The Perfect Arrangement (12 page)

“Your eyes still have that sad look about them.” George rested
his hat over the handle on his cane. He was waiting for me to finish his Monday-morning bouquet. “The forget-me-nots didn't cheer you up?”

“They did, George. They cheered me up quite a bit.” I motioned to the bouquet behind me, tucked inside one of my mother's old vases. They were holding on well. I wrapped his sunflowers in twine. “You know, you've never told me how you and Sylvia met.”

His light blue eyes brightened. “Haven't I?”

I shook my head. George had shared plenty of stories over the years, but their meeting wasn't one of them.

A dreamy look clouded his expression, like he was traveling back through time. “The first time I saw my Sylvia was in a dance hall before I went off to war. I saw her across the room.” He shook his head and whistled. “I knew at that very
moment I'd never be able to love a woman as much I loved that woman right over there.”

The story thawed some of the coldness in my bones. “It was love at first sight, eh?”

“And every sight after.” He smiled at me.

I smiled back. “How were you sure the two of you were going to make it?”

“Oh, I wasn't.” He scratched the top of his bald, age-spotted head. “Walking across that hall, asking Sylvia for a dance was a risk, especially since my heart was already hers. But that's what love is—a risk. It's just a matter of whether or not it's one we're willing to take. With Sylvia, I was willing.”

The story left me feeling lighter. Braver. If I was Cinderella, George was my fairy godmother. The thought left me smiling as I handed him the sunflower bouquet. “This one's on the house today.”

“Oh, now . . .”

I held up my finger. “I don't want to hear another word. This is on the house, and if you try to argue, no bouquets for a month.”

George chuckled, then took the sunflowers and shuffled out of my shop. I held the door open for him and watched him rap-tap down the street. Once he got into his car, I hurried back inside and pulled up e-mail on my phone. I hardly ever checked it at work. But George's imparting wisdom had filled me with a sense of urgency that was impossible to resist. I pulled up the message that had been sitting in my draft folder since Saturday night, added a postscript, then clicked Send.

If any man was worth the risk, it was Nate Gallagher.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: Mon, Oct 19, 2015 10:34 a.m.
Subject: Hi . . .

Dear Nate,

I'm not sure what you must be thinking. I can imagine, but every time either of us has done that, we've both been wrong.

Still, I feel like I need to play out the scenario.

Here we are, having a great time together in the middle of a corn maze, when your sister shows up with her husband and this bomb the size of Hiroshima. I not only know your brother-in-law, I dated him. For four years in college. Then you remember how we met. Outside the church where Chelsea and Matt got married. And then you remember how frantic I was to get away the day we met. And everything probably clicked from there.

I'm sitting here, trying to think what I'd be thinking in your shoes. I guess I'd probably assume that you were still in love with your ex. Why else would you spy? And why would you keep that from me?

Would you believe me if I told you that's all wrong? Yes, I was spying on their wedding. My stepsisters were actually there—Drizella and Anastasia? You might have even walked with one of them down the aisle. They both look like life-sized Barbie dolls, if that helps jog your memory. I promise, though, I wasn't spying because I'm still in love with Matt. I got over him years ago. I was spying because . . . I don't even know. Curiosity? I guess you aren't the only one with a nosiness problem.

I know you think I have an issue with apologizing, but please allow me to extend one here. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for avoiding you when I found out my ex was your new brother-in-law. I'm sorry for lying when I told you that the reason for my silence was due to busyness. I'm sorry for putting you in such an awkward position at the corn maze. I'm sorry for not being able to say any of this in person, on the drive home. And most especially, I'm sorry for making you feel anything less than the wonderful man you are.

Regretfully,
Amelia

PS: I know this is probably a crazy proposition right now. But I'm going to throw it out there anyway. As you know, William gets married on Saturday. I don't have a date for the wedding. Any chance you'd want to join me? Despite the way it ended, I had a pretty fabulous time with you this weekend.

Leaves crunched beneath my feet as dusk slipped into darkness and the last of the sun sank behind the horizon. Wind blew up the path, rustling the colorful leaves that remained on the trees. It tangled with my hair, sticking wisps against my lips. When I reached the spot, I knelt down and placed the bouquet of forget-me-nots in front of my mother's tombstone. I peeled the wisps of hair away and blinked at her name etched in stone.

“Hey, Mom.” I picked a few blades of cold grass. “William gets married tomorrow.”

I wasn't sure if they'd make it—William and Bridget. Sure, they loved each other madly now. The question was, was it the kind of love that would flame hot and fizzle, or would it grow throughout the years? Like George said, it was impossible to know. I still wasn't sure if Bridget had really been visiting with a friend that evening or if something more had been going on. But that was a moot point. What mattered was that William had chosen the woman he was willing to risk his heart with. All I could do was pray that he'd chosen correctly.

