In Search of Sam by Kristin Butcher Page B

lived full and satisfying lives, the people who were much-loved, and the ones who life cheated in some way or another.
    A fat raindrop splatters the back of my hand, and I look up. The sky is thick with black clouds. I don’t know when they arrived, but they don’t look like they plan on leaving any time soon.
    Splat, splat, splat, splat! As they seriously begin to dump their load, I scurry for my car. I’m barely inside when the sky opens up like the Hoover Dam. The rain pelts down for a good fifteen minutes, bouncing off the hood and windshield like liquid buckshot, and then, suddenly used up, it stops, and a laser beam of sunlight punches a hole in the grey, exposing a lonely little patch of blue.
    Through my rear-view mirror I see a car pull up behind me. The driver, a woman, turns off the engine and reaches behind her, retrieving a bouquet of flowers before exiting the vehicle.
    She has to be the flower lady.
    I want to jump out of my Honda and run over to her before she can even close her car door, but no doubt she’d think I’m a lunatic, so I force myself to stay where I am.
    I wait until she’s through the fence. Then I casually let myself out of my car and stroll after her, making sure to keep a reasonable distance between us. Until she stops at the graves of John and Hannah Snow, that is. Then I can’t contain myself any longer.
    â€œExcuse me,” I call as I jog towards her.
    She’s on her haunches, reaching for the wilted bouquet, but she glances curiously over her shoulder. “Pardon?”
    I force myself back to a walk. “Sorry to bother you. I wonder if you could help me.”
    â€œCar trouble?” she says, looking past me toward the Honda. “I saw you sitting there when I drove up.”
    I shake my head and smile. “No, it’s not that.” I point to the graves. “It’s about John and Hannah Swan.”
    She looks back at their graves, places the new bouquet of flowers in the recessed vase, and stands up. Then she looks back at me and cocks her head quizzically. “What about them?”
    â€œAre they your family?”
    Her eyes narrow. “Why do you ask?”
    I take a step back. The last thing I want is to spook her. “Because my father was left on their doorstep when he was a baby,” I blurt. “I’m trying to find out why he was abandoned and who his mother was. I want to know who his family was — who my family is.” I gesture to the fresh bouquet and shrug. “You leave flowers for them, so I thought you might know something.”
    The woman smiles sadly and shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know these people. In fact, I don’t know anyone in Farrow. I’m a florist. I have a shop in Merritt. I’m paid to change the flowers each week. I’ve been doing it for years.”
    It takes a few seconds for her words to sink in. “Really?” I blink. “Someone pays you to do this? Can you tell me who?” This could be the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for.
    She shakes her head again. “I’m afraid not. To be honest, I don’t know myself. All I can tell you is that every six months I get a bank draft for a half year’s worth of flowers.” She sighs. “But I’m afraid that’s coming to an end. A month ago I received a letter from a lawyer in Kamloops, informing me that the person paying for the flowers had died.”
    My knees instantly turn to jelly. It’s a wonder they continue to hold me up.
    I watch in a daze as the woman stuffs the wilted bouquet into a plastic bag and ties it shut. “So that’s that. My golden goose has flown the coop.” She sighs. “Aw, well, I shouldn’t complain. It was great while it lasted.” As she heads towards her car, she calls back, “Good luck with your search. Sorry I couldn’t help.”
    I don’t reply. I’m still too