Bed of Roses (8 page)

“Yeah. Parker mentioned to Del since I was coming, maybe I could make it early and pitch in. So I’m here to pitch.”

“Come with me. Tink! I need to get the bouquets. Finish up—ten minutes—then start on the Ballroom.”

“On it.”

“You can help me load. I’m heading over to get them now,” she said into her headset. “Oh, slip a Xanax in her champagne, Parker. I can’t move any faster. Ten minutes. Have Mac stall her.”

Moving at a jog now, she reached the van she used for transport, then jumped behind the wheel.

“Do you do that often?” Jack asked her. “Drug the bride?”

“We never do it, but we want to with some of them. And really, we’d be doing everyone a favor. This one wants her bouquet and she wants it now because if she doesn’t
love
it, there’s going to be hell to pay. Laurel breezed by earlier and told me Mac told her the MB made her hairdresser cry and had a fight with her MOH. Parker smoothed it out, of course.”

“MB?”

“Think about it,” Emma suggested, and jumped out of the van to dash into her workshop.

He did as he followed her inside. “Mean Bitch. Monster Bitch. No, Monster Bride.”

“Ding, ding, ding.” She hauled open the door of her cooler. “Everything on the right goes. One rose cascade bouquet, twelve, count them twelve, attendant bouquets.” She tapped one of the boxes. “Do you know what this is?”

“A bouquet. A purplish sort of thing. Pretty cool looking, actually. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s kale.”

“Get out.”

“Ornamental kale, variegated purple and green. Bride’s colors are purple and silver. We’ve used a lot of silver accents and tones from pale orchid to deep eggplant, with lots of white and green in the arrangements.”

“Son of a bitch. Cabbage bouquets. You didn’t tell her what it is.”

“Only after I made her fall in love with it. Okay, bouquets, corsages, boutonnieres, both the pomanders—she has two flower girls, two halos of white roses and lavender, and holding vases. Check, check, double check. Let’s load them up.”

“Do you ever get sick of flowers?” he asked her as they carried boxed bouquets.

“Absolutely not. Do you smell that lavender? Those roses?”

“Impossible not to, under the circumstances. So, a guy’s taking you out. First date or some special deal, and he brings you flowers. You’re not like: Oh, flowers. Great.”

“I’d think he was very thoughtful. God, every muscle in my body is begging for a glass of wine and a hot bath.” She stretched her back when Jack closed the cargo doors. “Okay, let’s go knock the MB’s socks off. Oh wait. Your jacket. The one you lent me. It’s inside.”

“I’ll get it later. So, did she get one more rose than her friend?”

Emma blanked for a moment, then remembered telling him about the bouquets. “Ten more. She’ll bow to me before I’m done with her. Yes, Parker, yes, I’m on my way.” Even as she spoke, her beeper sounded. “Now what? Can you read that? I can’t get to it while I’m driving. It’s hooked to my skirt, right under the jacket on your side.”

He lifted the hem of the jacket, and his fingers brushed her skin just above her waist as he tilted the beeper. She thought, uh-oh, and kept her eyes straight ahead.

“It says DTMB! Mac.”

“DTMB?” His knuckles continued to rest there, just above her waist. Very distracting. “Ah . . . Death to Monster Bride.”

“Any answer? Suggestions on the method maybe?”

She managed a smile. “Not at this time. Thanks.”

“Nice jacket,” he said and smoothed it back into place.

She stopped in front of the house. “If you help me haul all this up, I won’t tell Parker or give you grief when you sneak off to the Grand Hall for a beer before the wedding.”

“That’s a deal.”

With her, he carried boxes into the foyer. He stopped a moment, took a survey. “You do good work. If she doesn’t bow to you, she’s a bigger idiot than I already think she is.”

“Shh!” She stifled a laugh, rolled her eyes. “You don’t know who’s wandering around from the immediate family or wedding party at this stage.”

“She knows I can’t stand her. I told her.”

“Oh, Jack.” She did laugh now as she hurried up the steps. “Don’t do or say anything to set her off. Consider the Wrath of Parker before you speak.”

