For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (3 page)

“I’ll just be a moment.” I darted into the bathroom. While using a cool hair dryer, I reasoned with my reflection in the mirror. “Not a date,” I said, as I applied a little blush, but skipped the mascara and lip gloss. I added earrings and a scarf, then went back and added the mascara and lip gloss. “You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”

My reflection nodded. Glad someone agreed with me.

“Ok, let’s roll,” I called to Brad as I grabbed my purse and slid my feet into wedges.

“You look great, Audrey.” Brad followed me out the door. I turned the lock and pulled the door shut with a bang before Chester could come running and escape. He was never an outdoor cat, but he did like to explore the neighborhood, though usually not getting much farther than my neighbor’s truck tires.

“That’s not good for the locks, Audrey. You really ought to use the key.”

“So my landlord has told me.” I raised one eyebrow in challenge.

Brad’s smile dimmed slightly, but he grabbed my elbow and led me to his car. Only it wasn’t his car. It was a huge black Range Rover.

“Is this . . . ?”

“It belongs to the show,” he said. “But I use it quite a bit.”

I sank into the seat and watched the town pass outside the windows. A few minutes of uncomfortable silence later, the top of the vehicle scraped the low-hanging branches of a mature apple tree as he pulled into his mother’s gravel driveway. Maybe it was a good idea we weren’t having dinner alone. So many things had been left unsaid when he left town. Our once-easy conversations were probably as extinct as the dodo bird, phone booths, and rabbit-ear antennas.

Mrs. Simmons greeted us on the porch, her pudgy face flushed, probably from cooking. By the time we’d mounted the steps, she’d enveloped me in a hug, then reached up to pinch my cheeks. “Audrey, so good to see you. You look lovely. So pretty in purple. Come in. The roast is almost ready.”

Ceiling fans were spinning rapidly, and the central air whined as it strained to keep up with the heat pouring from her kitchen. Fortunately, several enticing aromas also swirled through the space. Cooking a roast on the hottest day of the year? She must be really happy to see Brad.

At least I hoped it was Brad she was happy to see. Mrs. Simmons had never quite reconciled herself to the breakup, still wanting me to call her “Mom,” as she had asked me to do when Brad and I were serious and a proposal on the horizon had seemed a certainty. At least it had to everybody in the world except Brad.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said as she led us into the small eating area in the kitchen. I was surprised the table didn’t buckle under the full bowls and platters of food she placed upon it. A basket of fresh bread, a steaming platter of roast beef. A tureen of gravy. More bowls of hot vegetables. She had enough there to feed at least a dozen lumberjacks.

She coaxed Brad into saying the blessing over the food. Because their tradition was to hold hands while doing it, this sparked one of the first awkward moments of the evening. And as he held my hand under the table, I looked up into his blue eyes and could see only sadness in them.

Why was he sad? Sad to be here with me? Sad that he didn’t stay here with me? But the spell was broken when what seemed like three-quarters of a cow crash-landed on my plate.

“Thank you.” I avoided addressing her by name for fear of starting the controversy again. By the end of the meal, I was holding my stomach.

“I think it’s finally cooling down,” Mrs. Simmons said. “Why don’t you two go outside while I clean up a little? We’ll have coffee and dessert later.”

“Let me help you,” I offered.

“No, dear. I run a one-woman kitchen, and I’m just pleased to have you back.” She shooed me away with her dish towel.

Brad led me out onto the deck. The outside air was indeed growing cooler by the moment, a result of the town’s location in a valley near where the Blue Ridge and Appalachia meet. I never truly understood the meteorological hocus-pocus that caused the nights to be cool even on the hottest days, but the sudden change in temperature drew a shiver from me.

“Here.” Brad took off his coat and draped it across my shoulders. We sat on the old cushioned aluminum glider that overlooked the wooded backyard.

“This place hasn’t changed,” I said. “Your mom hasn’t changed, either.”

He reached out and took my hand. “We do have a lot to talk about.”

I yanked it back. I was here to put my negative feelings about Brad behind me, not to rekindle the positive ones. “How are you enjoying your job with
Fix My Wedding
? Are Gary and Gigi much like they are on the show? In real life, I mean.”

“You really want to talk about the show?” He used a finger to push back a stray lock of my hair and tuck it behind my ear.

“Yes, I really want to talk about the show.” I straightened up and put as much space as I could between Brad and me on the narrow glider.

Brad laughed and folded his hands in front of him before starting the glider in a gentle rocking motion. “Gary and Gigi are . . . entertainers. They’re a lot like they are on television, but a little less amplified, if that makes sense. They can be abrupt at times, but they’re extremely focused on the show.”

“The tabloids say they don’t get along.”