“I wish you could be there,” I whispered.

I sat for a while longer, until the wind grew too sharp and the chill too crisp. My frozen fingers reminded me of last Saturday, almost an entire week ago now. I sent Nate that e-mail on Monday, and so far I hadn't heard back from him. His silence spoke volumes. With a long sigh, I got back on my feet and made my way to the car. The county cemetery was mostly deserted, so the lone, hunched figure standing in front of a tombstone not too far from my vehicle stood out like a shining beacon. The old man had his head bowed, a hat in his clasped hands, a cane resting against his hip, his posture so familiar I did a double take. “George?”

He looked up.

And sure enough, it was him, standing at a tombstone surrounded by bouquets. I took a few steps closer, peering at the name on the stone.

S
YLVIA
S
TOCKDON
B
ELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER
B
ORN
1927
D
IED
1996

My eyes widened.

“Well, Miss Amelia, it sure is a fancy seeing you here.”

I looked between him and the polished marble. All this time—all this time he'd been coming into my shop to buy his wife bouquets?—she'd been gone. “I had no idea.”

“Oh, I don't see why you would. I've never gotten used to talking about her in the past tense. I'm not sure if I ever will.” He twisted his hat. “She's been gone almost twenty years now, and there's not a day goes by I don't miss her fiercely.”

I understood. More than he knew. Only the ones I missed were my parents.

“You know what I always think about, though, when I stand out here?”

“What's that?”

“All the pain of losing her? I'd experience every last drop of it all over again for one more day.” He gazed at the ground. “One more dance with my lady.”

The words brought tears to my eyes. “Hey, George?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you be my date tomorrow for my brother's wedding?”

“A wedding and a pretty gal? Now that's an offer I could never refuse.”

I kissed his pouched cheek, told him I'd see him at the chapel on the square at two thirty tomorrow afternoon, and left him alone with his memories. When I sat inside my car, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Nate. He'd given me his number when we shared coffee at Patty's. I had been too flustered to write it down after his earlier message
on my answering machine. Nerves jumped around in my belly as the phone rang in my ear. I wasn't sure what made them bounce faster—the idea of him picking up, or the idea of him letting the call go to voice mail. When a recording sounded in my ear, I deflated in my seat.

“Hi, Nate? It's Amelia.” I inhaled a rattled breath. “I wanted to let you know that I understand. I get why you haven't e-mailed me back. Our relationship would have been a complicated one. I wanted to apologize one final time—for not telling you about Matt once I realized Chelsea was your sister. I guess I couldn't figure out how to get the words out. I'm not sure if that's ever happened to you or not. And I also wanted to say thank you. For the e-mails. For the advice. For the friendship. They made a pretty fall in Mayfair even prettier, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

The floorboards creaked beneath my open-toed orange pumps
as I made my way to the back room of the small chapel. The ceremony would begin soon. The pews were getting full. And since the bride and groom had already seen each other for pictures, I asked them to meet me back here ten minutes beforehand. The satin of my navy-blue dress swished as I walked. Bridget had chosen knee-length A-line dresses for her bridesmaids—a classy cut that I probably could wear again. It looked gorgeous with the bouquet of orange ranunculus I held in my hand.

I stopped before the doorway and took a deep breath, then poked my head inside. The site of William and his bride-to-be made that same breath swoosh away. He looked absolutely dashing in a charcoal tux, and Bridget . . . Bridget was stunning. She wore a V-neck mermaid cut chapel train dress with gorgeous beadwork and a bounty of lace and held
a bouquet of white ranunculus. She truly
was
radiant with charms.

When William saw me, he let out a low whistle. “I have a couple of gorgeous ladies on my hands.”

I shook my head and wrapped him in a big hug, holding on tight for a long beat, savoring this moment. When I pulled away, I held up a black handkerchief. “I thought you might want to put this in the inside pocket of your tux. It was Dad's.”

He took the gift in his hands, rubbing the silk between his thumb and forefinger, then folded it up and tucked it inside his pocket.

I straightened his tie, remembering the time I straightened his collar before his first day of kindergarten. It felt like yesterday. “They'd be so proud of you, you know.”

Moisture gathered in his eyes.

It had me dabbing at my own.

Before we could get too mushy, I turned to Bridget. But a lot of help she was. Her eyes had filled with tears too. I swiped a knuckle beneath my eyelashes and held out my gift to her. A vintage brooch—sparkly with rhinestones and pearls in the shape of tiny flowers. The perfect size for a bride's hair. “My mother wore it on her wedding day.”

“Oh”—Bridget set her palm against her chest—“I can't take that.”

“Sure you can. It'll be your something borrowed.”

A tear spilled down her cheek.

She turned around, and I slid the brooch inside her hair. Then she hugged me tight and whispered in my ear, “It's okay, Amelia. I promise to take good care of him.”