Emma balanced the box she carried and opened the door to the Bride’s Suite.

“There you are. Finally! Emmaline, really, how am I supposed to take my formal portraits without my bouquet? And now my nerves are just
shot
! You know I wanted to see it early enough so you could make changes if I wanted them. Do you know what time it is? Do you?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear a word you said. I’m just dazzled. Whitney, you look absolutely spectacular.”

That much, at least, was true. With miles of skirt, a universe of pearls and beads sparkling on the train, the bodice, and her expertly low-lighted blond hair swept up and crowned with a tiara, Monster Bride was magnificent.

“Thank you, but I’ve been a wreck worrying about the bouquet. If it’s not perfect—”

“I think it’s exactly what you hoped for.” Carefully, Emma lifted the massive cascade of white roses from the box. She did a mental C-jump when the bride’s eyes popped wide, but kept her tone professional. “I tweaked the temperature so the roses would just be partially open. And just hints of green and the silver beads to set off the blooms. I know you talked about trails of silver ribbons, but I really think that would take away from the flowers, and the shape. But I can add it in no time if you still want it.”

“The silver would add a sparkle, but . . . Maybe you’re right.” Whitney reached out to take the bouquet.

Nearby the mother of the bride pressed her palms together as if in prayer and lifted them to her lips.

Always a good sign.

Whitney turned, studied herself in the full-length mirror. And smiled. Emma stepped beside her to whisper in her ear. And the smile widened.

“You can count them later,” Emma suggested. “Now I’ll turn you over to Mac.”

“Let’s try between the windows over here, Whitney. The light’s wonderful.” Mac gave Emma a thumbs-up behind the bride’s back.

“Now, ladies,” Emma said, “it’s your turn.”

She distributed bouquets, corsages, set out the holding vases, then put the MOG in charge of the pomanders and flower girls.

She stepped out again, glanced at Jack. “Whew.”

“The ‘maybe you’re right’? From her, that’s a bow.”

“Understood. I can take it from here. Go get that beer. Carter’s around here somewhere. Corrupt him.”

“I try, but he’s a hard nut to crack.”

“Boutonnieres,” she said, already on the move again. “Then I need to check on the Ballroom.” She looked at her watch. “We’re right on schedule, so thanks. I’d be running behind if you hadn’t helped me load and haul.”

“I can take up the boutonnieres. It’d give me a chance to see Justin, make bad jokes about balls and chains.”

“Good idea. Do that.” With the few minutes of time that bought her, she opted to swing through the Grand Hall, out onto the terrace.

Satisfied after a few tweaks, she climbed up to the Ballroom where her team was well underway. Emma pushed up her sleeves and dived in.

While she worked, Parker gave periodic updates, and started the countdown in her ear.

“Roger that,” Laurel said dryly. “Em, cake’s assembled and ready for the table decor anytime.”

Boys passed off to Laurel,
Parker announced a moment later as Emma finished with a stand of hydrangeas.
MOG escorted by BOG in one. MOB on deck. Escort is BOB. Queuing up attendants. Music change on my mark.

Emma walked back to the entrance doors, shut her eyes for ten seconds, then opened them to take in the entire space. She drew a breath in, let a breath out.

Paris Explodes, she thought, but it did so in lush style. Whites, silvers, purples, touches of green to set them off spilled, spread, speared, and shimmered under a perfect April sky. She watched the groom and his party take their places in front of a pergola simply smothered in flowers.

“Guys, we rule. We
kill
. You’re done. Hit the kitchen for food and drink.”

Alone, she took one last circuit of the room as Parker signaled the attendants to
go!
one by one. Then Emma sighed, rubbed her back, the back of her neck, her hands. And went to change into her heels as Parker gave the MB her cue.

 

 

 

J
ACK DIDN’T KNOW HOW THEY PULLED IT OFF, EVERY TIME, ALL the time. He’d been drafted to lend a hand now and again at an event. Hauling and lifting, bartending, even bussing tables in a pinch. As payment invariably included great food, drinks, and music, he never minded.

But he still didn’t know how they managed to pull it all together.

