"Good morning!"
Angela's booming voice echoed through the store, overpowering the gentle sound of the silver bell above the door. Mireille, kneeling on the floor. Placing the fresh flowers that had been delivered that chilly late autumn morning in their respective buckets. And tossing the old ones in a plastic bin for donation. She looked up to Angela, standing above her, with little surprise and little disappointment. Technically the shop wasn't open for another hour, but Mireille always made an exception for Angela. She always brought business. A decision she only occasionally regretted.
"How's my favorite florist in the entire D.C. metropolitan area?" she greeted, flashing her pearly white grin as she placed her hands on her hips.
"Once I finish stocking, I'll get to work on your client's arrangements," Mireille said, looking back at the bucket of yellow chrysanthemums before her, moving on to the red ones that are supposed to sit next to it.
"Hey- I was going to ask you about that after you told me how you were doing."
Angela squat down next to Mireille, glancing around at the boxes scattered around the floor.
"Woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, huh?" the wedding planner asked, cocking her head as she watched the florist work.
"Sorry, I've had a lot on my mind recently."
"What's up?"
"Typical family stuff. Lucas is being overprotective even though I'm almost thirty And I can care for myself. My dad's health has been better…"
Mireille sighed, placing the last of the chrysanthemums in the plastic bucket before moving on to the ranunculus she kept. With a sigh, she continued, "And the FBI came to the shop a few days ago, broke some vases, generally caused chaos. The works."
"The FBI?" Angela gasped, her mouth open like a fish to which Mireille stifled a small laugh. "The damn FBI came here? What did you do?!"
"I didn't do anything. At least I don't think I did," she said, plucking an unsightly leaf off the stem of a sunflower. "They came in looking for some creepy guy who comes in sometimes."
"Damn, that must've freaked you out."
"Yeah no kidding. But the agents were pretty nice. One of them kind of walked around and the other just kind of sat in the back and looked at my records for the year."
"Hm… interesting."
"Like I said, they came in, broke some of my vases, were really sorry about it," she huffed, waving her hand carelessly through the air.
"That's really too bad though."
"It's unfortunate but what can I do about it? Hey, pass me that box next to you."
Angela spun her head around, scanning the floor quickly before setting her gaze on a stack of boxes.
"This one?" she asked, pointing to the top one.
"Yeah."
"It must be a pain to do this all by yourself," the wedding planner sighed, passing Mireille the small but heavy cardboard box.
"Vivian and Samson are coming in later to help me out."
"Still, I think you should hire at least a full-time worker or two."
"I've been doing this for a while, Angela. I've always managed," Mireille replied, placing the crimson flowers in her hand in their respective buckets. "Hand me that other box."
Angela's face pressed into a concerned frown. Her brows furrowing as she scanned the crowded area.
"But don't you think you're even a little stressed managing by yourself? After Katie left it's always just you."
"I've got this handled, you know that."
Mireille placed the last of the flowers in their new home. It was always satisfying to her to see fresh flowers and brand new water. It was the only real good part of a delivery day. She stood up, stretching her arms out before her before relaxing them.
"Well, that's the last of it. I'll start working on your client's stuff right away."
"Right- well…"
Angela stood up, stretching her arms.
"I gotta go, gotta meet some clients at Clint's. I'll come back later to check in. Keep what I said in mind though, okay?"
"Alright, Angela. See you."
"See ya later, miss florist."
"- and then my uncle stood up and said, 'Thanksgiving at my mother in law's tastes better!'"
With a huff, Vivian finished her tale of Thanksgiving. Leaning on the broom, she sighed dramatically.
"It sounds like your uncle started a war," Samson remarked, placing the bouquet in his arms gently in a glass vase.
"He totally did. My family is crazy, dude."
Vivian picked up a bouquet of red chrysanthemums, turning back to her boss, who seemed to be mindlessly gazing at the wire frame shelf now pushed into the back corner of the store. Vivian for the life of her could not seem to figure out why Miss Mireille had moved the shelf away, leaving a giant empty space in the middle of the store.
"Miss Mireille! You seem distracted?"
Mireille jumped up a bit, snapped out of her daze. She glanced to the girl, who looked at her in genuine concern.
"Hm? Oh, don't mind me," Mireille laughed with a wave of her hand. "If anything, you two should be packing the last of those wedding decorations and loading them into the truck."
"Yes ma'am!"
Vivian and Samson continued their idle chatter. Only this time filing in and out the back door of the store fragile cardboard boxes in hand. Mireille looked back down at the colorful spreadsheet of a schedule for the week. Rapidly tapping her pen against the clipboard, she quietly hummed. She would have to order more tiger lilies before the end of the day, she noted.
The silver bell above the door rang with a start. Mireille cheered a happy, "Hi, welcome in!" to the two women who came through the door. A younger woman, petite with brown hair pulled into a bun. Her long floral skirt flowed about, seeming almost like a part of the shop atmosphere. And an older, tall, willowy woman. Platinum blonde hair pulled into the most tightly painful bun Mireille had ever seen. Head to toe in fitted, white clothing. Her stiletto heels clicking loudly against the hardwood. She seemed quite the opposite of the younger woman.
