Bride Quartet Collection (31 page)

After carting bags of floral debris out to her composters, she scrubbed the green off her fingers and from under her nails at her work sink.

To reward herself for the morning’s work, she took a Diet Coke and a plate of pasta salad out on her side patio. Her gardens couldn’t compete—yet—with the one she was creating. But her happy couple had been married in southern Virginia. Give me a few weeks, she mused, pleased to see the green spears of spring bulbs, the freshening foliage of perennials.

Last night’s snow was just a memory under blue skies and almost balmy temperatures.

She spotted Parker with a group of people—one of the day’s potential clients doing the tour—crossing one of the terraces at the main house. Parker gestured toward the pergola, the rose arbor. The clients would have to imagine the abundance of white roses, the lushness of wisteria, but Emma knew the urns she’d planted with pansies and trailing vinca showed off very well. At the pond dotted with lily pads, the willows were just beginning to green.

She wondered if the prospective bride and groom would one day have a busy florist creating fifty bouquets to commemorate their marriage. Would they have children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren who loved them enough to want to give them that celebration?

With a small groan for muscles aching from the morning’s exercise and the morning’s work, she propped her feet on the chair across from her, lifted her face to the sun, and shut her eyes.

She smelled earth, the tang of mulch, heard a bird chittering its pleasure in the day.

“You’ve got to stop slaving away like this.”

She jerked up—had she fallen asleep?—and blinked at Jack. Mind blank, she watched him pluck a curl of pasta from her plate, pop it into his mouth. “Good. Got any more?”

“What? Oh God!” Panicked, she looked at her watch, then breathed a sigh of relief. “I must’ve dozed off, but only for a couple minutes. I have forty nine bouquets left to make.”

His brows drew together over smoky eyes. “You’re having a wedding with forty-nine brides?”

“Hmm. No.” She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. “Fiftieth anniversary, and a re-creation of the bridal bouquet for every year. What are you doing here?”

“I need my jacket.”

“Oh, right. Sorry I forgot to give it back to you last night.”

“No problem. I had an appointment down the road.” He took another twirl of pasta. “Do you have any more of this? I missed lunch.”

“Yeah, sure. I owe you lunch at least. Sit down. I’ll get you a plate.”

“I’ll take it, and I wouldn’t mind a hit of caffeine. Hot or cold.”

“No problem.” Studying him, she pushed at hair that escaped pins. “You look a little whipped.”

“Busy morning. And I’ve got another site to visit in about forty-five minutes. You were between the two, so . . .”

“That’s handy. Be right back.”

He was whipped, he thought, and stretched out his legs. Not so much from the work, or the in-your-face with an inspector that morning. Which he would’ve handled better if he hadn’t been sleep-deprived. Tossing and turning and trying to block out sex dreams of a Spanish-eyed lady would whip anyone.

So, of course, he had to be stupid and masochistic, and drop by with the excuse of the jacket.

Who knew how sexy she looked when she slept in the sunlight?

He did, now. It wasn’t going to give him easier dreams.

The thing to do was get over it. He should make a date with a blonde or a redhead. Several dates with several blondes and/or redheads until he managed to put Emma back on the No Trespassing list.

Where she belonged.

She came out, his jacket over her arm, a tray in her hands.

She had, he thought, the kind of beauty that just slammed a man’s throat shut. And when she smiled, the way she did now, it blew through him like a bolt of lightning.

He tried to build a No Trespassing sign in his head.

“I had some of my aunt Terry’s olive bread,” she told him. “It’s great. I went with cold caffeine.”

“That does the job. Thanks.”

“No problem. And it’s nice to have company on a break.” She sat again. “What are you working on?”

“I’m juggling a few things.” He bit into the bread. “You’re right. It’s great.”

“Aunt Terry’s secret recipe. You said you had a job near here?”

“A couple. The one I’m heading to’s a never-ending. The client started out two years ago wanting a kitchen remodel, which moved into a complete reno of the master bath, which now includes a Japanese soaking tub, a sunken whirlpool, and a steam shower big enough for six friends.”

She wiggled her brows over those gorgeous eyes, then took a bite of pasta. “Fancy.”

“I kept waiting for her to ask if we could extend the addition a little more for the lap pool. But she turned her focus outside. She decided she wants a summer kitchen by the pool. She saw one in a magazine. She can’t live without it.”

“How does anyone?”

He smiled and ate. “She’s twenty-six. Her husband’s fifty-eight, rolling in it and happy to indulge her every whim. She has a lot of whim.”

“I’m sure he loves her, and if he can afford it, why not make her happy?”