Parker consistently managed to be everywhere at once, and so subtly he suspected no one really noticed she might be prepping the best man on his toast one minute and passing out a pack of tissues to the mother of the bride the next while coordinating the service of the meal in the Grand Hall like a general coordinating troops during battle.

Mac popped up all over the place, too, and was just as cagey about it as she shot candids of the wedding party or the guests, or maneuvered the bride and groom into a quick posed photo.

Laurel streamed in and out, signaled, he supposed, through the headset they all wore, or by some sort of hand signal. Maybe mental telepathy. He wouldn’t discount that one.

And Emma, of course, on the spot when a guest spilled wine on the tablecloth, or when the bored ring bearer started to poke at one of the flower girls.

He doubted anyone noticed or understood there were four women literally holding everything together, juggling all the balls and passing them to each other with the grace and skill of NFL quarterbacks.

Just as he imagined no one knew the logistics and sheer timing involved in leading the guests from the Hall to the Ballroom. He lingered while Emma and her team along with Laurel swarmed on the head table to gather up the bouquets and holding vases.

“Need any help?” he asked her.

“Hmm? No, thanks, we’ve got it. Tink, six on either side, baskets on the end. Everything else stays in place for two hours here before undressing and loading. Beach, Tiff, snuff the candles, leave the overheads on half.”

“I can get that,” Tink said when Emma took the bride’s bouquet.

“One bruised rose and she’ll go on attack. Better she rips my throat out than yours. Let’s go, first dance is starting.”

While the flowers headed up the back stairs, Jack wandered to the main. He slipped into the Ballroom in the middle of the first official dance. The bride and groom chose what he considered the overused and overorchestrated “I Will Always Love You,” while people stood in the flower-drenched Ballroom or sat at one of the tables strategically arranged around the dance floor.

The terrace doors stood open, inviting guests to stroll outside. He thought he’d do just that once he got a glass of wine.

When he saw Emma ducking out again, he adjusted his plan. Carrying two glasses of wine, he went down the back stairs.

She sat on the second level, and popped up like a spring when she heard his footsteps. “Oh, it’s only you.” She sank back down on the steps.

“Only me is bearing wine.”

She sighed, circled her head on her neck. “We at Vows frown on drinking on the job. But . . . I’ll lecture myself tomorrow. Hand it over.”

He sat down beside her, gave her the glass. “How’s it going?”

“I should ask you. You’re a guest.”

“From the guest point of view, it’s a smash. Everything looks great, tastes great, smells great. People are having fun and have no idea the whole business is clicking along on a timetable that would make a Swiss train conductor weep in admiration.”

“Exactly what we’re after.” She sipped the wine, shut her eyes. “Oh God, that’s good.”

“How’s the MB behaving?”

“She’s actually not too bad. It’s hard to be bitchy when everyone’s telling you how beautiful you look, how happy they are for you. She actually did count the roses in her bouquet, so that made her happy. Parker’s smoothed over a couple of potential crises, and Mac actually got a nod of approval over the B and G shots. If Laurel’s cake and dessert table pass muster, I’d say we hit all the hot spots.”

“Did she do those little crème brûlées?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You’re gold. Lot of buzz on the flowers.”

“Really?”

“I actually heard gasps a few times—the good kind.”

She rolled her shoulders. “Then it’s all worth it.”

“Here.”

He boosted himself up a stair, straddled her from behind, and dug his fingers into her shoulders.

“You don’t have to . . . Never mind.” She leaned back into his hands. “Carry on.”

“You’ve got some concrete in here, Em.”

“I’ve got about a sixty-hour week in there.”

“And three thousand roses.”

“Oh, adding the other events, we could double that. Easily.”

He worked his thumbs up the back of her neck, made her groan. And as his stomach knotted in response, realized he wasn’t doing himself any favors. “So . . . how’d the fiftieth go?”

“It was lovely, really lovely. Four generations. Mac got some wonderful pictures. When the anniversary couple had their first dance, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It goes down as one of my all-time favorite events.”

She sighed again. “You have to stop that. Between the wine and your magic hands I’m going to end up taking a nap right here on the steps.”