Bride Quartet Collection (28 page)
Read Bride Quartet Collection Online
Authors: Nora Roberts
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
BED OF ROSES
Copyright © 2009 by Nora Roberts.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
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PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / November 2009
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Roberts, Nora.
Bed of roses / Nora Roberts.—Berkley trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-14894-5
1. Florists—Fiction. 2. Architects—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.O243B43 2009
813’.54—dc22
2009019178
For girlfriends
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
—WORDSWORTH
Love is like a friendship caught on fire.
—BRUCE LEE
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
R
OMANCE, IN EMMALINE’S OPINION, MADE BEING A WOMAN special. Romance made every woman beautiful, and every man a prince. A woman with romance in her life lived as grandly as a queen, because her heart was treasured.
Flowers, candlelight, long walks in the moonlight in a secluded garden . . . just the idea brought on a sigh.
Dancing
in the moonlight in a secluded garden, now
that
reached the height of romantic on her scale.
She could imagine it, the scent of summer roses, the music drifting out of the open windows of a ballroom, the way the light turned the edges of everything silver, like in the movies. The way her heart would beat (the way it beat now as she imagined it).
She longed to dance in the moonlight in a secluded garden.
She was eleven.
Because she could see so clearly how it should be—
would
be—she described the scene, every detail, to her best friends.
When they had sleepovers, they talked and talked for hours about everything, and listened to music or watched movies. They could stay up as long as they wanted, even
all
night. Though none of them had managed to. Yet.
When they had a sleepover at Parker’s, they were allowed to sit or play on the terrace outside her bedroom until midnight if the weather was okay for it. In the spring, her favorite time there, she loved to stand on the bedroom terrace, smell the gardens of the Brown Estate and the green from the grass if the gardener had cut it that day.
Mrs. Grady, the housekeeper, would bring the cookies and milk. Or sometimes cupcakes. And Mrs. Brown would come in now and then to see what they were up to.
But mostly, it was just the four of them.
“When I’m a successful businesswoman living in New York, I won’t have time for romance.” Laurel, her own sunny blond hair streaked with green from a lime Kool Aid treatment, worked her fashion sense on Mackensie’s bright red.
“But you
have
to have romance,” Emma insisted.
“Uh-uh.” With her tongue caught in her teeth, Laurel tirelessly twined another section of Mac’s hair into a long, thin braid. “I’m going to be like my aunt Jennifer. She tells my mother how she doesn’t have time for marriage, and she doesn’t need a man to be complete and stuff. She lives on the Upper East Side and goes to parties with Madonna. My dad says she’s a ballbuster. So I’m going to be a ballbuster and go to parties with Madonna.”
“As if.” Mac snorted. The quick tug on the braid only made Mac giggle. “Dancing’s fun, and I guess romance is okay as long as it doesn’t make you stupid. Romance is all my mother thinks about. Except money. I guess it’s both. It’s like, how can she get romance and money at the same time.”
“That’s not really romance.” But Emma rubbed her hand on Mac’s leg as she said it. “I think romance is when you just do things for each other because you’re in love. I wish we were old enough to be in love.” Emma sighed, hugely. “I think it must feel really good.”
“We should kiss a boy and see what it’s like.”
Everyone stopped to stare at Parker. She lay belly-down on her bed, watching her friends play Hair Salon. “We should pick a boy and get him to kiss us. We’re almost twelve. We need to try it and see if we like it.”
Laurel narrowed her eyes. “Like an experiment?”
“But who would we kiss?” Emma wondered.
“We’ll make a list.” Parker rolled across the bed to grab her newest notebook from her nightstand. This one featured a pair of pink toe shoes on the cover. “We’ll write down all the boys we know, then which ones we think might be okay to kiss. And why or why not.”
“That doesn’t really sound romantic.”
Parker gave Emma a small smile. “We have to start somewhere, and lists always help. Now, I don’t think we can use relatives. I mean like Del,” she said, speaking of her brother, “or either of Emma’s brothers. Besides, Emma’s brothers are way too old.”
She opened the book to a fresh page. “So—”
“Sometimes they stick their tongue in your mouth.”
Mac’s statement brought on squeals, gags, more giggles.
Parker slid off the bed to sit on the floor beside Emma. “Okay, after we make the master list, we can divide it. Yes and No. Then we pick from the Yes list. If we get the boy we pick to kiss us, we have to tell what it was like. And if he puts his tongue in your mouth, we have to know what that’s like.”
“What if we pick one and he doesn’t want to kiss us?”