Jack merely shrugged. “Fine by me. It keeps me in beer and nachos.”

“You’re cynical.” She pointed at him with her fork before she stabbed more pasta. “You see her as the bimbo trophy wife and him as the middle-aged dumbass.”

“I bet his first wife does, but I see them as clients.”

“I don’t think age should factor into love or marriage. It’s about the two people in it, and how they feel about each other. Maybe she makes him feel young and vital, and opened something new inside him. If it was just sex, why marry her?”

“I’ll just say a woman who looks like she does has great powers of persuasion.”

“That may be, but we’ve done a lot of weddings here where there’s been a significant age difference.”

He wagged his fork, then stabbed more pasta in a mirror of her move. “A wedding isn’t a marriage.”

She sat back, drummed her fingers. “Okay, you’re right. But a wedding’s a prelude, it’s the symbolic and ritualistic beginning of the marriage, so—”

“They got married in Vegas.”

He continued to eat, face bland as he watched her try not to laugh.

“Many people get married in Vegas. That doesn’t mean they won’t have many happy and fulfilling years together.”

“By a transvestite Elvis impersonator.”

“Okay, now you’re making things up. But even if you’re not, that kind of . . . choice shows a sense of humor and fun, which, I happen to believe, are important elements for a successful marriage.”

“Good save. Great pasta.” He glanced over to where Parker sat with potential clients on the main terrace. “Business seems to be clicking along.”

“Five events this week on-site, and a bridal shower we coordinated off-site.”

“Yeah, I’ll be here for the one Saturday evening.”

“Friend of Bride or Groom?”

“Groom. The bride’s a monster.”

“God, she really is.” Emma leaned back and laughed. “She brought me a picture of her best friend’s bouquet. Not because she wanted me to duplicate it, which she certainly did not. Hers is a completely different style, but she’d counted the roses, and told me she wanted at least one more in hers—and warned me she’d be counting them.”

“She will, too. And I can pretty much guarantee no matter how good a job you do, she’ll find fault.”

“Yeah, we’ve figured that out. It’s part of the job around here. You get monsters and angels and everything in between. But I don’t have to think about her today. Today’s a happy day.”

He knew she meant it. She looked relaxed, and had a glow about her. Then again, she usually did. “Because you have fifty bouquets to make?”

“That, and knowing the bride of fifty years is going to love them. Fifty years. Can you imagine?”

“I can’t imagine fifty years of anything.”

“That’s not true. You must imagine what you build lasting fifty years. Hopefully much longer.”

“Point,” he agreed. “But that’s building.”

“So’s marriage. It’s building lives. It takes work, care, maintenance. And our anniversary couple proves it can be done. And now I have to get back to them. Break’s over for me.”

“Me, too. I’ll get this for you.” He loaded up the tray, lifted it as they rose. “You’re working alone today? Where are your elves?”

“They’ll be here tomorrow. And there will be chaos as we start on the flowers for the weekend events. Today it’s just me, about three thousand roses, and blissful quiet.” She opened the door for him.

“Three
thousand
? Are you serious? Your fingers will fall off.”

“I have very strong fingers. And if I need it, one of the pals will come by for a couple hours and help strip stems.”

He set the tray on her kitchen counter, thinking, as he always did, that her place smelled like a meadow. “Good luck with that. Thanks for lunch.”

“You’re welcome.” She walked him to the door where he stopped.

“What about your car?”

“Oh. Parker gave me the name of a mechanic, a place. Kavanaugh’s. I’m going to call.”

“He’s good. Call soon. I’ll see you Saturday.”

He imagined her going back to her roses as he walked to his car. Of sitting, for hours, drenched in their scent, cleaning stems of thorns then . . . doing whatever it was she did, he decided, to make what women who took the plunge carried.

And he thought of how she’d looked when he’d come upon her, sitting in the sunlight, face tipped up, eyes closed, those luscious lips of hers just slightly curved as if she dreamed of something very pleasant. All that hair bundled up and slim dangles of silver at her ears.

He’d thought, briefly but actively, about just leaning down and taking that mouth with his. He could’ve played it light, made some crack about Sleeping Beauty. She had a sense of humor, so maybe she’d have gotten a kick out of it.

She also had a temper, he mused. She didn’t cut it loose often, but she had one.

It didn’t matter either way, he reminded himself, as he’d missed that opportunity. The bevy of blondes and redheads was a better idea than scratching this increasingly annoying itch where Emma was concerned.

Friends were friends, lovers were lovers. You could make a friend out of a lover, but you were on boggy ground when you made a lover out of a friend.

He was nearly to the job site when he realized he’d left his jacket on her patio.

