
The wake is first on the list, as time is of the essence. I’m glad it’s first. It’s a good distraction, and I need one after that.
Parking illegally in front of the Johnson residence, I take note of black balloons strung to their white picket fence, a type of fencing often connected to the American dream of getting married, having kids, maybe a dog or cat, and owning a home with a white picket fence. To those who subscribe to this dream, attaining these things means you ‘made it.’ Ironic to see these balloons on a symbol of that dream. A lot of people thought the Johnsons had it all. Goes to show that you just never know what’s going on behind closed doors. Sometimes families fall apart in ways they never expected to. Never dreamed of.
Atlanta is a big city. Maybe not the biggest this country has, but it’s grown exponentially thanks to the entertainment business. With any big city comes bigger problems. Especially with the lure of fame and money. More opportunities, but also more challenges.
It’s rare to go to a robber’s wake. He used to be a movie producer before he lost money on three films in a row, so the papers say. I liked his movies, too. Action flicks with heart. But they didn’t have stars and so they tanked, financially. Things had to have gotten pretty bad, mentally and emotionally, for a thirty-one-year-old guy who was down on his luck to think that robbing a convenience store in his neighborhood was a good idea. Mask or no mask. Painting over its security cameras with spray paint did nothing to disguise his voice which the cashier knew really well. The papers said he was high on cocaine. Guess that gave him one bad idea after another. The first bad idea being snorting white powder everyone knows can ruin lives.
I rap on the door and through the beveled glass panel see Mr. Johnson, his father, approaching. Damn. Hoped it would his wife who’d greet me. I square my shoulders and jaw, and wait.
“Hello?” Mr. Johnson grumbles as the door swings open, his suit looking like it needs an ironing. “I said I didn’t want flowers!”
“Sir, the order came in, so Florist Shop filled it.”
“Florist Shop,” he grumbles. “Couldn’t they have come up with a more original name?”
“The owner’s cousin came up with it, Mr. Johnson. He’s really into computers. It’s so she’s found first in search engines. And it’s worked.”
Angry and grieving, the rapidly greying man squints at me, not interested in the logic as his wife hurries up the hall toward us. “Hi Tom! Good to see you.”
I went to school with their son, not that Mr. Johnson remembers that. He was always working, never came to the games. “Hi Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry for your loss. I liked Carter.”
She gives a long exhale, coming to stand beside her husband. “Thank you, Tom. Cecil, you remember Tom. He was on the football team with Carter.”
Cecil Johnson nods with zero recognition, “Oh right.”
She looks at the full box in my arms, and I’m quick to tell her, “I have one more in the car just like it.”
“These are beautiful! Zoe Cocker sure does have a way with design, doesn’t she? They’re tasteful and — dare I say? — emotional.” Wiping a tear from her eye, Mrs. Johnson reaches for it.
“I can bring it in, Ma’am.”
“I said I didn’t want flowers, Louisa!”
“He was our son!”
“He was a crook!”
She inhales sharply and waves me in. “Ignore him. This has been a… shock for all of us.”
An unfamiliar voice shouts from behind me, “Mr. and Mrs. Johnson! How many of the Hollywood elite do you expect today?”
Looking over my shoulder I discover a well-dressed female reporter strolling up the path with a microphone, followed by a cameraman fixated on us.
Mr. Johnson pushes past me and shouts, “Get off of my property! You’re trespassing!” rushing to protect their family’s privacy, and it looks like he’ll do it by force if he needs to. “Get out! Where’s your human decency?”
Mrs. Johnson ushers me inside, darting a quick glance past me to see if physical force is about to be used. She decides not to find out and we walk further into their house, spotless for the event. I spin around, craning to see the yard, and find the two unwanted trespassers hurrying to safety as the reporter shouts, “Mr. Johnson, didn’t you have big hopes for your son?”
“I have big hopes you’ll get fired for being an asshole!” he barks, giving them the finger.
“Oh, goodness,” Louisa Johnson mutters, showing me into the living room, dining room adjacent in an open floor plan, couches pushed aside for table-cloth covered foldout tables they probably rented. “Would you mind placing the flowers on each of these? Whatever you have left over can go on the piano, those shelves. Anywhere you feel looks good. I have to check the ham.”
“Of course.”
Distracted by all that must be swimming in her mind, Mrs. Johnson politely asks, “Tell me, how is Zoe these days? I haven’t been to her lovely little shop in at least six months.”
I place the box on the floor since the tables are set for dining and there’s no room for this big thing. Also distracted, I answer, “She’s beautiful as ever.”
Mrs. Johnson heads away from me, “Oh good,” but now slowly pivots back as if a puzzle has been solved. “You have a crush on Zoe!”
