The florist pulled into our driveway at 2:00 and I raced out to greet him.

“What’s the address on the card?” I asked.

“706.” Abby’s apartment. Bummer.

So a couple of hours later, Abby called me on her way home from work.

“Abby, you got roses delivered!”

“I did?”

“Yeah, there’s white and red and yellow and pink and orange and yellow-orange and coral ones. They’re beautiful!”

“Who sent me flowers?” she mused.

“I don’t know. It just started to rain so I’ll bring ’em inside. Want me to read the card?” I’m such a humanitarian.

“Yeah.”

So I walked to her porch with my cordless phone and pulled out the card.

“Oh my God, Abby — they’re for me!”

It was true. “Lynn Benson” on the card, plain as day.

My enthusiasm tempered her disappointment. I gave her lip-shaped sugar cookies (iced with pink frosting, of course) to lessen the blow.