Bride Quartet Collection (29 page)

“Parker already tried that one on me.”

“Oh.” Emma sampled a skinny sliver of her omelette. “Well, it’s true.”

“I could bake her man-stealing cousin into the ground.”

“No question. Personally, I think she should grovel, at least a little.”

“I like groveling.” Laurel considered it. “And begging.”

“I might be able to arrange for some of each.” Parker lifted her coffee. “I also informed her that in order to accommodate her on such short notice we would require an additional fee. I added twenty-five percent. She grabbed it like a lifeline, and actually wept in gratitude.”

A new light beamed in Laurel’s bluebell eyes. “She cried?”

Parker inclined her head, and cocked an eyebrow at Laurel. “So?”

“While the crying part warms me inside, she’ll still have to take what I give her, and like it.”

“Absolutely.”

“You just let me know what you decide on when you decide on it,” Emma told her. “I’ll work in the flowers and decor for the table.” She sent a sympathetic smile at Parker. “What time did she call you with all this?”

“Three twenty A.M.”

Laurel reached over, gave Parker’s hand a pat. “Sorry.”

“That’s my part of the deal. We’ll get through it. We always do.”

T
HEY ALWAYS DID, EMMA THOUGHT AS SHE REFRESHED HER LIVING room arrangements. She trusted they always would. She glanced at the photograph she kept in a simple white frame, one of three young girls playing Wedding Day in a summer garden. She’d been bride that day, and had held the bouquet of weeds and wildflowers, worn the lace veil. And had been just as charmed and delighted as her friends when the blue butterfly landed on the dandelion in her bouquet.

Mac had been there, too, of course. Behind the camera, capturing the moment. Emma considered it a not-so-small miracle that they’d turned what had been a favored childhood game of make-believe into a thriving business.

No dandelions these days, she thought as she fluffed pillows. But how many times had she seen that same delighted, dazzled look on a bride’s face when she’d offered her a bouquet she’d made for her? Just for her.

She hoped the meeting about to begin would end in a wedding next spring with just that dazzled look on the bride’s face.

She arranged her files, her albums, her books, then moved to the mirror to check her hair, her makeup, the line of the jacket and pants she’d changed into.

Presentation, she thought, was a priority of Vows.

She turned from the mirror to answer her phone with a cheerful, “Centerpiece of Vows. Yes, hello, Roseanne. Of course I remember you. October wedding, right? No, it’s not too early to make those decisions.”

As she spoke, Emma took a notebook out of her desk, flipped it open. “We can set up a consultation next week if that works for you. Can you bring a photo of your dress? Great. And if you’ve selected the attendants’ dresses, or their colors . . . ? Mmm-hmm. I’ll help you with all of that. How about next Monday at two?”

She logged in the appointment, then glanced over her shoulder as she heard a car pull up.

A client on the phone, another coming to the door.

God, she
loved
spring!

E
MMA SHOWED HER LAST CLIENT OF THE DAY THROUGH THE DISPLAY area where she kept silk arrangements and bouquets as well as various samples on tables and shelves.

“I made this up when you e-mailed me the photo of your dress, and gave me the basic idea of your colors and your favorite flowers. I know you’d talked about preferring a large cascade bouquet, but . . .”

Emma took the bouquet of lilies and roses, tied with white pearl-studded ribbon off the shelf. “I just wanted you to see this before you made a firm decision.”

“It’s beautiful, plus my favorite flowers. But it doesn’t seem, I don’t know, big enough.”

“With the lines of your dress, the column of the skirt, and the beautiful beadwork on the bodice, the more contemporary bouquet could be stunning. I want you to have exactly what you want, Miranda. This sample is closer to what you have in mind.”

Emma took a cascade from the shelf.

“Oh, it’s like a garden!”

“Yes, it is. Let me show you a couple of photos.” She opened the folder on the counter, took out two.

“It’s my dress! With the bouquets.”

“My partner Mac is a whiz with Photoshop. These give you a good idea how each style looks with your dress. There’s no wrong choice. It’s your day, and every detail should be exactly what you want.”

“But you’re right, aren’t you?” Miranda studied both pictures. “The big one sort of, well, overwhelms the dress. But the other, it’s like it was made for it. It’s elegant, but it’s still romantic. It is romantic, isn’t it?”

“I think so. The lilies, with that blush of pink against the white roses, and the touches of pale green. The trail of the white ribbon, the glow of the pearls. I thought, if you liked it, we might do just the lilies for your attendants, maybe with a pink ribbon.”

“I think . . .” Miranda carried the sample bouquet over to the old-fashioned cheval glass that stood in the corner. Her smile bloomed like the flowers as she studied herself. “I think it looks like some really creative fairies made it. And I love it.”

