Bed of roses
SINCE DETAILS CROWDED HER MIND, MANY OF THEM BLURRY, Emma checked her appointment book over her first cup of coffee. The back-to-back consults gave her nearly as much of a boost as the strong, sweet coffee. Basking in it, she leaned back in the chair in her cozy office to read over the side notes she'd added to each client.
In her experience, the personality of the couple -- or often, more accurately, the bride -- helped her determine the tone of the consult, the direction they'd pursue. To Emma's way of thinking, flowers were the heart of a wedding. Whether they were elegant or fun, elaborate or simple, the flowers were the romance.
It was her job to give the client all the heart and romance they desired.
She sighed, stretched, then smiled at the vase of petite roses on her desk. Spring, she thought, was the best. The wedding season kicked into high gear -- which meant busy days and long nights designing, arranging, creating not only for this spring's weddings, but also next.
She loved the continuity as much as the work itself.
That's what Vows had given her and her three best friends. Continuity, rewarding work, and that sense of personal accomplishment. And she got to play with flowers, live with flowers, practically swim in flowers every day.
Thoughtfully, she examined her hands, and the little nicks and tiny cuts. Some days she thought of them as battle scars, and others as medals of honor. This morning she just wished she'd remembered to fit in a manicure.
She glanced at the time, calculated. Boosted again, she sprang up. Detouring into her bedroom, she grabbed a scarlet hoodie to zip over her pjs. There was time to walk to the main house before she dressed and prepared for the day. At the main house Mrs. Grady would have breakfast, so Emma wouldn't have to forage or cook for herself.
Her life, she thought as she jogged downstairs, brimmed with lovely perks.
She passed through the living room she used as a reception and consult area, and took a quick scan around as she headed for the door. She'd freshen up the flowers on display before the first meeting, but oh, hadn't those stargazer lilies opened beautifully?
She stepped out of what had been a guest house on the Brown Estate but was now her home and the base for Centerpiece -- her part of Vows.
She took a deep breath of spring air. And shivered.
Damn it, why couldn't it be warmer? It was April, for God's sake. It was daffodil time. Look how cheerful the pansies she'd potted up looked. She refused to let a chilly morning -- and okay, it was starting to drizzle on top of it -- spoil her mood.
She hunched inside the hoodie, stuck the hand not holding her coffee mug in her pocket, and began to walk to the main house.
Things were coming back to life all around her, she reminded herself. If you looked closely enough you could see the promise of green on the trees, the hint of what would be delicate blooms of dogwood and cherry blossoms. Those daffodils wanted to pop, and the crocuses already had. Maybe there'd be another spring snow, but the worst was over.
Soon it would be time to dig in the dirt, to bring some of her beauties out of the greenhouse and put them on display. She added the bouquets, the swags and garlands, but nothing beat Mother Nature for providing the most poignant landscape for a wedding.
And nothing, in her opinion, beat the Brown Estate for showing it off.
The gardens, showpieces even now, would soon explode with color, bloom, scent, inviting people to stroll along the curving paths, or sit on a bench, relax in sun or shade. Parker put her in charge -- as much as Parker could put anyone else in charge -- of overseeing them, so every year she got to play, planting something new, or supervising the landscape team.
The terraces and patios created lovely outdoor living spaces, perfect for weddings and events. Poolside receptions, terrace receptions, ceremonies under the rose arbor or the pergola, or perhaps down by the pond under a willow.
WHILE THEY DID, JACK TOOK A SEAT IN MAC'S STUDIO AND unrolled the plans for the proposed addition.
"It's the same design I e-mailed you, but with more detail, and the couple of changes you wanted."
"Look, Carter! You have your own room."
He danced his fingers over Mac's bright cap of hair. "I was kind of hoping we'd still share one."
Mac laughed, leaned closer to the plans. "Just look at my dressing room. Well, client dressing room. And God, I love the patio space we'll get. Want a beer, Jack?"
"No, thanks. Got anything soft?"
"Sure. Diet."
"Crap. Water."
When she went into the kitchen, Jack pointed out details to Carter. "These built-ins will give you plenty of shelves for books, or whatever you want. For files, for supplies."
"What's this? A fireplace?"
"One of Mac's changes. She said every professor worth his PhD should have a fireplace in his study. It's a small gas log unit. It'll also provide an additional heat source for the room."
Carter glanced over as Mac came back with a bottle of water and two beers. "You got me a fireplace."
"I did. It must be love." She kissed him lightly, then bent to pick up their three-legged cat, Triad.
It must be, Jack thought when she sat and the cat curled in her lap.
While they discussed details, choices of materials, he wondered what it was like to feel that connection with and that certainty about another person.
No doubt in their minds, he mused, that this was the one. The one to make a home with, build a future with, maybe have kids with. Share a cat with.
How did they know? Or at least believe enough to risk it?
It was, for him, one of life's great mysteries.
"When can we start?" Mac demanded.