“Shit.
Shit
.”

Now he was like one of those idiots who deliberately left something at a woman’s place so he had an excuse to go back and try to score. And that wasn’t it.

Was it?

Shit. Maybe it was.

CHAPTER FOUR

A
T TWO FIFTEEN ON SATURDAY, EMMA HAD HER TROOPS LINED up to transform the event rooms from the cheerful Caribbean themed daytime wedding into what she privately thought of as the Paris Explodes event.

“Everything goes.” Emma rolled to the toes of her move fast sneakers. “The bride wants all the remaining baskets, vases, centerpieces. We’ll help them load up whatever hasn’t already been given to guests. Beach and Tiffany, strip the garlands and swags, inside and out. Start with the portico, then move inside. Tink, you and I will start the changeover in the Grand Hall. When the portico’s ready to be dressed, let me know. The bride’s and groom’s suites have already been changed over. New bride’s due at three thirty for hair, makeup, dressing, and photos in her suite. We need the entrance, foyer, staircase complete by three twenty, and the Grand Hall complete by four. Terraces, pergola, and patios by four forty-five, Ballroom complete by five forty five. If you need extra hands get me or Parker. Let’s do this.”

With Tink beside her, Emma shot off like a bullet. Tink, she knew, was reliable when she wanted to be—which was about seventy-five percent of the time. But Emma only had to show her or explain something to her once. She was a talented florist, again when she wanted to be. And was, to Emma’s mind, almost spookily strong.

Tiny and toned, her wildly chopped boot-black hair liberally streaked with cotton-candy pink for spring, Tink attacked the mantel dressing like a whirlwind.

They stripped, boxed, dragged, hefted, and hauled candles of mango orange and surf white, garlands of bougainvillaea, pots of ferns and palm trees.

Tink snapped the gum she was never without and wrinkled her nose so the silver hoop in it glinted. “If you’re going to want palm trees and shit, why don’t you just go to the beach?”

“If they did, we wouldn’t get paid to create the beach.”

“Good point.”

When she got the signal, Emma deserted the hall for the portico. She twined and draped and swagged miles of white tulle, acres of white roses to create a regal entryway for the bride and her guests. Colorful pots of hibiscus and orchids made way for enormous white urns filled with a forest of lilacs.

“Bride and Groom One and all guests checked out,” Parker told her. She stood in her simple gray suit, her BlackBerry in one hand, her beeper hooked to her pocket, and her earbud dangling. “My God, Emma, this looks amazing.”

“Yeah, it’s coming along. She balked on the lilacs—too simple a flower, according to Monster Bride, but I found a picture that convinced her.” She stepped back, nodded. “Okay, yeah. Excellent.”

“She’s due in twenty.”

“We’ll make it.”

Emma hustled inside to where Tink and Tiffany worked on the staircase. More tulle, more white roses, these twined with fairy lights, with long swags of roses dripping down every ten inches. Perfect.

“Okay, Beach, entry and gift table arrangements. We can haul over the first of the Grand Hall pieces, too.”

“I can get you Carter.” Parker tapped her beeper. “I drafted him to help in the Ballroom, but I can spare him.”

“Handy to have Mac hooked with a strong, willing back. I’ll take him.”

With the gangly Carter and her fireplug Beach, Emma transported pots, vases, baskets, greenery, garland, swags, and candles.

“MB’s pulling in.” Parker’s voice sounded through Emma’s headset and made her snort. Monster Bride.

She put the finishing touches on the mantel, lush with white and silver candles, white roses, and lavender lisianthus, before making the dash to wade into the outdoor arrangements.

She set more lilacs in more urns, muscled enormous silver baskets filled with calla lilies in eggplant and snowy white, hung cones of flowers dripping with silver ribbon on the white-draped aisle chairs, and guzzled water like a dying woman.

“Man, is this the best you can do?”

Rubbing the aching small of her back, Emma turned to Jack.

He stood, hands in the pockets of a gorgeous gray suit jacket, eyes shaded against the beaming sunlight by Oakleys.

“Well, she wanted simple.”

He laughed, shook his head. “It looks amazing, and somehow elaborately French.”

“Yes.” She pointed a finger at him. “Exactly my plan. Wait!” Panic leaped in her chest like a terrier after a bone. “What are you doing here? What time is it? We can’t be that far behind. Parker would—” She broke off as she checked her watch. “Oh, thank God. You’re really early.”

“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.

Guests still trickling in. Most are seated or on the terrace.

Formal prewedding shots complete. Mac’s on the move.

Grandparents escorted in two minutes. I’m bringing the boys down. Laurel, get ready for the pass-off.

“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.