Work Text:
November, 1921
It was late, but the lights were still on in the flower shop that Angela passed every night on her way home from work, so she decided to step in. The bell on the door jingled softly as she pushed it open and walked inside. The shop was dimly lit from an overhead light, colorful, sweet-smelling, and warm. It was a welcome escape from the chill outside.
A man behind the counter looked over at her as he buttoned his coat. “We’re closed, sweetheart. I was just leaving,” he said, picking up his hat. Angela couldn’t tell if his expression was annoyed or confused.
“I’m sorry,” Angela held her hands over her face, looking back at the door she came in. “The sign… and the door was open. I’ll come back tom—”
“Oh heck, that’s my fault,” he smiled, putting his hat back on the counter. He took his coat back off too and went over to the front to flip a switch that extinguished the glow from the giant florist sign outside. “What do you need, dear?”
“Well, I need a dozen flowers, something this color, or close to it anyway.” Angela pulled a lilac colored piece of fabric out of her pocket and showed it too him. “I don’t need them arranged or anything. They can even be a little old.”
“Can’t say anyone has ever asked me for old flowers before,” he said examining the fabric. “You know, if somebody made you sore, there are cheaper ways to get back at ‘em than sending dead flowers.”
“Oh, I’m not giving them to anyone,” Angela laughed. “I need a reference. To paint.”
“Ah ha, an artist,” he said, walking past her to a shelf on the left to grab a vase of purple mums. “How about these?”
“Perfect.”
He walked back behind the counter and lit a cigarette. “What are you painting flowers for?”
“My neighbor wants me to paint something for his wife’s birthday. He said he didn’t care what it was, as long as it matched their living room. I usually paint people, but I was thinking I would try a still life. Flowers.”
“So, you’re a professional?”
“Trying to be. This is my first commission.” She hoped she could someday support herself with her art, but Angela had taken the evening shift at a restaurant to pay the bills for the time being. She had enough money to get a nice apartment, but she wanted to save the rest of what she got from Jimmy for their son, so he could go to school and do whatever he wanted in life, instead of living off of it until it ran dry. Richard watched Tommy until she got home at around 8, and then he left for his job. Between the two of them, they made enough to pay the rent and other monthly expenses, and that was enough.
In her free time she painted and ran around town, learning the streets, talking to people at shops, and hoped that she would get customers by word of mouth. It was a nice side of town with a lot of wealthy people, but being new and unfamiliar with the area, not to mention a little shy, it wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be. But she got her first bite with this painting.
“I’m a bit of a collector myself, you bring some of your stuff down here and we work something out. Name’s Dean O’Banion, by the way,” he held his cigarette in his mouth and extended his hand.
Angela gripped his hand and shook. “I’m Angela I—Darmody.” She switched to the Irish sounding moniker at the last second, figuring it might be better received. And technically she still was Angela Darmody. She hadn’t changed it back. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. “I would love that.”
“Darmody. Darmody.” Mr. O’Banion tapped his fingers on the counter while repeating the name. “Have we met?”
“Probably not. I’m new here.”
“New, eh? Well you’re at the right place. Deanie O’Banion’s a friend you want to have on the North Side. Must just be some other mick I know named Darmody. Unless there’s a Mr. Darmody?”
“No, well not anymore. It’s just me and my son.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. OBanion looked away uncomfortably, pretending to be suddenly very interested in the mums in front of him. “Well, it’s good that he has you,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
“It’s important for little boys to have their mothers.” He looked back up at her. “Tell you what, since you don’t want ‘em arranged and these flowers are a few days old, you just take ‘em. I’m probably not gonna sell ‘em anyway.”
“A… are you sure? I can pay for them I—”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about it,” he cut her off. “You come over here sometime tomorrow, bring some examples of your work and we’ll talk about that painting.” He wrapped the mums in a plastic wrapping and handed them to her. “You have a nice night, Miss Darmody.”
“I will. Thank you. You too,” Angela stammered a little awkwardly. She wasn’t sure what to make of him, whether there was an ulterior motive to his kindness or not, but something about the way he smiled made her think he was genuinely friendly. She picked them up, and he gave her a little wave as she walked back out onto State Street and the November chill, hurrying home a little quicker now so Richard wouldn’t be late to work.