Blossom dearie (small D)

We've known Gary for a few years -- "known" in the sense of saying hi when he passes on the way to or from the church, and given condolences when he discovered the guy who'd shot himself to death in the sanctuary, and been pleasantly surprised when he'd drop orchids off at the doorstep.

(One sweet twist to that: A few weeks ago, I answered the doorbell and there was a mayoral candidate, Craig Cates, going door to door to ask for votes. He was holding one of Gary's big sprays of dendrobiums, blushing, and said like a bashful beau, "I thought you might like these. . . ." We laughed, when he said he'd found them on the doorstep, and he got my vote, and he won the election with just better than 50 percent in a four-candidate race. He's a great guy who'll be a good mayor, from all I've seen and heard.)

At any rate, we've been accosting Gary for months to stop by for a drink so we could all get to know each other, but he's the shy type and always busy.

Until the other night, when he showed up with English roses and hydrangeas, shared some snacks and some scotch and told us of his childhood in St. Louis and adulthood as florist to the stars in Laguna Beach, as well as house florist to the people who owned Teleflora. He was gracious enough not to blanch when Robert stuck his stems into a cheap vase, and he even knew Aunt Grace from White House decoration days.

I knew I liked him for more than orchids.