The card that Flavian did finally settle on was fashioned out of real parts of daffodils, capably dried and pressed into the card stock. It had nothing to say other than that, other than spring was about and that new things were in bloom, or at least were in bloom before they were harvested for really expensive stationery. And it was pricey, ten dollars exactly.
“Wow,” said Chellis when Flavian showed it to her. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Without hesitation, knowing from experience with Gardner how young men were given to ruining nice things with stains from pepperoni grease and the like, she didn’t even hand it back to him, just stuck it in her purse.
When they returned to the house they found a note from Gardner that he’d gone off with to play frisbee golf and would bring Chellis her favorite Chinese dish, Kung Pao salmon, back with him before going off to do his shift at the Biscuit Root. Flavian didn’t really need to see that. It not only made him a little nauseous, but the effortlessness of Gardner’s communication with Chellis only added to the insane weight of his challenge to write something, anything, to Astrid. It didn’t matter that Gardner’s scrawled memo was only a note on graph paper taped to the dishwasher. It still looked dauntingly long and, well, wordy.
“Okay,” Chellis said, snapping her fingers twice to focus his attention. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to go upstairs, sit at your desk, use this pen, and in more than twenty words, but less than thirty, tell Astrid how comforted you were by her letter, how she reminds you of a field of clover, a warm breeze, or something else that enriches your spirit. Just don’t mention food. It scares women when you compare them to a burrito or a nice piece of veal or something. It’s very forward and too suggestive of cannibalism. Trust me.”
Flavian smiled and shook his head.
“Now get going,” Chellis told him. “And don’t screw this up.”
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