“Em?” Securing the last braid, Laurel shook her head. “A boy’s going to want to kiss you for sure. You’re really pretty, and you talk to them like they’re regular. Some of the girls get all stupid around boys, but you don’t. Plus you’re starting to get breasts.”
“Boys like breasts,” Mac said wisely. “Anyway, if he won’t kiss you, you just kiss him. I don’t think it’s that big a deal anyway.”
Emma thought it was, or should be.
But they wrote down the list, and just the act of it made them all laugh. Laurel and Mac acted out how one boy or another might approach the moment, and
that
had them rolling on the floor until Mr. Fish, the cat, stalked out of the bedroom to curl up in Parker’s sitting room.
Parker tucked the notebook away when Mrs. Grady came in with cookies and milk. Then the idea of playing Girl Band had them all pawing through Parker’s closet and dressers to find the right pieces for stage gear.
They fell asleep on the floor, across the bed. Curled up, sprawled out.
Emma woke before sunrise. The room was dark but for the glow of Parker’s night-light, and the stream from the moon through her windows.
Someone had covered her with a light blanket and tucked a pillow under her head. Someone always did when they had sleepovers.
The moonlight drew her, and, half dreaming still, she walked to the terrace doors and out. Cool air, scented by roses, brushed her cheeks.
She looked out over the silver-edged gardens where spring lived in soft colors, sweet shapes. She could almost hear the music, almost see herself dancing among the roses and azaleas, the peonies that still held their petals and perfume in tight balls.
She could almost see the shape of her partner, the one who spun her in the dance. The waltz, she thought with a sigh. It should be a waltz, like in a storybook.
That was romance, she thought, and closed her eyes to breathe in the night air.
One day, she promised herself, she’d know what it was like.
CHAPTER ONE
S
INCE DETAILS CROWDED HER MIND, MANY OF THEM BLURRY, Emma checked her appointment book over her first cup of coffee. The back-to-back consults gave her nearly as much of a boost as the strong, sweet coffee. Basking in it, she leaned back in the chair in her cozy office to read over the side notes she’d added to each client.
In her experience, the personality of the couple—or often, more accurately, the bride—helped her determine the tone of the consult, the direction they’d pursue. To Emma’s way of thinking, flowers were the heart of a wedding. Whether they were elegant or fun, elaborate or simple, the flowers were the romance.
It was her job to give the client all the heart and romance they desired.
She sighed, stretched, then smiled at the vase of petite roses on her desk. Spring, she thought, was the best. The wedding season kicked into high gear—which meant busy days and long nights designing, arranging, creating not only for
this
spring’s weddings, but also next.
She loved the continuity as much as the work itself.
That’s what Vows had given her and her three best friends. Continuity, rewarding work, and that sense of personal accomplishment. And she got to play with flowers, live with flowers, practically swim in flowers every day.
Thoughtfully, she examined her hands, and the little nicks and tiny cuts. Some days she thought of them as battle scars, and others as medals of honor. This morning she just wished she’d remembered to fit in a manicure.
She glanced at the time, calculated. Boosted again, she sprang up. Detouring into her bedroom, she grabbed a scarlet hoodie to zip over her pjs. There was time to walk to the main house before she dressed and prepared for the day. At the main house Mrs. Grady would have breakfast, so Emma wouldn’t have to forage or cook for herself.
Her life, she thought as she jogged downstairs, brimmed with lovely perks.
She passed through the living room she used as a reception and consult area, and took a quick scan around as she headed for the door. She’d freshen up the flowers on display before the first meeting, but oh, hadn’t those stargazer lilies opened beautifully?
She stepped out of what had been a guest house on the Brown Estate but was now her home and the base for Centerpiece—her part of Vows.
She took a deep breath of spring air. And shivered.
Damn it, why couldn’t it be warmer? It was April, for God’s sake. It was daffodil time. Look how cheerful the pansies she’d potted up looked. She refused to let a chilly morning—and okay, it was starting to drizzle on top of it—spoil her mood.
She hunched inside the hoodie, stuck the hand not holding her coffee mug in her pocket, and began to walk to the main house.
Things were coming back to life all around her, she reminded herself. If you looked closely enough you could see the promise of green on the trees, the hint of what would be delicate blooms of dogwood and cherry blossoms. Those daffodils wanted to pop, and the crocuses already had. Maybe there’d be another spring snow, but the worst was over.
Soon it would be time to dig in the dirt, to bring some of her beauties out of the greenhouse and put them on display. She added the bouquets, the swags and garlands, but nothing beat Mother Nature for providing the most poignant landscape for a wedding.
