The Perfect Arrangement
ZONDERVAN
The Perfect Arrangement
Copyright © 2015 by Katie Ganshert
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ePub Edition © August 2015: ISBN 978-0-310-39598-0
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Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Kristen Ingebretson
Interior design: James Phinney
For Mom.
You listened raptly to my little-girl stories. It gave me courage to write the bigger ones.
Contents
Seriously y'all. I'm not typically a fan of writing first drafts.
They tend to feel unwieldy and messy and sort of like oh-my-goodness-this-is-going-to-be-the-end-of-my-writing-career-because-this-is-so-horrendously-horrible. I usually lament this thought once or twice (or a hundred times) to my husband and my best friend, Melissa, both of whom remind me that I say this with every single story and, so far, my career hasn't ended. Anyway, that's usually how my rough drafts go down.
For whatever reason, this wasn't the case with
The Perfect Arrangement
. Let's just put it this way: If
The Perfect Arrangement
were a baby, it would be one of those incredibly endearing, low-maintenance, perpetually smiling babies that makes mamas everywhere feel like they're winning.
For that, I feel all kinds of gratitude toward the two main charactersâAmelia and Nateâfor their blessed cooperation. I had a blast bringing you two to life on the page.
And now that I've expressed my gratitude toward two imaginary people, I probably ought to express it toward the real-life ones.
Immense thanks go to . . .
My village, without whom I'd not be able to write an ever-loving word. My husband, for everything he does so I can pursue this dream. My children, for letting mommy escape to the office in relative (it's all relative, isn't it?) quiet. And my family, who are always willing to take said children so mommy can escape to the office in
actual
quiet.
Becky Philpott, Karli Jackson, Elizabeth Hudson, and all the other people at HarperCollins who've had their hands in this particular story. You're wonderful to work with! Same goes with my fabulous agent, Rachelle Gardner.
Terri Nelson and Terri Werkhieser, for not only answering my questions about the floral business, but for inviting me inside your adorable shop in Orion so I could gather some first-hand knowledge.
Katie Coleman, for kindly naming Amelia's business. The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop fit perfectly. Oh, and all my Facebook fans, for helping me name Nate and Amelia! If you're reading this and not on my Facebook page you really should join in the fun. People help me name things all the time.
Amy Haddock, for sharing some funny flower-arranging anecdotes, one of which I used in the story.
Jesus. Because, well, you're everything.
And then, of course! My fabulous readers with an extra-special shout-out to the Ganshert Gang. You take the joy
that is writing and increase it exponentially. Thanks for filling this adventure with so much encouragement, support, and love! I hope you enjoy reading my latest every bit as much as I enjoyed writing it.
“Get off the sidelines, Amelia.”
I'd heard this approximately 624 times in the past twelve years. Once a week, from the lips of my best friend, Rachel. We were an unlikely pairâRachel and I. About as opposite as two people could be. If not for sharing a small dorm room on the tenth floor of Witte Hall in Madison, Wisconsin, our freshman year, I'm confident our paths never would have crossed. Or if they had, we wouldn't have given each other a second look. I'm also confident I wouldn't have lasted a single semester at such a big college without her. But we did share a room, and our unlikely friendship tethered me to Madison when homesickness yanked mercilessly at my heartstrings.
According to Rachel, I lived timid.
“It's time to get in the game already,”
she liked to say.
“Enough watching. Start experiencing!”
As I took a left-hand turn onto Mulberry Avenue, I
couldn't help but wonder what Rachel would say about this. Nothing good, I'm sure. In my defense, when the man you thought you'd marryâthe only man you'd ever datedâweds another woman in a town not more than thirty minutes away, it's only natural to spy. I had planned to drive by the church as inconspicuously as possible to see what I could see, then drive back to my quirky hometown of Mayfair, Wisconsin, where nobody would be the wiser. I should have known by then that lifeâat least for meârarely went as planned.
My sweat-slicked palms grew sweatier as the steeple arose over a row of maple trees, their green leaves giving way to the faintest hints of yellow and orange. White, puffy clouds rolled across blue sky, forcing the sun into a game of peek-a-boo. I slowed to a stop at a streetlight, praying nobody would recognize me.
Thanks to Rachel's friendship and my decision to stay in Madison, I ended up meeting Matt in my second semester Poli Sci class freshman year. We dated for four years, which meant his family knew me. And then there was the matter of my stepsistersâboth bridesmaidsâto consider. If either caught me spying, I'd never hear the end of it. They would assume I still loved Matt, which wasn't true. Our relationship had ended years ago. My broken heart had long since mended. I was simply curious.
The light turned green. I pulled the bill of my hat down low and eased onto the gas. The steeple loomed taller. Parked cars lined the street on both sidesâan overflow due to the too-small church parking lot. The maples broke apart at the same time as the clouds, and there it wasâthe church,
bathed in sunlight. Several bridesmaids stood outside on the front lawn, my stepsisters among them. My cantering heart accelerated into a gallop. I slid down in the seat and observed what I could as discreetly as possible.
They wore strapless tea-length dresses in light mocha. Not tight-fitting satin, but a flowing chiffon. Each one carried bouquets of yellow, white, and peach. I tipped my sunglasses up and squinted out the open window. Cabbage roses, mums, billy balls, and ranunculus. Not too fallish, but not too summery either. A perfect September bouquet that matched the dresses wonderfully. I craned my neck to soak up some more details, but my foray into spying was going . . . going . . . gone.
Perhaps once more around the block wouldn't be too conspicuous. The street in front of the church wasn't bustling with traffic, but it wasn't empty of it either, and I
was
wearing a hat and sunglasses. My tan Honda Accord was pretty standard fare when it came to cars. And I hadn't even seen the bride or the groom. I peeled my attention away from the shrinking wedding party in my rearview mirror when everything in me seized. My heart, my muscles, my grip on the steering wheel. I inhaled a sharp, loud, gasping breath and slammed my foot onto the brake. I wasn't quick enough.
My Honda rear-ended the car in front of me.
For a second, or maybe two, I didn't move. I sat behind the wheel, staring wide-eyed at the back end of a maroon Subaru Outback with a sticker on the rear window that said Team Oxford Comma. It wasn't until the driver stepped out that panic set in. Full-throttle, mortifying panic. The kind that made me want to curl into a ball underneath the
steering wheel and never come out again. Or hit the gas and take offâmy first and hopefully only hit-and-run. One thing was certain. I couldn't get out of my car. Not with the wedding party a block away. But the driver stood at the place our two cars met, shielding his eyes from the sun and surveying the damage, leaving me no choice but to join him.
I snagged my purse from the passenger seat and slipped outside. “I am so, so sorry!”
The man I approached had a head full of thick, dark hair, nicely gelled, and wore well-fitting tan dress pants with a matching suit coat draped over his arm, a white dress shirt, and a gold tie. I could only assume he was a wedding guest. Thankfully not one of Matt's college friends. I didn't recognize him at all.
He squinted against the sun. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I'm fine.” Besides the heart palpitations anyway. “Are you?”
“I've survived worse.” He smiled when he said it, but any and all humor was lost on me at the moment. Perhaps someday I would laugh at this. A long, long time from now, when it didn't feel like the world's most embarrassing thing ever to happen.
“I can't believe I ran into you like that,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”
“It's okay. Really. There was no damage done, see?” He patted his body to show himself intact.
“Yes, there was. I put a dent in your bumper.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, thankful the hat covered my copper-colored locks from view. They were too
recognizable. “I wasn't paying attention. It was completely my fault. I'm really, truly sorry.”
