Sugar Daddy (Travis Family #1)(44)

Mama's grave was the newest, a spartan mound of raw earth that interrupted the orderly corridors of grass. I stood at the foot of my mother's grave, somehow needing proof it had really happened. I could hardly believe my mother's body was down there in that Monet coffin with the matching blue satin pillow and throw. It made me feel claustrophobic. I pulled at the buttoned collar of my blouse, and blotted my damp forehead on my sleeve.

The stirrings of panic faded as I noticed something beside the bronze marker, a liberal splash of yellow. Skirting around the edge of the grave, I went to investigate. It was a

bouquet of yellow roses. The flowers were in an inverted bronze holder that had been buried so the top rim was flush with the ground. I had noticed vases like that in the catalog at Mr. Ferguson's funeral home, but at three hundred and fifty dollars apiece, I hadn't even considered buying one. As nice as Mr. Ferguson had been, I didn't think he would have thrown in the expensive addition, especially without having mentioned something.

I pulled one of the yellow roses from the bouquet, and brought it, stem dripping, to my face. The heat of the day had brought it to its strongest essence, and the half-open blossom was spilling out perfume. Many varieties of yellow rose have no scent, but this kind, whatever it was, had an intense, almost pineapple fragrance.

I used my thumbnail to peel off the thorns as I walked to the cemetery office. A middle-aged woman with reddish-brown hair shaped into a helmet was seated behind the welcome desk. I asked her who had put the bronze vase at my mother's grave, and she said she couldn't release that information, it was private.

"But it's my mother," I said, more bewildered than annoyed. "Can someone just do that?...Put something on someone else's grave?"

"Are you askin' if we should take it off?"

"Well_. no..." I wanted the bronze vase to stay right where it was. Had I been able to afford one. I would have gotten it myself. "But I do want to know who gave it to her."

"I can't tell you that." After a minute or two of debate, the receptionist allowed she could give me the name of the florist who delivered the roses. It was a Houston shop named Flower Power.

The next couple of days were taken up with going on errands, and filling out the application for Happy Helpers and going for the interview. I didn't get a chance until later in the week to call the florist. The girl who answered the phone said, "Please hold," and before I could say anything, I found myself listening to Hank Williams crooning "I Just Don't Like This Kind of Livin'."

I sat on the lid of the closed toilet seat, the phone loosely cupped to my ear. and watched Carrington play in her bathwater. She concentrated on pouring water from one plastic Dixie cup to another, and then adding liquid soap and stirring with her finger.

"What are you doing, Carrington?" I asked.

"Making somethin'."

"Making what?"

She poured the soap mixture over her tummy and rubbed it. "People polish."

"Rinse that off—" I began, when the girl's voice came through the receiver.

"Flower Power, can I help you?"

I explained the situation and asked if she could tell me who had sent the yellow roses to my mother's grave. As I had expected, she told me she wasn't authorized to divulge the sender's name. "It says on my computer there's a standing order to send the same arrangement to the cemetery every week."

"What?" I asked faintly. "A dozen yellow roses every week?"

"Yes, that's what it says."

"For how long?"

"There's no stop date. It could go on for a while."

My jaw dropped like it was on hinges. "And there's no way you could tell me—"

"No," the girl said firmly. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"I guess not. I—" Before I could say "thank you" or "goodbye," there was another ring in the background, and the girl hung up.

I went through a list in my mind of every possible person who would have arranged such a thing.

No one I knew had the money.

The roses had come from Mama's secret life, the past she had never talked about.

Frowning, I picked up a folded towel and shook it out. "Stand up, Carrington. Time to get out."

She grumbled and obeyed reluctantly. I lifted her from the tub and dried her, my gaze admiring the dimpled knees and rounded tummy of a healthy toddler. She was perfect in every way, I thought.

It was our game to make a tent out of the towel after Carrington was dry. I pulled it over our heads and we giggled together beneath the damp terry cloth, kissing each other's noses.

The phone ringing interrupted our play, and I quickly wrapped Carrington in the towel.

I pressed the receiver button. "Hello?"

"Liberty Jones?"

"Yes?"

"This is Maria Vasquez."

Since she was the last person I had expected to hear from. I was temporarily speechless.

She filled the silence smoothly. "From the Academy of Cosmetology—"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sorry, I.. .how are you, Mrs. Vasquez?"

"I'm fine, Liberty, thank you. I have some good news for you, if you're still interested in attending the academy this year?"