“The tabloids also say Elvis is an auto mechanic in Buffalo and that Michael Jackson transported down from another planet to study Earth culture.” He leaned his head back. “No, I’d say they get along fine. There’s an occasional squabble. Those two can fight like husband and wife. But they also have great chemistry, don’t they?”

“When I saw my first episode, I wondered if they really were married.”

Brad snorted. “I see you still have no gaydar. How have you survived all these years?”

“I don’t know. Maybe by trying to treat everyone I meet with the same kindness and respect.”

He smiled and took my hand again. “Nice sentiment.”

“But I have to admit, it hasn’t helped my dating life much.” I leaned my head back and watched the birds dart among the branches of the trees. “I did notice that Gary’s not as sweet in real life as he appears on the screen.”

“No, that part seems to be an affectation,” Brad said. “But if I had to describe Gary and Gigi, I think I’d call them professionals first. They have a job to do, and they do what it takes—
become
what it takes—to get the job done.”

“If Jackie sticks around, I imagine she might make that harder. Are you worried about her disrupting things?”

He shrugged. “Possibly. Not sure how she found us. We’re rather tight-lipped about our shooting schedule. After all, the show is pretty popular in its demographic.”

“Was it worth leaving Ramble for?”

Brad turned to me with that same sadness in his eyes. “I told you on the phone that I messed up. I was so focused on the job opportunity. I felt it was my last chance to . . .”

“To what?”

“I don’t know. Make something of myself? Run away from home? Keep Ramble from smothering my soul? I can’t explain it. It was like I was caught in a giant sinkhole that was swallowing me alive, and if I didn’t get out right at that moment, I’d never make it out at all.”

“But now you think you messed up.”

“Audrey.” Our gazes met and the twinkle in his eyes reflected the gathering stars. “I don’t regret leaving. Not at all. I regret not taking you with me.”

Brad traced my lips with his thumb before leaning in for a kiss—a long, slow, familiar kiss that I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed. “Come with me this time,” he whispered into my ear, then drew me into another kiss.

I lingered for a moment, feeling nothing but his lips caressing mine. Then an alarm bell sounded in my head. I grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away. “I could never leave Ramble. It’s not smothering . . . Well, it’s safe, it’s cozy, and it’s home. I have the shop . . . and Liv.” And I had something else, another important reason to stay, but that kiss seemed to have shorted my brain, and I wasn’t coming up with it at the moment.

Mrs. Simmons chose that second to walk outside and set a tray on the nearby patio table. “Coffee,” she trilled. “And lots of sugar because I remember that’s how you like it, Audrey. And sorry I didn’t have time to make dessert from scratch. But I got some lovely cupcakes from that Baby Cakes Bakery in town. Well, when I told that nice Nick Maxwell what I wanted them for, he made me promise to say hello to you, Audrey.”

I arrived at the Ashbury at seven a.m. exactly. A wood police barrier, manned by Ken Lafferty, closed off the private road leading to the historic inn. Even that early in the morning, a crowd of curious Ramblers gathered near the road. They craned their necks from behind the barrier, binoculars trained on the gazebo where filming was rumored to take place. Jackie and her bridesmaids sipped coffee while waving their signs halfheartedly. Then they put them down, probably when they decided the Rose in Bloom delivery vehicle didn’t contain anyone they needed to impress. As I approached, the crowd parted peacefully. Then Ken swung the barrier off to the side to let me pass and waved me through.

I parked under a shade tree, leaving the flowers in the CR-V with the air conditioning running on full. Even at this early hour, it wouldn’t take long for the sun to bake the flowers. The three sample bouquets delicately packed behind me would look lovely on camera, but I wasn’t so sure I was “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” as Grandma Mae used to say. But don’t quote me on that. After working into the wee hours, I was too tired to turn around and check for a bushy tail. But I was certain I failed the bright-eyed part. I’d tried to fix that by loading the dark circles with concealer, then applying a perky shadow and mascara, since the packet Brad had sent me disclosed that I’d be responsible for my own makeup.

A table had been placed in the gazebo, and Brad was draping it with a white satin cloth.

“Audrey, white cloth okay?” he said. “It won’t wash out any white flowers, will it? I know some people like black for photographing flowers, but Gary likes the white.”

“Perfect. The bouquets are carried by brides wearing white, generally.”

Was that a tic in his face? Was the bride not wearing white? What other color would a bride who loved bells wear? Silver? Silver bells? Would these bouquets look washed out against a flashy silver background? Maybe we could change the ribbon colors.

“Why don’t you get three of the bouquets from the car and the camera crew can take some initial shots and get the lighting right.”