The younger of the two women, the daughter, Mireille presumed, meekly stepped up towards the counter. Her mother trailing behind her, stopping to inspect every little thing in the shop.
"Hello, Miss. Could I make an appointment for a wedding consultation?" the young woman quietly asked, fiddling with her fingers.
"Oh stop being so wishy-washy dear," the older woman huffed, tapping her foot impatiently against the floor, hands on her hips. "You wanted an appointment today, no?"
"Actually-" Mireille began but was quickly cut off.
"You're not busy right now, right?" the mother huffed, seeming to grow frustrated. "See us to an appointment."
"I'm sorry, but I have to set up at a wedding soon," the florist firmly said, still retaining her cheery smile. "If you would like, I can give you a form to fill out and we can have our appointment tomorrow!"
"Of cour-"
"Nonsense. You will see us now," the mother huffed even louder than before, cutting off her daughter.
"I'm sorry ma'am, that just isn't possible. Like I said, I can give you a form and-"
"I heard you the first time. But we want to be seen, now."
The woman was getting angry now, leaning over the counter top. So close Mireille could smell her overused Chanel perfume like a cloud that suddenly smacked her in the face.
"Mom it's o-"
"Hush now, Marianne dear. Mommy's talking."
"I would really like to help you, ma'am," Mireille explained, attempting to keep herself calm as she heard the strain in her voice growing. "But like I've already explained to you, I can't today."
"I don't understand. It's just looking at pictures of flowers in a book, right? It shouldn't take that long."
The woman rolled her eyes as Mireille, who was yelling in her brain, simply smiled.
"I've already explained it, ma'am. I really don't know how to explain anymore to you I simply cannot today," she explained. She pulled a paper from behind the counter, plucking a pen up from a glass jar. She gently pushed it across the counter towards the women. "However here's a form-"
Before she could finish her sentence, the mother of the bride-to-be grabbed her wrist. Mireille froze up, unsure of how to react. All she could do was sit there, frozen, staring at the woman who seemed to have veins pulsing out of her head. Her face was as red as a beet.
"Do you know who I am?!" she screamed. "Do not talk to me like that you dirty c-"
Mireille closed her eyes, bracing herself for yet another barrage of verbal abuse when she felt the tension wrapped around her wrist release. Slowly opening her eyes, she looked up to one Doctor Spencer Reid holding up the woman's arm.
"Please do not grab her, ma'am."
"Doctor Reid!"
"Mom- please let's just-"
"Stay out of this!"
The woman yelled, swinging her arm free from his grasp. She stood up, turning her attention to the agent, who stood with a placid expression on his face.
"Ma'am. If you do not leave right now, I can arrest you for battery."
"Mom. Please… let's go…" the young woman whispered, tugging on her mother's coat.
The woman glared at her daughter, who cast her gaze down. Back to the agent, who simply stood there with his hands in his pockets, then back at the florist. Who had only stood there wide-eyed, watching the whole ordeal unfold before her.
"Hmph. I will be leaving some bad reviews for your shop you dirty little-"
"Mom!"
With a ring of a bell, the tiny shop was quiet again. Mireille sat there, a bit dazed as her brain attempted to process all that had happened in that short amount of time. When it finally hit her that the doctor was there, she jumped, pushing herself away from the counter.
"Thank you, Doctor Reid. I'm so sorry you had to get involved in that," she said, dropping her head in embarrassment. Really, how could she continually have such a humiliating streak in front of the same person?
"It's no issue. Really," he replied with the faintest trace of a smile.
"I feel so bad…" She shook her head. "You shouldn't have to get involved in my business."
"It was the only right thing to do."
"It wasn't my first time getting grabbed. It won't be my last." Mireille laughed, shaking her head. Looking back at the agent, she realized how odd it was for him to be here unless if it was to further his investigation.
"Actually… what are you doing back here?" she asked, tapping her chin. "Need to arrest another person?"
"Oh! Right. I came to give you a check."
Spencer pulled a white envelope out of his bag, holding it out to Mireille.
"A check…?"
She tentatively took it from him, turning the envelope in her hands. Looking at it closely,
"To cover for the damages. It's to prevent lawsuits and that type of thing."
"Ah… I see."
"Oh. And coffee!"
"Coffee?" she echoed, confused.
Spencer held out the brown paper cup in his hand, a wide grin across his face. Mireille's heart felt as if it had skipped when she met his smile. A true, genuine smile.
"You told me to find you the best coffee I could. So here it is. Best coffee in the D.C. area! No cream or sugar. That's how you like it, right?"
"You didn't need to do that!" she exclaimed, firmly pushing the cup back towards him.
"It's to say thank you for your help in the case," he said, reach back out towards her.
"I couldn't possibly-"
"Well it seems like you need it."
"I was joking."
"And I wasn't."
"Doctor Reid-"
The well-dressed man simply sighed. It seemed as if something had caught his eye as he quickly turned his head about. Spotting the little black wastebasket a couple feet away, he outstretched his arm. Holding the cup over the wastebasket.
