Page 80 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
“Invincible?” Grandma Martin pointed at Nahla’s book.“You need to finish reading. But listen—why are you letting a bunch of old Greek men tell you what a hero ought to be? They’ll have you thinking you got to go to war and kill people to prove yourself. Women have always known better than that. Most of us get what we want without slaughtering anyone. In fact, now that I think of it, the best hero story I ever heard was all about flowers.”
“Flowers?” Nahla asked. She had a hunch where the tale was headed.
There was a reason Troy had so many Black girl heroes, Nahla’s grandmother informed her. “Round these parts, you had to be strong to survive. If you were a woman, didn’t hurt to be a genius, too. So every generation got stronger—until it started to become clear that the powers that be couldn’t hold us back anymore. That was about the time that Betsy Wright decided she deserved her own shop.”
As far as Nahla knew, Betsy Wright had always owned Fairview Florist. But her grandma set her straight. Betsy had spent her first fifteen years out of high school working for a man named Homer Johnson. (At the time, Troy was home to three Homers, two Hectors, a Nestor, and an Ajax.) Like most people, Homer wasn’t particularly bad or good. He paid a fair wage and he never got mean or did anything nasty. But he believed in doing things the way they’d always been done. As a florist, he was partial to red roses, pink carnations, and yellow chrysanthemums. As a person, he believed in a world where everyone had their place. White men were meant to lead the way. Black women got to pick up after everyone else. That was the natural order of things, according to Homer Johnson.
Betsy knew that was the order in Troy, too. But there wasn’t a damn thing natural about it.Shewas the reason Fairview Florist was thriving. Her ready-made bouquets outsold Mr. Johnson’s three to one. There were customers who made a point of coming in on his off days, just so they could be sure Betsy was the one who’d handle their flowers. And she was the one who’d convinced Mr. Johnson to order the new varieties that had proven so popular. In the spring and summertime, she even got up early to pick her own wildflowers.
So when Homer Johnson decided to retire, it seemed perfectly logical that Betsy would buy the business. She and her husband lived frugally, and they had enough saved for a down payment. But they couldn’t afford to buy the business outright. They needed a loan from a bank.
Betsy Wright tried all three banks in the county. Only Wachovia wouldgrant her an appointment. The new president, Corey Pruitt, had been quarterback of the football team when she was in high school—and she’d been the tutor responsible for making sure he passed math. When Betsy arrived at the bank, he greeted her warmly at the door. She felt like a VIP when he’d ushered her past all his employees and back to his office.
She’d come prepared with a business plan, a portfolio, updated logos, and sketches of the renovated interior. She laid the documents out on the desk and Corey made a show of looking them over, though he didn’t pick any up.
“This is all very impressive,” he told her. “I’m sure the next owner will be more than happy to keep you on.”
“You’re not going to read my materials?”
“I don’t need to read anything to know a loan’s just too risky. Customer retention could be a serious problem. The people who bought from old Homer might not buy from you.”
Because she was Black.That part went without saying.
Betsy stood there, stunned. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would you even see me if you knew you weren’t going to help me?”
He looked at her as though it should have been obvious. “For old times’ sake!” he said warmly. “It’s been fun to catch up!”
It just so happened that Lula Dean stopped by the shop that afternoon with her twins in tow and found Betsy weeping.
“So you’re just gonna take no for an answer?” Lula asked when she heard what had happened.
“What else am I going to do?” Betsy asked.
“Fight like hell!” Lula said. “You knew Corey back in the day, didn’t you? Don’t you have any dirt you could use?”
“No, and even if I did, I wouldn’t resort to blackmail.”
Lula shook her head at Betsy’s scruples. “That’s ridiculous. You know what I’d do? I’d call Angela McGee, the Pruitts’ housekeeper. I bet she knows a thing or two you could use.”
It was just like Lula to assume all Black women in Troy were friends. Betsy and Angela had never been close. Fortunately, theyweresecond cousins. And as it turned out, Angiedidknow a thing or two.
That evening, Betsy had James make the boys dinner while she worked late at the shop. By midnight, she’d completed three bouquets. First thing in the morning, she sent them all out by messenger.
The first bouquet arrived at the home of Pamela Pruitt, Corey Pruitt’s mother. Betsy knew from listening to Lula’s gossip that Pam had grown up on a horse farm near Newnan. Though she’d married a wealthy man, she’d never been accepted into the rich ladies club. Which appeared to be perfectly fine with Pam. Betsy used every last wildflower she had in Pam Pruitt’s bouquet. It was as untamed and colorful as the woman herself. And Betsy made sure the entire arrangement could be fed to a horse.
The second bouquet was delivered to Maisie Pruitt, Corey’s devoted wife. Betsy found photos of their wedding on Maisie’s Facebook page. She built a stunning arrangement using the same orchids and freesia Maisie had chosen for her bridal bouquet, the white honeysuckle that had decorated the pews in the church, and the purple hydrangeas from the centerpieces at the wedding reception.
The last bouquet arrived later that day at a house in Macon—an address Angela McGee had found on a delivery slip she pulled out of Corey Pruitt’s pants before they went in for cleaning. He’d sent a pair of diamond earrings. Betsy chose a dozen bloodred roses. It was completely clichéd—but so was having an affair with your bank’s stationery supplier.
None of the bouquets bore a note—just a tag stamped with Fairview Florist’s new logo.
The next morning, Betsy got a call from a woman at Wachovia informing her that her business loan had been approved. By the end of the week, the papers were all signed. Fairview Florist was finally hers.
“So Mr. Pruitt was cheating on his wife?” Nahla had asked.
“Maybe I should have started with a G-rated story,” her grandmother said.
“Please. I’m twelve,” Nahla reminded her. “You think I don’t know how the world works? I’m just glad Mrs. Wright got the loan she deserved.”