And nothing, in her opinion, beat the Brown Estate for showing it off.
The gardens, showpieces even now, would soon explode with color, bloom, scent, inviting people to stroll along the curving paths, or sit on a bench, relax in sun or shade. Parker put her in charge—as much as Parker could put anyone else in charge—of overseeing them, so every year she got to play, planting something new, or supervising the landscape team.
The terraces and patios created lovely outdoor living spaces, perfect for weddings and events. Poolside receptions, terrace receptions, ceremonies under the rose arbor or the pergola, or perhaps down by the pond under a willow.
We’ve got it all, she thought.
The house itself? Could anything be more graceful, more beautiful? The wonderful soft blue, those warm touches of yellow and cream. All the varied rooflines, the arching windows, the lacy balconies added up to elegant charm. And really, the entrance portico was made for crowding with lush greenery or elaborate colors and textures.
As a child she’d thought of it as a fairyland, complete with castle.
Now it was home.
She veered toward the pool house, where her partner Mac lived and kept her photography studio. Even as she aimed for it, the door opened. Emma beamed a smile, shot out a wave to the lanky man with shaggy hair and a tweed jacket who came out.
“Morning, Carter!”
“Hi, Emma.”
Carter’s family and hers had been friends almost as long as she could remember. Now, Carter Maguire, former Yale prof and current professor of English lit at their high school alma mater, was engaged to one of her best friends in the world.
Life wasn’t just good, Emma thought. It was a freaking bed of roses.
Riding on that, she all but danced to Carter, tugged him down by his lapel as she angled up on her toes and kissed him noisily.
“Wow,” he said, and blushed a little.
“Hey.” Mackensie, her eyes sleepy, her cap of red hair bright in the gloom, leaned on the doorjamb. “Are you trying to make time with my guy?”
“If only. I’d steal him away but you’ve dazzled and vamped him.”
“Damn right.”
“Well.” Carter offered them both a flustered smile. “This is a really nice start to my day. The staff meeting I’m headed to won’t be half as enjoyable.”
“Call in sick.” Mac all but purred it. “I’ll give you something enjoyable.”
“Hah. Well. Anyway. Bye.”
Emma grinned at his back as he hurried off to his car. “God, he is so
cute
.”
“He really is.”
“And look at you, Happy Girl.”
“Happy Engaged Girl. Want to see my ring again?”
“Oooh,” Emma said obligingly when Mac wiggled her fingers. “Ahhh.”
“Are you going for breakfast?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Wait.” Mac leaned in, grabbed a jacket, then pulled the door closed behind her. “I didn’t have anything but coffee yet, so . . .” As they fell into step together, Mac frowned. “That’s my mug.”
“Do you want it back now?”
“I know why I’m cheerful this crappy morning, and it’s the same reason I haven’t had time for breakfast. It’s called Let’s Share the Shower.”
“Happy Girl is also Bragging Bitch.”
“And proud of it. Why are you so cheerful? Got a man in your house?”
“Sadly no. But I have five consults booked today. Which is a great start to the week, and comes on the tail of the lovely end to last week with yesterday’s tea party wedding. It was really sweet, wasn’t it?”
“Our sexagenarian couple exchanging vows and celebrating surrounded by his kids, her kids, grandchildren. Not just sweet, but also reassuring. Second time around for both of them, and there they are, ready to do it again, willing to share and blend. I got some really great shots. Anyway, I think those crazy kids are going to make it.”
“Speaking of crazy kids, we really have to talk about your flowers. December may be far away—she says shivering—but it comes fast, as you well know.”
“I haven’t even decided on the look for the engagement shots yet. Or looked at dresses, or thought about colors.”
“I look good in jewel tones,” Emma said and fluttered her lashes.
“You look good in burlap. Talk about bragging bitches.” Mac opened the door to the mudroom, and since Mrs. Grady was back from her winter vacation, remembered to wipe her feet. “As soon as I find the dress, we’ll brainstorm the rest.”
“You’re the first one of us to get married. To have your wedding here.”
“Yeah. It’s going to be interesting to see how we manage to run the wedding and be
in
the wedding.”
“You know you can count on Parker to figure out the logistics. If anyone can make it run smoothly, it’s Parker.”
They walked into the kitchen, and chaos.
While the equitable Maureen Grady worked at the stove, movements efficient, face placid, Parker and Laurel faced off across the room.
“It has to be done,” Parker insisted.
“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”
“Laurel, this is business. In business you serve the client.”
“Let me tell you what I’d like to serve the client.”
