What the h.e.l.l was he talking about? "At the park or the restaurant?"

"When you ran over her with the d.a.m.n dog. Remember. You said she had big brown dirt spots on her a.s.s and you never told her."

Seriously? "Big deal. I wouldn't exactly call that lying-"

Roger strode close and leaned up, attempting to gather enough height to intimidate. It hadn't worked, though Carter dared not snicker. "You didn't tell her. Lying by omission is still lying. Weren't you the guy that said just the other day that not telling something is as untruthful as an outright lie?"

"It was just dirt. How the h.e.l.l does that compare to-"

"Yeah, it was just dirt. On her a.s.s. And those messages were just texts. Go back and look at them. With the exception of the one about her body, what had she meant by it all?"

"She pretended that Jackson-"

Roger waved a hand. "I know. I know. But h.e.l.l, we'd just insulted her, and you have to admit it was funny."

Carter frowned. "No, it wasn't."

"Yeah, it was. Go get your computer. I want to show you her blog. You aren't going to believe-"

Bang. Bang. Bang. Someone was at the door. Carter peered through the gla.s.s. What the h.e.l.l? Flowers? He yanked it open.

A man in a blue shirt and jeans held out a bouquet of white roses. "Delivery for C. Coben. Is she here?"

"I'm Coben ... Carter Coben."

"Oh, uh, that's weird." The man shot a glance at Roger then grinned. "Can you sign for them?"

After dashing his signature on the pad, Carter closed the door and carried the flowers to the kitchen. Who the h.e.l.l would send him roses?

"There's a card." Roger nodded and plucked it from the ribbon, tossing it toward Carter.

The tiny white envelope landed on the tile and hissed across the surface. Carter s.n.a.t.c.hed it just before it could tumble over the edge. He slid out the message and read.

My favorites are the white roses-if you strip the petals and scatter them around (especially in the bedroom), they're like silk to step or lay on. And they smell like heaven.

--Gene in OK "What the h.e.l.l does that mean? I don't even know anyone in Oklahoma. These have to be for someone else." Carter tossed the card back.

Before Roger could read the note, the door summoned again. Roger chuckled. Another delivery, which didn't seem to surprise Roger one bit. "Go ahead. Open the door."

Carter signed for another bouquet. This time it was some frilly white and purple things that frothed like waves of ribbon, surrounded in a bunch of green leaves. With another card: My wife, G.o.d rest her soul, always loved orchids. I bought them for her every anniversary. She died of cancer two years ago and I can't walk by them now without thinking of the good times. We had a lot.

Dan, in Seattle He dropped a hand to his hip as he held up the words to Roger. "You want to tell me what this is about?"

Before Roger answered, there was another bang at the door. Carter wasn't surprised to see another delivery person. However, when he glanced over the man's shoulder and counted no less than five floral vans crowding the street, he was caught off guard. Plant- or flower-laden people clamored out of each and lined up on the sidewalk.

When he finally thunked the door shut several minutes later, the entire kitchen and living room disappeared behind floral arrangements. All sorts of bright and colorful creations, each with a note. His throat closed up and his lungs tightened. He opened each of the living room windows to vent the smell. "G.o.d, I hate flowers. Should I repeat myself-what's this all about?"

Roger still had a Cheshire-cat grin as he shrugged. "Read the notes then go get your computer."

"Just tell me, a.s.shole. And help me get rid of these."

Roger shook his head in denial and sipped the remainder of the now warm beer. He tossed the bottle in the trash and deposited himself on the couch with Carter's television remote. "I think the Astros are in New York this weekend."

Obviously, Carter wasn't getting an explanation so he pulled each of the cards from their plastic harness and sat to read. One by one.

I wanted to send peonies, but the florist didn't have them so I sent carnations instead. For my girl, Liz, it's peonies. We have some in the backyard and, well, one of our children was conceived near that bush. Grin.

Carter swore. "Unbelievable. Random strangers are sending flowers to tell me where they did the deed with their wife or girlfriend? Seriously?"

Roger laughed. "Nope. That's not at all what it's about. Keep reading."

"Open the door. It's claustrophobic in here. I think I'm going to-"

"Sneeze?" Roger knew he wasn't allergic. It would have been an easier thing to say if it were true. It wasn't.

"No, puke. These things reek. I think I'll toss them out."

"Don't you dare! Read the d.a.m.n messages, idiot. These people went to a lot of trouble to send them, the least you can do is give a little d.a.m.n respect and time. Besides, you have that plant there and haven't thrown it out. What's the problem with flowers?"

Carter swore the man baited him. What's the problem with flowers? They smell. Reek, in fact. Like a d.a.m.ned ... funeral. "The plant doesn't smell."

Roger lifted a hand at the notes in Carter's fingers. "Read the messages. I want to hear the rest."

So he did. "This one just says 'Pa.s.sion. Red roses are for pa.s.sion, lots of it.'"

