Faithful readers know that during the time I lived at Turkey Hill, I received all sorts of deliveries intended for the previous owners—who happened to move into a fancy manse across the street, but never found the time to introduce their very important selves to mere plebes like us. I received Schumacher wallpaper, strange ointments from a pharmacy in the city, the kitchen help hired to serve and clean up Christmas dinner, shoes for the daughter, and even a dining room table. Begrudgingly, I would redirect the delivery, or if something was left in my driveway, I would have my kids run it over and leave it by the gated entrance for Her Majesty.
I don’t travel over to the old ’hood very often, but today we happened to swing by to make sure the real estate agent had locked up. And lo and behold, at the secondary front door, there was this beautiful floral arrangement above with a lavender envelope sticking out of the top. David hopped out, went up to the door and started laughing hysterically. The unsealed envelope was handwritten with Her Majesty’s first name!
There was no florist card, so obviously the flowers had been delivered by a friend. We took the flowers into the car, and pink peonies being my absolute favorites, I instantly decided to swipe them to grace my kitchen table. Her Majesty never even had the courtesy to say hello or drop a note in our mailbox in almost two years, and I had been a good neighbor and kindly forwarded all her deliveries—surely I was entitled to a little fragrant reward, right? And this couldn’t be from a really close friend of hers if they didn’t even know where Her Majesty lives now anyway.
Just out of curiosity—because the envelope flap was open anyway—I peeked inside the card. And found that HM has had surgery! What kind I can only imagine. Boob job? Tummy tuck? Face lift? Varicose veins? Hemorrhoids? I kept reading the short note which wished her a speedy recovery, and then I gulped when I read the that if there’s anything she’d like from Paci, to just let them know. It was signed, “Donna and Bob.”
Oh crap. Paci, in Southport, just happens to be one of our favorite local restaurants (we were there for the rabbit last Friday night) and Donna and Bob are not only the owners, but people we have come to know pretty well as frequent patrons.
Dilemma! Do I take the beautiful flowers home and screw the whole thing because who would ever know? Or do I slavishly deliver them, just like every other freakin’ thing over the past two years?
What would you do? Comment below, and I’ll let you know what I ended up doing!