“Just stop.” Parker, her rich brown hair sleeked back in a tail, was already dressed in a meet-the-client suit of midnight blue. Eyes of nearly the same color flashed hot with impatience. “Look, I’ve already put together a list of her choices, the number of guests, her colors, her floral selections. You don’t even have to speak to her. I’ll liaise.”
“Now let me tell you what you can do with your list.”
“The bride—”
“The bride is an asshole. The bride is an idiot, a whiny baby bitch who made it very clear nearly one year ago that she neither needed nor wanted my particular services. The bride can bite me because she’s not biting any of my cake now that she’s realized her own stupidity.”
In the cotton pajama pants and tank she’d slept in, her hair still in sleep tufts, Laurel dropped onto a chair in the breakfast nook.
“You need to calm down.” Parker bent down to pick up a file. Probably tossed on the floor by Laurel, Emma mused. “Everything you need is in here.” Parker laid the file on the table. “I’ve already assured the bride we’ll accommodate her, so—”
“So you design and bake a four-layer wedding cake between now and Saturday, and a groom’s cake, and a selection of desserts. To serve two hundred people. You do that with no previous preparation, and when you’ve got three other events over the weekend, and an evening event in three days.”
Her face set in mutinous lines, Laurel picked up the file and deliberately dropped it on the floor.
“Now you’re acting like a child.”
“Fine. I’m a child.”
“Girls, your little friends have come to play.” Mrs. Grady sang it out, her tone overly sweet, her eyes laughing.
“Ah, I hear my mom calling me,” Emma said and started to ease out of the room.
“No, you don’t!” Laurel jumped up. “Just listen to this! The Folk-Harrigan wedding. Saturday, evening event. You’ll remember, I’m sure, how the bride sniffed at the very idea of Icings at Vows providing the cake or any of the desserts. How she
sneered
at me and my suggestions and insisted her cousin, a pastry chef in New York, who studied in Paris and designed cakes for
important
affairs, would be handling all the desserts.
“Do you remember what she said to me?”
“Ah.” Emma shifted because Laurel’s finger pointed at her heart. “Not in the exact words.”
“Well, I do. She said she was sure—and said it with that sneer—she was sure I could handle
most
affairs well enough, but she wanted the
best
for her wedding. She said that to my face.”
“Which was rude, no question,” Parker began.
“I’m not finished,” Laurel said between her teeth. “Now, at the eleventh hour, it seems her brilliant cousin has run off with one of her—the cousin’s—clients. Scandal, scandal, as said client met brilliant cousin when he commissioned her to design a cake for
his
engagement party. Now they’re MIA and the bride wants me to step in and save her day.”
“Which is what we do here. Laurel—”
“I’m not asking you.” She flicked her fingers at Parker, zeroed in on Mac and Emma. “I’m asking them.”
“What? Did you say something?” Mac offered a toothy smile. “Sorry, I must’ve gotten water in my ears from the shower. Can’t hear a thing.”
“Coward. Em?”
“Ah . . .”
“Breakfast!” Mrs. Grady circled a finger in the air. “Everybody sit down. Egg white omelettes on toasted brown bread. Sit, sit. Eat.”
“I’m not eating until—”
“Let’s just sit.” Interrupting Laurel’s next tirade, Emma tried a soothing tone. “Give me a minute to think. Let’s just all sit down and . . . Oh, Mrs. G, that looks fabulous.” She grabbed two plates, thinking of them as shields as she crossed to the breakfast nook and scooted in. “Let’s remember we’re a team,” she began.
“You’re not the one being insulted and overworked.”
“Actually, I am. Or have been. Whitney Folk puts the
zilla
in Bridezilla. I could relay my personal nightmares with her, but that’s a story for another day.”
“I’ve got some of my own,” Mac put in.
“So your hearing’s back,” Laurel muttered.
“She’s rude, demanding, spoiled, difficult, and unpleasant,” Emma continued. “Usually when we plan the event, even with the problems that can come up and the general weirdness of some couples, I like to think we’re helping them showcase a day that begins their happy ever after. With this one? I’d be surprised if they make it two years. She was rude to you, and I don’t think it was a sneer, I think it was a smirk. I don’t like her.”
Obviously pleased with the support, Laurel sent her own smirk toward Parker, then began to eat.
“That being said, we’re a team. And clients, even smirky bitch clients, have to be served. Those are good reasons to do this,” Emma said while Laurel scowled at her. “But there’s a better one. You’ll show her rude, smirky, flat, bony ass what a really brilliant pastry chef can do, and under pressure.”