Roger thrust his hand in the open potato chip bag resting at his side and chomped on a chip. "Yeah, pa.s.sion is good. I could use some of that right now. What else?"

"How about, 'Lavender. We love to spray the sheets with lavender. It's hard to find sometimes but d.a.m.ned if it doesn't make my heart turn over.' It's from some guy named Bruce. How can a guy with a big name like Bruce say something that sappy?"

"Which one was that on?" Roger surveyed the room until his eyes landed on the purple clump. "Ah, there they are. Wow, they're live too. He sent you a live lavender plant. Cool."

Carter growled, "No, not cool. Who needs a fricking lavender plant? I don't want to-"

Roger held up a hand. "I get it. The question is-do you?"

Carter flicked his eyes over the other notes, each one alluding to how the guy that sent them worshipped his girl. He wondered if those women were also lying, cheating- He tossed the notecards on the floor, scattering them like a deck of playing cards. He clenched his eyes shut and leaned back in his overstuffed easy chair. "Sure, I get that I can't stand the smell."

Roger's feet hit the carpet and retreated. He hoped the man was on his way out. As soon as the door shut, he'd gather all the vases and toss them. To his disappointment, the footsteps returned.

Carter opened his eyes as Roger shoved his leg. "Here's your laptop. Log into it and I'll show you."

"I'm really not following, Rog. You're saying this is all about me? Impossible. I don't even like flowers."

Roger held up a hand and darted a glance at the ceiling, "Yeah, yeah. I know. You've already said that way too many times. We all know you don't like flowers. We even know why. You just need to-"

"The why is easy-there's no purpose in them. They have no value." He leaned over and typed his credentials into the screen and waited while Roger brought up the browser and typed in a website address.

Roger hitched a finger at Carter in a gunshot-like gesture. "Now, you're getting somewhere. Here, read." He swiveled the laptop and returned to mainlining potato chips.

He had no desire to read anything more about Jennifer Abigail Jeffries, the woman who'd been anything but honest with him from the day they met. When the banner for Abby's shop popped on the screen and a picture of her and her partner filled the corner, his interest changed.

Caroline was a lot more witty and interesting than he originally thought. Obviously, quite talented too, by the way she'd designed their site. He grabbed a pen from the table and started tapping next to the keyboard. Or at least it appeared that way until he started reading the second blog post ent.i.tled "Fear of Florists-It's Real."

An ailment that apparently comes from an undetermined source and hides itself behind a veil of apathy or other emotions. Remember the guy I told you about in prior posts that had a thing for our boss? Or maybe it was the other way around. Who knows.

Anyhoo-as it turns out, she finally came clean. Thanks, boss. I had completely run out of excuses for all her personality aliases. She had become the Sybil of texting. Why? He was a nice guy and seemed to like her. Why not just 'bare all' ... grin.

Unfortunately, when she came clean, there were a few skeletons in the closet ... or should I say pond?

Yeah, right. He slammed the pen down. Not fricking funny. "Are you kidding me?"

Roger jolted and scanned from the game he'd been watching to Carter. He stopped chewing and hitched a brow. "What? You got a problem, bro?"

"Don't you think it's a little macabre for a florist shop to write that s.h.i.t?" It was even more so for him to read-he'd already lived it and wasn't interested in a rewind.

Roger shrugged. "You obviously quit before you got to the good part, keep reading."

You see, this guy that apparently rocked her world hates flowers. Even though he's been in the shop and hired her to do his plants-he can't stand the smell. It also seems he has difficulty looking at them, though he won't admit it. She said he's one of those guys that hasn't got a thoughtful bone in his body so the basic idea of flowers doesn't make sense. She also mentioned he had a huge hang-up about lying.

Don't we all?

No, THIS GUY seems to have the market cornered. See, apparently when he was a freshman in high school, his sister drowned. She lied to everyone about her whereabouts and skipped school with some friends to sunbathe. Near a pond. I know. I know. You're going to ask why someone would sunbathe if they couldn't swim. That's it-she COULD. In fact, according to my basic research, she was expected to go to state finals in freestyle as a junior. She had competed since childhood. So why would she drown?

Because she's a kind and decent person, like him (contrary to HER opinion). Her friend couldn't swim and ended up in the pond through a lark. Her efforts to save the girl took them both down. As in forever. It must have been sad and devastating for his entire family.

What happened after was amazing. They lived in the country. The girl apparently often grabbed a flower from the weeds and tucked it into her hair on the way to school. It was sort of her signature. When she died, the entire town came to the funeral with flowers in their hair. That was in addition to the flowers that filled the church. For weeks, it was common to find a bouquet tied to the mailbox or fencepost.

The girl's best friend planted her deceased friend's favorites, lantana and bluebonnets, near the pond where the two girls died. The community support was uplifting.