I pulled Liv’s and my bouquets out first, and Brad carried Shelby’s more unusual one. He’d created an elaborate three-foot-long but narrow cascade of curled foliage, into which he’d wired foxglove. I’d never seen anything like it—or the elaborate netted tube of floral foam that formed the backbone of the bouquet and kept it from drying out. We joked that he was making green sausage. But the finished bouquet, although a bit heavy, looked stunning, and foxglove was certainly a bell-shaped flower. But the meaning niggled at the back of my mind. Then again, Gary had said that the language of flowers would only be part of the Victorian-styled bouquet.

Brad introduced me to the producer, Tristan, a rather ruggedly handsome type with a cleft chin and a gorgeous British accent. He was kind of James Bond-y, in a young Roger Moore sort of way.

“Glad to have you aboard, Miss Bloom.” He winked as he shook my hand.

I watched as the camera crew, all dressed in black, swarmed like ants over the first set of bouquets. Well, most of them swarmed, with the exception of the lone female on the crew, a young woman in short cutoff jeans and a tight black tank. She’d pulled a perky ponytail through the back of a baseball cap that said “Intern.” She seemed to major in striking provocative poses and fanning herself with a clipboard. Each crew member stopped to explain his process to her. Assuming he had a process. To me, it looked like they just poked, prodded, folded, spindled, and mutilated the bouquets before taking multiple moving and still shots of the flowers sitting on the table. Now I knew why they needed two sets. Then they took more shots of the bouquets stuffed into a white fabric box.

“It diffuses the light,” the cameraman mumbled to me.

Whatever that meant. But he turned to the intern to provide a more thorough explanation. He encouraged her to take the camera while he stood close behind her to point out the controls. But by the time they were done almost an hour later, the bouquets looked like they’d survived an encounter with a Tasmanian Devil—the cartoon version. And I’d seen enough of the intern and the rest of the crew fawning over her to feel as if I’d accidentally stumbled into a porno film when I had intended to see a revival of
Bambi
.

“Are those my bouquets?” A tan, almost orange-skinned young woman rushed up to take a look. She had highlighted hair that ranged from platinum blonde to brunette; almost every strand seemed like it was a different color. She wore a short, scooped-neck fuchsia dress that hugged her ample curves and those strappy sandals that wind halfway up your leg. I think Liv called them gladiator sandals when she’d flattered me into buying a pair. But I doubted any real gladiator ever wore them. He’d be lion food before he figured out how to keep the silly things up. Eventually Chester had found another use for mine.

I also noticed little pink calla lily bell earrings dangling from her earlobes. I found that encouraging since both Liv’s bouquet and mine contained calla lilies.

“Now, Suzy.” Brad tried to guide her away with a firm hand on her upper arm. “You know you’re not supposed to see the bouquets until you’re on camera.”

But she was having none of that. “Why are they so limp? I’m not going to have limp flowers, am I? Daddykins!” She hollered this last bit, and “Daddykins,” a brawny man with thinning hair but a shaggy gray overgrowth of moustache and beard, jogged over. Had he been in camouflage, I might have mistaken him for a regular on
Duck Dynasty
, not
Fix My Wedding
.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He put his hand around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Indulgent fathers: the first ingredient in raising a bridezilla.

“Look at these flowers.” She flicked a finger against a loose campanula, and it came off into her hands.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” he said.

“No, they’re all old and limp, and I hate them. And they have nothing to do with bells.”

“I warned you about this before you signed up,” he said. “If it weren’t for this show, you could pick whatever you want. There’s still time to back out, you know. We could pay the penalty.”

She folded her arms in front of her. I could have sworn the sun dimmed and a breeze picked up, as if a full tantrum were rolling in like a summer storm.

“I am not backing out, and you’ll make them fix the flowers.”

“But, Suzy, these aren’t . . .” Brad whined. “You’re not even supposed to see them until the big reveal.”

“These have been handled to death,” I said. By this time, we were all speaking at once.

“Quiet!” Gary said as he and Gigi forced their way into the circle.

Gigi signaled time-out. “Save the drama for when the cameras are rolling, people.”

“Now what seems to be the problem?” Gary stood looking around the recently quieted circle. Feet shuffled and gazes were diverted to the ground, and I felt like I was back in school, the principal asking who it was that plastic-wrapped his Volkswagen.

“Look at these!” Suzy pointed long, spiky nails at the flowers.

Gary put a hand on his hip and sighed, then stared at me through half-closed lids. “Is this the best you could do?”

“No, this is what’s left after your crew manhandled them for an hour.” I tempered the frustration out of my voice. “I have the fresh duplicates waiting in the SUV.”

“They’d better be nicer than these,” Suzy said, getting in one last dig. “Let me see them.”

“But she’s not supposed to—” Brad started.

“Quite right,” Gary said. “The flowers are supposed to be a surprise, and they will be, because they should look nothing like these.” He pointed to the limp foliage.
“Right?”
The last question was directed at me, punctuated by a commanding glare that made me want to salute.

