“Are you serious? What kind of work?” Grace asked.

Ginger flushed and looked down. “My experience is mostly in retail. I worked in women’s clothing, housewares, a little bit in an office. I’ve done a lot of things.”

“Did you work in decorating at all, while you worked in housewares?”

“I wouldn’t call it decorating, no. But I did things like bridal registries.”

“I’m desperate for help. Especially now, with my mother and all. Do you have any interest in flower design? This is a small boutique, but it’s busy. Not crowded, but busy. There are a lot of phone orders and arrangements to design. I spend a lot of time in the workroom, putting them together. Most of them are not originals but created from pictures I have and they’re pretty easy to learn. I try new things from time to time.”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “I could try.”

“Would you like to spend a morning with me? Just to see how it feels? It’s very messy work.”

“Could I? The idea of a small shop appeals to me a lot more than a restaurant or—” she glanced at Ray Anne “—real estate.”

“It’s okay, babe,” Ray Anne said. “Not everyone is cut out for my job, even though they think they are.”

“Can you come tomorrow morning? Early? Eight o’clock?”

“I can do that,” she said.

“Wonderful! Ray Anne, thank you. Send me pictures, please.”

Sixteen

Mikhail Petrov’s flight arrived promptly at three in the afternoon and he walked into the baggage-claim area with a duffel over his shoulder. He was sixty-six and his face was whiskery and lined with age, but his hair was reddish brown. Bad color, Grace thought. He’d had bad hair color for so many years. But for a man his age, he was fit and strong. Small but built like an ox with his big shoulders and short legs. She held up her tablet upon which she had typed, in very large letters, PETROV. He didn’t smile, but she did. He was accustomed to limos or at least town car service. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t recognize the best figure skater he’d ever coached.

“I see,” he said. “You think you’re funny.”

“I do,” she said, grinning. “Do you have luggage?”

He held out his duffel. “Only this. Two days, maybe three, that is all I have for you.”

“Not for me, Mikhail. You came for Winnie, remember?”

“Right,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Grace directed him to the parking area and opened the back of the van. It was custom painted in pink, yellow, purple, blue with lime-green lettering in script. Pretty Petals. “Your luggage, sir.”

“What is this?” he said, handing over the duffel.

“The flower mobile,” she said. “Jump in front. We have a long drive.”

He did as he was told “We’ll make one stop, golubushka. The grocer, please,” he said.

“You won’t need food,” she said, buckling in.

“Is just for some fruit, if you don’t mind so much. You drive this thing?”

“Remember Mamie and Ross Jenkins? Ross taught me to drive. I love driving! Love the control. Tell me, Mikhail, have you been well? You look exactly the same.”

“They call it preserved,” he said. “I have been six months traveling and now we train in Chicago. There are three assistants and twelve US contenders, from which the US will take a few to the finals, maybe not mine. There is time, but this will be my last Winter Games, if any of my girls are selected. From the look of it, I say there is no a chance in hell. But there is time. And sheet of gods, they need it!” He turned in his seat and looked at her. “Tell me how is Winifred?”

“I spent the day with her yesterday. The first day I’ve spent with her in five years. She looks very beautiful, but she’s thinner and has aged. I think it’s the stress of knowing she’s battling ALS and is losing. The tremors and weakness are obvious and she said this is just within the past few months. She has no idea how much time she has. She’s taking a drug to slow the progression but she’s cynical—she doesn’t see how it matters. She said, ‘What good is three more months?’ All she wants to do is clean house, so to speak. Settle her affairs. Get the end of her life in order, but this would mean in order to her satisfaction. It’s not as though she can control it from the grave.” She bit her lips against the threat of tears.

“If anyone can do that, is Winifred,” he grumbled. “I am afraid she has contract with God.”

That brought a laugh from Grace. Spurts of laughter through tears had become common the past few days. “We never communicated, Mikhail. She instructed, criticized, praised, but we never talked about our feelings. I talked with my therapist or Mamie. Now I understand that Winnie wasn’t ready to retire when I was. It destroyed her.”

“There is the thing with athletes and their mothers.” He peered at her. “The mother is not doing skating. She can’t make decisions like that. She is there for cheering, no more. It is not about Winifred. Unless she wants to take on the ice, then it is not about her. Is about you.”

“I wish I’d understood,” Grace said.

“You understood,” he said. “You knew. You did the right thing. Is time to have life for yourself.” He looked around the van. “In flower mobile.”

Grace pulled into a grocery store lot not far from the resort in Bandon. It occurred to her that since Mikhail wanted some fruit, she could pick up a couple of things for later. Troy would probably come over after his evening at Cooper’s. They walked into the grocery store and Grace went immediately to the deli and bakery while Mikhail presumably went to the produce section. When she went looking for him he was holding a bottle of vodka and looking a little lost.

“Have you found your fruit?” she asked.

“Where is raisins?”

“Raisins? Let’s see,” she said, walking down an aisle and around a central counter. “Ah. Raisins.”

He selected a big box of plump golden raisins. “Wow. You like your raisins,” she said.

“Fruit of the gods,” he told her.

“Would you like some apples? Oranges? Bananas?”

“Good to go,” he said, heading for the checkout.