"If you don't take it, this five dollar cup of coffee will go in the trash."
Mireille eyed the cup of coffee. While she felt bad about taking an expensive cup of coffee from a basically-stranger, she felt even worse about waste. She wondered if he had picked out that detail about her somewhere, or if it was simply common sense. Sighing, she threw her hands into the air.
"Alright. I admit defeat," she exclaimed as he smiled, placing the coffee in her hands. Taking a long sip of the bitter coffee, she let out a deep breath. The warmth of the cup soothing on her cold hands, freezing in the early Spring air.
"Thank you, Doctor Reid."
"It's really no problem, Miss Li."
"Please-" she waved her hand- "just call me Mireille."
"Well, Mireille," he began, placing his hands in the pockets of his wool peacoat. "Thank you for everything. We would not have been able to solve the case without you."
"Seriously?"
"I'm always serious about that sort of thing."
"Well… thank you for everything once again, Doctor Reid."
"Please… call me Spencer."
As Mireille let the pungent smell waft towards her, she thought about Spencer's earlier comment. The one about her preference for a plain coffee. She looked towards the man, who was looking around the store in curiosity. Examining decor and the flowers strewn about.
"By the way…" she piped up, breaking their rather comfortable silence. "How did you know I like black coffee?"
He looked back at her. Cocking his head with a bit of a perplexed look before chuckling.
"It's my job."
"That's a non-answer."
"Maybe I'll tell you another time."
The back door swung open with a thud. The old door hitting the wall quite hard as it pushed open. Vivian walked in, Samson following close behind.
"Miss Mireille! We finished loading the truck!" Samson called out, retreating to his stool behind the counter. The only non crooked one in the shop.
"Great!" Mireille exclaimed. Turning back to Spencer, she took another sip of the coffee. "Looks like I have to go-"
Another long sip.
"Thank you again. I really needed this."
Spencer grinned.
"You're welcome, Mireille."
He turned to walk out of the store. Reaching the entrance, he turned back towards her. Giving a small, quick wave.
"Well... Goodbye!"
As the bell above the door rang, Mireille's instinct for customer service kicked in. In a more-than-cheery voice and an enthusiastic wave she exclaimed, "Hope to see you again!"
Spencer paused in the doorway as if he stopped to think, holding the glass pane door ajar. Turning, he gave a small wave with his lips pressed into an ever-so-charming smile.
"I hope so too."
And with the close of a door, the shop was quiet again.
Spencer Reid was exhausted.
He looked at his watch.
3:57 AM
After all these years, he should be used to this. These long cases with so little sleep. But even standing up his eyes felt as if they were about to fall shut any second.
This was a local case, at the very least. And instead of boarding a jet for a several hour flight back, he could simply walk home and collapse in his very own bed.
Derek was passing by his desk when he abruptly stopped. Spencer was in the middle of shuffling together some paperwork straight as quickly as possible. He would have to be up in a few hours anyhow. His friend slapped a sealed white envelope on his desk.
"Would you mind dropping this at Blue Violets sometime? It's a check to cover the damages."
"Don't we normally mail that type of thing?" Spencer muttered, carefully filing in more papers into his bag.
"We do. But I think you should hand deliver it," Derek grinned, pointing a finger gun at Spencer.
"Why me?"
"You and Miss Li talked a lot before," his friend shrugged. "I figured you might want to see her again."
"It's not like that." Spencer simply replied, thinking of the rather chatty florist. "Miss Li is just a very pleasant person to talk to."
"Then go talk to her again. And if you need any advice-"
"Alright- alright! I'll go drop it off sometime tomorrow."
"That's my boy. Maybe you could even ask her out for coffee-"
"Morgan."
"Just a suggestion!"
It's true. Miss Mireille Li was a very pleasant conversation partner. She was curious and witty and listened to everything he had to offer.
He wouldn't mind getting to see her again. Maybe they could even chat some more this time, since the imminent threat of an active killer was no longer looking over his head. No, he wouldn't mind at all.
And though he was able to pick out details about her based on his profile, he felt he wanted to get to know the florist better.
He shook his head. What silly thoughts. He hardly knew her, after all. Though he supposed that was the point of getting to know her better. For now, all he should focus on was delivering that check.
"Still… I'm very sorry about your flowers. I wish there was some way I could make up for it," Spencer said, looking at the chaotic display before them. It wasn't her fault that hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise had been destroyed in an instant. She was just the unlucky florist who happened to cross paths with a killer. The guilt weighed heavy on his mind. Especially as to the actual hours she would inevitably have to spend cleaning the broken glass.
The florist rolled up the sleeves of her grey sweater. She turned towards him, tapping her chin as if to think. As she brushed her pin straight black hair behind her ear, her eyes widened as if she just had a fantastic idea.
She covered her mouth, chuckling a bit.
"A cup of good coffee could work," she replied, with a wide grin. "Best stuff you can find."
"Best stuff I can find, huh…" he muttered to himself as he unlocked the door to his apartment.
"The career of flowers differs from ours only inaudibleness." -Emily Dickinson