“No, sir,” I said.

“Now, Max.” Gary spun on his feet to face Suzy’s father, the man formerly known as Daddykins. “Take your . . . daughter inside. The local baker sent in some lovely scones. And we’ll call for her when we’re ready.” He turned to Suzy. “This is part of the show you agreed to. No peeking, and you abide by my decision. There are plenty of other brides who want us to fix their weddings. Our show, our rules. Do you want to be on the show or not?”

Suzy bit her quivering lower lip and took another glance at the flowers, then nodded. “I want to be on the show,” she said softly, as if she wasn’t used to having anything less than her own way. And by the shocked look on her father’s face, that was probably the case.

Max took her by the arm and the two of them walked back down the flagstone path to the Ashbury.

“How did you do that?” Brad asked.

“It’s nothing
Daddykins
shouldn’t have done years ago.” Gary plucked a relatively undamaged foxglove bloom from Shelby’s bouquet and attached it to his lapel.

“But it helps that she really wants to be on the show,” Gigi said. “Not that we could stop production at this point.”

“But Suzy Weber doesn’t know that,” Gary added. “Over-the-top brides provide more drama. Which is fantastic for the viewers, don’t get me wrong. But they can make the whole process a pain in the tush for us.”

“Now that this drama is over, I need to head into whatever there is of this little town.” Gigi blew kisses at us as she departed. “Ciao, bella.”

Gary offered me his arm. “Now, lead me to the other bouquets, and I do truly hope they’re better than these.”

I felt like Dorothy in Oz. These people couldn’t be real.

When the path narrowed, Gary walked behind me back to the CR-V, where the fresh bouquets were enjoying the frigid air being pumped from the AC. I’d make sure gas costs were folded into the show’s growing bill.

“You’re right. These are much better,” he said. “I only wish Suzy hadn’t seen the others. But these look so different, we should still get a good facial reaction from her.”

I let out a relieved sigh. “So brides like Suzy are typical for you?”

“Often, they’re worse. Always sneaking around trying to find out what we’re doing. That’s where all those secrecy clauses come in. You have to be on your toes to prevent their snooping. And most of them are terrible at faking surprise, so we know right away.”

“We haven’t shared our plans with anyone, but then Suzy showed up—”

“Don’t let Suzy melt you down. Most of our brides get a little witchy, if you know what I mean. But we’re here to make their dreams come true, so they get with the program if they don’t want their contracts voided. They pay a hefty penalty if that happens and forfeit all the wedding paraphernalia. But you coordinate weddings. That can’t be new to you.”

“No, I’ve dealt with my share of bridezillas. Usually I just smile and nod and give them what they want until they go away.”

He laughed. “I like you. Audrey, was it? I can see why Brad recommends you so highly. But on this show, if the bride is pleased, it’s secondary. We try to please the viewers, and they want a little excitement, a little romance, a little glamour, and most of all, a lot of entertainment. I think you’ve captured them in these flowers. All strikingly different.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. “I have a good staff.” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. This was the sweet, reassuring Gary I’d seen on television. I only hoped nothing would happen that would push him over that edge again. His temper seemed to rest on a hair trigger. We chatted for a few minutes about the bouquets and flower choices, and then Gary and Tristan huddled, and soon things were under way.

We carried the fresh bouquets to the gazebo, and the crew carefully draped each of them with a white satin sheet so the bride would be surprised. Shelby’s took two sheets. Good thing they had extra. I took my position behind the table, reached into my purse to pull out the compact I’d shoved in there at the last minute, and dotted more powder on my nose, already shiny again due to the growing outside heat.

Suzy Weber came out, fanning herself. Her glare spoke volumes, like “You should be worrying about the flowers, not your own face.”

I put on my glad-to-serve-you smile and shoved my compact into my apron pocket.

After a few introductory commands and a click of whatever you call that thing they use to mark the start of a film take, Gary began. “Our guest florist today is Audrey Bloom, wedding coordinator from the Rose in Bloom shop in Ramble, Virginia. Audrey, what sets your shop apart and what do you have to show us today?”

Calm. Cool. Yeah, right. “Well, Gary,” I heard myself saying, about a half of an octave too high. “What makes us different is our fresh flowers, many from local growers.”

I thought I heard Suzy huff, but I wasn’t sure the camera or boom microphone hovering over my head picked it up, so I continued as Gary lifted the draping from the first bouquet.

“We have three unique looks for you,” I said, “each created by a different member of our staff. The first is a Victorian-inspired bouquet. Many of our brides like traditional elements. I based the design around these lovely campanulas, also called bellflowers because of their bell shape. The Victorians not only chose flowers based on their colors, shapes, and textures, but each flower had an associated meaning. A bellflower meant
constancy
, and the small white ones meant
gratitude
.”