Slay it with Flowers (5 page)

At five o’clock, after Grace and Lottie had gone home for the day, I made a manicure appointment at First Impressions Beauty Salon for Thursday afternoon. Then I set the newly installed alarm system and took off for home.

 

Home was a second-floor, two-bedroom apartment I shared with my longtime friend Nikki Hiduke and her white cat Simon. Living with Nikki was supposed to have been a temporary arrangement, but after Pryce called off our wedding I stuck around. It worked well because our schedules meshed perfectly—I worked days, and Nikki worked the four o’clock to midnight shift as an X-ray technician at the county hospital. We had our privacy plus weekends together for excursions to the local shopping mall or the beach.

I parked in the lot, let myself into the vestibule of building C, and checked the mailbox, dumping the catalogs and junk mail into the trash container and tucking the rest under my arm. On the steps I met our neighbors, the Samples—a middle-aged, childless couple, and their annoying Chihuahua, Peewee—coming down for a walk. Mr. Sample was a laid-back guy who always had a smile and never said more than two words. Mrs. Sample was an intense, nosy chatterbox. They were the yin and yang of the apartment complex.

Because Peewee’s favorite activity was to try to bite my ankles, I normally kept our encounters as brief as possible. Today, however, as I muttered a greeting and prepared to scuttle past, Mrs. Sample blocked me.

“Peewee, tell Abby that her cousin is waiting for her upstairs,” she said, holding the dog under the front legs like a child and waving a paw at me. I had to wonder: Does she speak to her husband through the dog, too?
“Peewee, tell Fred that his supper is ready.”

She leaned closer to me to say in a low voice, “Your cousin is such a lovely young woman, and how nice that she’s getting married to such an upstanding young man, but honestly, she is a talker!”

Her husband took her arm and tugged her down the steps, still chattering, while I nodded at every third word and backed up, wondering what the heck Jillian wanted now.

“Finally!” my cousin exclaimed, rising from the floor outside my apartment. She made a show of dusting off her slacks and straightening her black silk tee. “Where have you been?”

“At work.”

“That was ages ago.”

I put the key in the lock and opened the door. “It was ten minutes ago. Hello, Simon.” I stopped to scratch the cat under the chin, but upon seeing my cousin he fled to my bedroom, where he would stay until Jillian left the building. Simon hated all men except Marco and loved all women except Jillian. I’d say he was smart, but he was also afraid of throw rugs.

Jillian opened the fridge, found a partial bottle of white wine, and rummaged through the cabinets until she found a wineglass. She refused to drink from a glass that didn’t have a stem, yet she had no problem drinking orange juice from the carton. “You’ve got to talk to Pryce soon, Abby, or I swear Onora is going to kill Punch.”

“Want a grilled-cheese sandwich?”

“Sure. I honestly don’t understand why Claymore puts up with Punch. He’s rude, egotistical—even Flip can’t stand him anymore, and Flip gets along with everyone. He and Punch used to be best friends.”

I spread butter on slices of whole-wheat bread and slapped them on a hot skillet. “Does Flip have a real name?”

“Phillip Whitcomb.”

“What is it that Punch is doing, other than being rude and dumping Onora, that even Flip can’t stand him now?”

“Being more obnoxious than usual. He has this big secret he keeps hinting at but won’t tell anyone. . . .” She paused to watch me place slices of American cheese on the bread. “Don’t you have anything French? Or Dutch at least?”

“You’ll survive the cheese, Jill. As far as Pryce is concerned, I’ll talk to him tomorrow night. You’ll just have to be patient until then.” I flipped the sandwiches to brown the undersides, then slid them onto two plates and took them to the living room, where we sat on the sofa and ate to a rerun of
The Simpsons.

“What do you think Punch’s secret is?” I asked, licking the last bit of all-American cheese off my thumb.

“A new girlfriend. He won’t tell anyone because he’s afraid of Onora’s reaction. She has a volatile temper. The way he’s been strutting around, though, it’s pretty obvious. The whole wedding party came to town two weeks ago and usually they hang out together in the evenings. But for the past week Punch has been leaving around nine o’clock. Flip says he doesn’t stagger in until after three in the morning, reeking of flowery perfume.”

“Are he and Flip sharing a hotel room?”

“And Bertie. The whole wedding party is staying at the New Chapel Inn and Suites.”

