The Doyenne

“Where did those flowers come from?” the doyenne asked to no one specific. Her face reddened with anger. Her dark eyes grew even gloomier. We looked around, looked at each other. Most of us could only shrug our shoulders. This wasn’t what she wanted.

“I demand the person who brought these in to tell me, or all of you will be put on notice.” She turned and walked out of the conference room.

Questions like “Do you know why she’s so mad?” and “Did you bring them in?” were asked of me, the senior most museum employee. I didn’t have absolute proof, but in the past, she never worked this day, always called in sick or scheduled it off.

Her personal assistant whispered, “Go into her office and ask.”

“But you know when she closes her door we’re not to disturb her.”

She waved me off and pleaded with me using her pale blue eyes that no one could resist. I stood and announced I would find out why she blew up at us.

I spoke to myself as I approached her office, running through a list of questions I could ask without getting myself fired. I didn’t come up with a satisfactory one by the time I knocked on her door.

“Come in,” she softly answered. I could tell by her tone she had calmed.

I smiled and began to ask for her behavior, but it ended silently in my mouth.

She answered all our questions, “It’s strange that my favorite flowers to come to the office on my anniversary.”

Her husband had passed away ten years ago, and her children never acknowledged their anniversary. I noticed tears begin to accumulate in her eyes. She brought a tissue to her face and gently wiped them away.