"I'll submit for permit tomorrow. Do you have a contractor in mind?"
"Um ... the company we used on the initial remodel was good. Are they still available?"
"I ran it by him. I can contact him tomorrow, ask him to submit a bid."
"You're the man, Jack." Mac gave him a friendly punch in the arm. "Do you want to stay for dinner? We're making pasta. I can call and see if Emma's interested."
"Thanks, but we're going out."
"Aw."
"Stop." But he shook his head and laughed.
"I can't help it if I find it adorable that my pals are getting all cozy."
"We're going to grab some dinner and catch a flick."
"Aw."
He laughed again. "I'm getting out of here. See you on Poker Night, Carter. Prepare to lose."
"I could just hand you the money now, save time."
"Tempting, but I prefer the satisfaction of skinning you at the table. I'll get you that bid," he added as he headed for the door. "You keep that copy of the plans."
He heard Mac's "uh-oh" an instant before he spotted Del.
They stopped, about five feet apart.
"Wait!" Mac called out. "If you're going to punch each other again, I want my camera."
"I'll shut her up," Carter promised.
"Hey! Wait! I was serious," she managed before Carter dragged her back inside.
Jack jammed his hands into his pockets. "This is just fucking stupid."
"Maybe. Probably."
"Look, we punched each other, we each said our piece. We had a beer. According to the rules, that should about cover it."
"We didn't take in a sporting event."
Jack felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. That was more like Del. "Can we do that tomorrow? I've got a date."
"What happened to bros before hos?"
A smile spread amiably over Jack's face. "Did you just call Emma a ho?"
Del's mouth opened and closed before he dragged a hand through his hair. "You see the complications here? I just called Emma a ho because I wasn't thinking of Emma as Emma, and I was being a smart-ass."
"Yeah, well, I know that. Otherwise I'd've had to punch you in the face again. The Yankees have a home game tomorrow night."
"You drive."
"Uh-uh. We get Carlos. I spring for the car service. You spring for the tip and the beer. We split the dogs."
"All right." Del considered a moment. "Would you punch me in the face over her?"
"I already did."
"That wasn't about her."
Point taken, Jack thought. "I don't know."
"I think we need to play up the eyes more, go dramatic." Emma's eyes, a deep, dreamy brown, narrowed in thought. "I can do this."
"Have at it." Mac shrugged. "But don't take forever, okay? I still have to set up for our group shot."
"We're on schedule." Parker checked her watch. "We've still got thirty minutes before ..." She turned, caught sight of Laurel. "Hey. You look awesome!"
"Oh, you really do!" Emma clapped her hands together. "I knew that was the dress. The shimmery pink makes your eyes even bluer."
"I guess."
"Need one more thing." Parker hurried to her dresser, opened a drawer on her jewelry box. "This hair clip."
Laurel, a slim girl in shimmery pink, her sun-shot hair done -- at Emma's insistence -- in long, loose sausage curls, shrugged. "Whatever."
Parker held it against Laurel's hair at different angles. "Cheer up," she ordered. "You're going to have fun."
God, get over yourself, Laurel! "I know. Sorry. It'd be more fun if the four of us were going to the same dance, especially since we all look seriously awesome."
"Yeah, it would." Parker decided to draw some of the curls from the sides to clip them in the back. "But we'll meet up after and party. When we're done we'll come back here and tell each other everything. Here, take a look."
She turned Laurel to the mirror, and the girls studied themselves and each other.
"I do look great," Laurel said and made Parker laugh.
After the most perfunctory of knocks, the door opened. Mrs. Grady, the Browns' longtime housekeeper, put her hands on her hips to take a survey.
"You'll do," she said, "which you should after all this fuss. Finish up with it and get yourselves downstairs for pictures. You." She pointed a finger at Laurel. "I need a word with you, young lady."
"What did I do?" Laurel demanded, looking from friend to friend as Mrs. Grady strode away. "I didn't do anything." But since Mrs. G's word was law, Laurel rushed after her.
In the family sitting room, Mrs. G turned, arms folded. Lecture mode, Laurel thought as her heart tripped. And she cast her mind back looking for an infraction that might have earned her one from the woman who'd been more of a mother to her than her own through her teenage years.
"So," Mrs. Grady began as Laurel hurried in, "I guess you think you're all grown up now."
"I -- "
"Well, you're not. But you're getting there. The four of you've been running around here since you were in diapers. Some of that's going to change, with all of you going your own ways. At least for a time. Birds tell me your way's to New York and that fancy baking school."
Her heart took another trip, then suffered the pinprick of a deflated dream. "No, I'm, ah, keeping my job at the restaurant and I'm going to try to take some courses at the --"
"No, you're not." Again, Mrs. G pointed a finger. "Now, a girl your age in New York City best be smart and best be careful. And from what I'm told, if you want to make it at that school you have to work hard. It's more than making pretty frostings and cookies."
"It's one of the best, but -- "