“What does Bertie have to say about Punch’s behavior?”

Jillian shrugged. “Not much. But you know how Bertie is.”

“Jill, I don’t even know
who
Bertie is.”

“You’ll get your chance to meet him tomorrow night.” Jillian took her plate to the kitchen, then headed for the door. “Thanks for the sandwich, but honestly, next time make it Brie.”

 

On Tuesday morning, as I walked the track around Community Park, I rehearsed how I was going to broach the best-man problem to Pryce, which caused early-morning joggers to give me wide berth.

“Listen, Pryce, I know you hate my guts, but—”
No good. Never assume the worst.

“Hey, Pryce! How’s it hanging?”
Way too personal.

He’d never go for the helpless routine. I’d just have to play it by ear.

I showered, ate a quick breakfast of cereal and toast, and indulged Simon by tossing a rubber band for him to chase. He was the only cat I’d ever seen who would play fetch, but only with rubber bands and plastic straws. We usually played until he decided the game had ended, which he signaled by suddenly plunking down on the floor and licking himself in areas better left unmentioned. Today, however, I had to end the game so I could make it to work by eight o’clock. Simon’s look as I left said,
“Deserter! See if I torture any flies for you today!”

 

“Good morning, dear,” Grace called from the parlor. She sailed out with a cup of coffee for me. “How are we today?”

“Bracing for a visit from my mother.” As I savored the new blend Grace had concocted, I couldn’t help but notice the way she floated back to the parlor.

Lottie came out from the workroom with a wrapped bouquet in her hand and nodded in Grace’s direction. “Guess who had a hot date last night?”

“Really?” Grace had lost her husband years ago to cancer and until two weeks ago had shied away from dating, claiming a woman in her sixties was beyond such nonsense. Apparently she had changed her mind. I leaned closer to whisper, “Who was it? Mr. Bowling Alley?”

That was our nickname for Richard Davis, owner of Mini-World, a complex that included a miniature golf course, a twenty-lane bowling alley, an arcade, and a fast-food restaurant. He also owned—this is what impressed me most—a 1971 fire-engine red Eldorado Biarritz Cadillac convertible with monster fins on the back.

“You know Grace never tells me a thing,” Lottie whispered back. “I happened to hear her on the phone this morning thanking someone for a glorious evening.”

As far as we could tell, Grace had been on two dates with Mr. Davis, which was remarkable since he was Grace’s exact opposite in terms of temperament and breeding. Where Grace was soft-spoken and genteel, Richard was outspoken and somewhat ribald. Lottie thought it was hilarious, which was why Grace wouldn’t talk to her about him.

Lottie set the package on the counter. “A customer by the name of Morelli is coming at nine to pick this up.”

“Duly noted. I should warn you that my mother is coming, too.”

“What a shame,” Lottie said dryly. “I’ll be out making deliveries.”

“If you’ll stay for the art show,” I said quietly, “I’ll pump Grace for information about her date.”

Lottie’s mouth pursed as she weighed the offer. She stuck out her hand and we shook on it. I finished my coffee and took the cup to the parlor, where Grace was setting out her bud vases, singing what sounded like an English tune. From what I heard, it was quite bawdy.

“So,” I said, following her around the room, adjusting the vases, “how are you?”

She gave me a curious look. “Just fine, dear. Thank you for asking.”

While she prepared her machines, I sat at the coffee counter trying to think of something to ask that wouldn’t sound obvious. “Good coffee. New blend?” Well,
that
was ingenious. Like she would ever reveal her secret recipes.

She stopped what she was doing to peer at me over her glasses. “I played mini golf with Mr. Davis last night, if that’s what you’re after.”

“You did? Good for you!” I raised my hand to give her a high five.

She didn’t raise
her
hand but she did raise an eyebrow, haughtily. “Good for me?”

“I meant good for
him.
He’s darn lucky to be going out with you. So, are you . . . ?”

“Going out with him again? Yes, this Saturday he’s taking me to dinner. Anything else, dear?” She smiled tolerantly, and I, feeling like a child who’d asked too many questions, slunk away to the workroom.

Lottie looked up from the roses she was trimming. “Well?”

“Richard Davis. Miniature golf. Dinner Saturday. No more questions.”

