want to receive flowers.”

He scoffed. “Because most of our customers are women.” He looked around the circle, making eye contact with each attendee.

Claire got the impression that it was a strategy, a way to get everyone on his side. When did this turn into a battle? “Men like flowers too.”

Jim Turner didn’t seem to agree. “Turner Flowers knows who our customers are. Three generations of success.”

Claire tipped her head. “And you don’t know the language of flowers?”

“Flowers do not speak. I’ve heard about that language of flowers hullabaloo. Old-fashioned nonsense. You’re just creating an illusion for your customers with all that mumbo jumbo about flowers and messages. Flowers are just flowers.”

Claire’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “Flowers arenotjust flowers!”

Jim Turner narrowed his eyes. “Is this how you work with your customers?”

Oh, so now he was back to the role-playing exercise. Fine. Back they’d go. “I might suggest sending two-toned carnations. They’re a symbol of parting.”

Jim Turner’s face was starting to turn red. “Look, I came into your shop to send flowers to my girlfriend for her birthday. Something you’re making very difficult. And you are making me—your customer—extremely uncomfortable.”

“I’m trying to help. I don’t want you to be surprised when your girlfriend dumps you.”

“Flowersarejust flowers! People like them because they like them. They’re pretty. They smell good. End of story.” At this point, Jim Turner rose, pushed his chair back, and glowered at Claire. “It’s very clear to me why you have been sent to customer service rehab.” With that, he left the circle.

Why did everyone keep referring to this conference as customer service rehab? This was supposed to be a conference designed to help flower stylists round out their skills. To prepare them so they could eventually own a shop one day. “He’s kidding, right?”

“He’s not kidding,” Sophie said. “My boss told me that I had one more chance to improve or I’d be let go.” She looked around the circle. “What about y’all?”

“Same.” A man nodded. “I’ve been put on probation.”

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