For everyone but our texting guy. See, he hated them. The flowers, not the people. He ripped them down from the fence or mailbox almost as quickly as they went up.

Why? He said he hated the smell. When his father pa.s.sed a few years later, that increased his animosity. Perhaps there were other losses before that?

Now, I'm no psychologist, but I call bull on that.

Personally, I'd say it's more an issue of a.s.sociation. Ivan Pavlov is famous for the theory of Behaviorism. He proved that if a bell is rung at the time of feeding for a dog, said animal will salivate at the sound of the bell. Over time, the dog will salivate at the sound regardless of food delivery.

I say our man has a.s.sociated pain, discomfort, and sadness with the very presence of flowers.

Sooooo, if life forced him to make that a.s.sociation-why can't the community around him force a better a.s.sociation? Pavlov did it with dogs and a bell, right?

I challenge you, the reader, to help. Show this man flowers can celebrate love, joy, happiness, or perhaps even grat.i.tude. Hasn't he had enough of the other things?

Here's his address: Oh, and lastly-you may think this is a gimmick to get you to order flowers from us-absolutely not. In fact, whatever you do, DON'T order from Jeffries Florist.

Why? Because if you order from us, the delivery will come from HER-my boss, the texting G.o.d. Hence, the a.s.sociation might continue. It has to come from random acts of kind, nice people who want to share happy events.

Carter was speechless. He strode to the kitchen, grabbed the milk from the fridge, and downed half a gallon. Un-f.u.c.king-believable. He'd become an advertising gimmick. Was that really what people thought of him? He was a wounded sap?

Roger's voice further annoyed. "So, what d'ya think? Pretty awesome, right?"

Carter turned. "What the h.e.l.l is awesome about being the town's pity case? She made me out as some sort of scarred, fragile moron. It's not about the flowers-it never was. I'm a guy-guys don't give a c.r.a.p about flowers. That was the most ridiculous marketing prank I've seen."

Carter slammed the milk jug back into the fridge and thrust the door shut. A knock at the door stopped further ranting. He hitched a brow at Roger. "And now I'm being plagued by sentimental fools trying to prove a point. Not happening, bro. You can answer the d.a.m.n door from now on. I'm going for a run." He escaped to his room and changed into shorts and a T-shirt. He pulled socks and shoes from the closet and headed for the door.

"Hey, it's a kid." Roger caught him before he stepped out.

"I don't care if it's the pope. I don't want or need any more flowers and dumb stories to accompany them." He yanked the k.n.o.b, ready to send the kid running with a growl.

Brown eyes the size of quarters blinked over a handful of weeds. The kid's scruffy hair and torn socks were a fitting match for the dirt on one knee and Band-Aid that hung from his chin.

"Hi, I'm Trent. I brought you these."

"Uh, thanks, kid. That's nice, but-"

"Is it your birthday?"

"No."

"Oh, well-maybe tomorrow?"

"No."

The boy shifted from one foot to another and ran a hand across his nose. The dirt on his fingers attested to the freshness of the weeds in his hand. "These are daisies. We give them to each other whenever there's a birthday."

"We? As in you and your girlfriend?"

The kid rolled his eyes. "Gross. I hate girls. Kinda like you hate flowers. Or at least that's what my mom said this morning." He pointed down the street. "I live there. There are five of us. I'm the second youngest. I have a baby sister. My oldest sister is in college at U of H. We give flowers every birthday for each of us. Mom said you needed some."

Carter shot his eyes skyward as the kid had. "I don't really need them, but-thanks." He took the wilted ma.s.s of green, white, and yellow. He silently cursed the sentimental mom down the street.

The kid wiped his hands on his shorts, leaving a trail of brown dust. Mom probably wasn't going to like the look. "So, what do you do?"

"Huh? I work at a-"

"No, not what kind of job. What do you do for birthdays? How do you make someone feel special?"

Carter squinted at the brown eyes starting to look like they belonged to a miniature Yoda. Kids. They asked simple questions that just weren't so d.a.m.ned simple. Not simple because the truth was he had no idea how to make someone feel special-or feel anything. He'd tried and failed miserably. "Um, I don't really. I mean there isn't anyone to do that with. My mom is kind of far away and my-"

"But you go see her, right? You could take her flowers. She'd like that. They're cheerful."

No, they're not. He wasn't going to debate the subject with a ten-year-old. Was he even ten? The kid was a shrimp. "I suppose I could, but we don't do that."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. We just don't." Carter thought for a moment. "I don't have them growing in my yard like you do." He chose not to mention the weeds in his hand weren't exactly a desired flower and Carter had gotten rid of them a long time ago. Nor did he mention there were at least ten dozen flowers in his living room at the moment.

The kid's eyes flashed and he grinned. "Oh! Well, I'll get you some. I'll be right back!" The kid hopped off the step and ran away before Carter could stop him. s.h.i.t.