Midmorning I heard the bell jingle, followed by a familiar “Yoo-hoo!” that signaled my mother’s arrival. Lottie and I looked at each other across the table, and I could tell she was ready to bolt for the back door. “Remember our deal,” I warned her.

Lottie took a deep breath, then we rose in unison and marched bravely through the curtain to see what latest monstrosity my mother had wrought.

Maureen Barnett Knight—Mo to her friends—was calling directions to a deliveryman as he maneuvered a large, sheet-draped object through our door on his dolly. “More to the left. That’s it. Now straight . . . straight . . . a little to the right. There!”

She had on a colorful short-sleeved shirt and coordinating slacks, and her light brown hair was gathered at her nape and held by a gold barrette. She handed the man a tip and turned to us with a happy sigh. “Are you ready?”

Grace joined us, and we all held our breaths, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

“Voilà!” My mother whipped off the sheet and there it was: a seven-foot, faux-pineapple-barked palm tree—and when I say palm, I don’t mean those beautiful fan-shaped green branches. I mean the inside of a green hand—or, in this case, many green hands—on the ends of many bark-coated, curving arms, complete with elbows, stretched out in three directions, front, right, and left, as if begging for alms. The base of her tree sat in a wicker basket complete with tufts of artificial turf sprouting around the trunk like armpit fuzz.

“How clever,” Grace said admiringly, while Lottie and I threw puzzled glances at each other.

“Abigail?” my mother said, waiting for my opinion.

“Creative. Very,
very
creative.” It was the best I could do.

“I agree,” Lottie said quickly. The phone rang and she and I nearly collided in our eagerness to grab it and escape further questioning. She got to it first, put her finger in her ear, and turned her back to us.

“Now, then,” my mother said, eyeing the room, “where best to display it?”

Antarctica?

“Why not beside the wicker settee?” Grace suggested, pointing to one of our display props. Unlike me, she seemed to recognize the purpose of the object.

My mother made a face. “Back in the corner?”

“Shading the corner,” Grace corrected. “To complement the tropical theme.”

I waved at her behind my mother’s back and mouthed,
“What is it?”
Grace very subtly mimed putting on a shirt—no, not a shirt, make that a jacket.

Aha! It was a coatrack.

My mother and I tugged and pushed and swiveled her creation into place, then she stood back with her hands on her waist to admire it. “Ideal! Good idea, Grace. Now then, who can use a cup of Grace’s wonderful cappuccino? Abigail?” She gave me that guilt-ridden look mothers have perfected, the one that says,
“Say no and trample on my heart.”

“I have five minutes,” I warned. “We’re very busy today.”

If only.

 

“Your aunt hired a caterer for the bridal soiree tonight,” my mother told me as we sipped sweet, foamy coffee by the bay window. “Isn’t that just like her to call it a soiree? You will wear something nice, won’t you?” By nice, she meant not jeans.

“I’ll wear something very nice.”

“And don’t forget about the bridal shower on Sunday afternoon.”

“I’d better not forget. I’m doing the centerpiece for the head table.” And that was all I was doing, because Jillian had decided she wanted fancy crystal votives with gold-flecked candles for all the other tables.

“Would you like to ride with me?” Mom asked, her stare boring straight through to the lie that was trying to form in my brain.

The liquid in my cup sloshed at the mere thought of getting into a vehicle with my mother. It would be safer for me to ride a unicycle down the middle of the interstate highway in heavy traffic than to strap myself in beside Mad Mo, whose pleasant demeanor vanished when she got behind the wheel of her monster van. “No, thanks. I have to be there early.”

Mom took a sip of coffee and sighed in satisfaction. “It should be a fun afternoon.”

“Right. For three hours I get to sit in a room with chicken-salad-and-banana-cake-stuffed women, watching another woman tear her way through wrapped packages while making inane comments.”

“Be nice, Abigail. This is your cousin’s bridal shower.”

I was well acquainted with Jillian’s bridal showers; I’d sat through many of them. In all cases it had taken her less time to return the gifts than it had to open them. And then, of course, there were
the games
that preceded the opening of the gifts. Her favorite one was: Make a phrase from the letters in
Jillian Knight Whatever,
such as, “Never will kin jag that hi.” The most creative answer won a kitchen towel and dishcloth sewn together to look like a bride. I’ve never won one. I hope I never do.