My back straightens. “Oh, I, uh…”
“Oh Tom, I needed some good news today. And romance is always good news.” Walking up to me, forgetting all about the ham, she tilts her head and pulls the hem of a black suit jacket down more tightly over the belt of her matching pencil skirt. A human tick, something we do when we’re thinking. “Does she know?”
Normally I wouldn’t divulge my private life to a customer, but seeing as this poor mom has been going through the ringer lately, and I always thought she was a nice woman back when I was on the same team with her son, I decide to give her something better to think about other than tragedy. “Mrs. Johnson, I uh… I’m pretty sure Zoe has no clue.”
“Why don’t you tell her!”
“She’s my boss. And I’m working my way through school right now so I don’t feel I have much to offer her just yet.”
Louisa Johnson lights up, years falling away from her eyes. “You plan to earn her!” She claps her hands together. “That’s so romantic! And old fashioned! I love such things!”
A grin spreads on me as I dip my head in thanks. “My sister and I were raised by my grandparents. Don’t know if you ever knew that.”
“No, I didn’t,” she frowns, asking a tentative, “And your parents?”
“Car accident when I was four and Elena was two.”
“Oh, Tom! I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Johnson laces her fingers and rests them on her belly. “I didn’t know that. But you and Carter weren’t very close, if I remember correctly.”
“No, we were on the same team but he was defense and I was offense. We hung out with our side. Dunno why. Just the way it worked out. But I loved his movies, Ma’am. It’s a real loss that things went this way.”
“Went this way,” she repeats, dazed by the reminder of what he did. “If I’d have known how much he was struggling financially I would’ve…” Her eyes flick to mine as if she almost said more than she wanted to. “I can’t think about that right now. Please, keep my spirits lighter. Tell me one more thing about your plans for Zoe. Just to brighten my spirits a little. If you don’t mind.”
I scratch my head, “Plans?” blinking to their wood floors, rugs pulled under the tables and arranged as a walking path. I’ve never told anyone my plans. But I want to help, and I trust she won’t give it away to Zoe next time they cross paths. “Well, I have it in my mind that one day I’ll take her to Piedmont park, since she loves plants so much, and I’ll bring a picnic lunch and…” I laugh, meeting Mrs. Johnson’s expectant gaze. “I’ve never told anyone about it but I have a notebook of things that I’d like to read to her on that day.”
“What’s in it?”
“That I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mrs. Johnson. I want her to be the first one to know.”
She claps again. “Now you’ve really piqued my interest!”
Cecil Johnson walks by and stops in the doorway. “Can you believe those assholes just left?! Finally! What’s that smell?”
“My ham!” She runs off, and I share a look with Carter’s father, one where I am silently told the flowers in the box at my feet are still not wanted. He grumbles something unintelligible and storms off.
I waste no time placing the vases just as Mrs. Johnson directed, even jogging to my Jeep for the second box, quickly finishing the job alone because I can hear they’ve begun arguing in the kitchen. How do I get out of here politely without drawing attention to the fact that I can hear their every word? I can’t just disappear without a goodbye. That would be rude, and I was raised differently. Plus, it could reflect badly on Florist Shop.
Tensing up, I call out, “The flowers are all set, Mrs. Johnson. Good seeing again.”
She calls back, “Thank you Tom!”
“You’re welcome. And Mr. Johnson, if I see any reporters on my way out, I’ll flip ‘em off for you.”
“Just go!” he shouts.
“Be nicer, Cecil!”
His voice cracks. “I lost my boy, Louisa.”
I quietly open the front door as I hear him in the distance break down, sobbing, his wife and the mother of his son, crooning to him, “Oh honey, I know. There, there. I’ve got you. He’s at peace now, finally.”
Stepping out into the sunlight, I take a deep breath and head to my Jeep with the empty boxes, feeling like something healing just happened, and maybe, by a trigger, I was a part of it. Helped it along.
Climbing in, I hit the ignition and say aloud, “Carter, buddy, you’re missed. I remember you saying once that you didn’t feel your old man was there for you, but I think, if you’re watching, you just saw he loves you. Wish you knew that before.”
Checking my clipboard for the next address, I pull away from my illegal parking job and head for Mrs. Thompson’s birthday celebration, turning up feel-good music to clear the energy and be able to do the best job I can with a smile. For Zoe.
Zoe Cocker…
I almost asked you out today.
Almost.
I can’t help but wonder.
What would you have said?
Author's Note Below...

Another chapter will go live on Monday!
Thank you for letting me entertain you. I hope you're enjoying Zoe's story so far. Have a beautiful weekend. (It's Oct. 18th as I write this, in case you're reading it much later and wondering).
See any typos? Please send them to Contact@FaleenaHopkins.com
Faleena Hopkins
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