Emma noted it down in her book. “I’m glad you do. We’ll work around that, sort of spiraling out from the bouquets. I’ll put clear vases on the head table, so the bouquets will not only stay fresh, but serve as part of the decor during the reception. Now, for your tossing bouquet, I was thinking just the white roses, smaller scale like this.” Emma took down another sample. “Tied with pink and white ribbons.”

“That would be perfect. This is turning out to be so much easier than I thought.”

Pleased, Emma made another note. “The flowers are important, but they should also be fun. No wrong choices, remember. From everything you’ve told me, I see the feel of the wedding as modern romance.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m after.”

“Your niece, the flower girl, is five, right?”

“She just turned five last month. She’s really excited about scattering rose petals down the aisle.”

“I bet.” Emma crossed the idea of a pomander off her mental list. “We could use this style basket, covered with white satin, trimmed in baby roses, trailing the pink and white ribbons again. Pink and white rose petals. We could do a halo for her, pink and white baby roses again. Depending on her dress, and what you like, we can keep it simple, or we can trail ribbons down the back.”

“The ribbons, absolutely. She’s really girly. She’ll be thrilled.” Miranda took the sample halo Emma offered. “Oh, Emma. It’s like a little crown! Princessy.”

“Exactly.” When Miranda lifted it onto her own head, Emma laughed. “A girly five year-old will be in heaven. And you’ll be her favorite aunt for life.”

“She’ll look so sweet. Yes, yes, to everything. Basket, halo, ribbons, roses, colors.”

“Great. You’re making it easy for me. Now you’ve got your mothers and your grandmothers. We could do corsages, wrist or pin-on, using the roses or the lilies or both. But—”

Smiling, Miranda set the halo down again. “Every time you say ‘but’ it turns out fantastic. So, but?”

“I thought we could update the classic tussy-mussy.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a small bouquet, like this, carried in a little holder to keep the flowers fresh. We’d put display stands on the tables by their places, which would also dress up their tables, just a little more than the others. We’d use the lilies and roses, in miniature, but maybe reverse the colors. Pink roses, white lilies, those touches of pale green. Or if that didn’t go with their dresses, all white. Small, not quite delicate. I’d use something like this very simple silver holder, nothing ornate. Then we could have them engraved with the wedding date, or your names, their names.”

“It’s like their own bouquets. Like a miniature of mine. Oh, my mother will . . .”

When Miranda’s eyes filled, Emma reached over and picked up the box of tissue she kept handy.

“Thanks. I want them. I have to think about the monogramming. I’d like to talk that over with Brian.”

“Plenty of time.”

“But I want them. The reverse, I think, because it makes them more theirs. I’m going to sit down here a minute.”

Emma went with her to the little seating area, put the tissue box where Miranda could reach. “It’s going to be beautiful.”

“I know. I can see it. I can already see it, and we haven’t even started on the arrangements and centerpieces and, oh, everything else. But I can see it. I have to tell you something.”

“Sure.”

“My sister—my maid of honor? She really pushed for us to book Felfoot. It’s been
the
place in Greenwich, you know, and it is beautiful.”

“It’s gorgeous, and they always do a fabulous job.”

“But Brian and I just fell for this place. The look of it, the feel of it, the way the four of you work together. It felt right for us. Every time I come here, or meet with one of you, I know we were right. We’re going to have the most amazing wedding. Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes again.

“Don’t be.” Emma took a tissue for herself. “I’m flattered, and nothing makes me happier than to have a bride sit here and cry happy tears. How about a glass of champagne to smooth things out before we start on the boutonnieres?”

“Seriously? Emmaline, if I wasn’t madly in love with Brian, I’d ask
you
to marry me.”

With a laugh, Emma rose. “I’ll be right back.”

L
ATER, EMMA SAW OFF HER EXCITED BRIDE AND, COMFORTABLY tired, settled down with a short pot of coffee in her office. Miranda was right, she thought as she keyed in all the details. She was going to have the most amazing wedding. An abundance of flowers, a contemporary look with romantic touches. Candles and the sheen and shimmer of ribbons and gauze. Pinks and whites with pops of bold blues and greens for contrast and interest. Sleek silver and clear glass for accents. Long lines, and the whimsy of fairy lights.

As she drafted out the itemized contract, she congratulated herself on a very productive day. And since she’d spend most of the next working on the arrangements for their midweek evening event, she considered making it an early night.

She’d resist going over and seeing what Mrs. G had for dinner, make herself a salad, maybe some pasta. Curl up with a movie or her stack of magazines, call her mother. She could get everything done, have a relaxing evening, and be in bed by eleven.

As she proofed the contract, her phone let out the quick two rings that signaled her personal line. She glanced at the readout, smiled.

“Hi, Sam.”

“Hello, Beautiful. What are you doing home when you should be out with me?”

“I’m working.”

“It’s after six. Pack it in, honey. Adam and Vicki are having a party. We can go grab some dinner first. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“Whoa, wait. I told Vicki tonight just wasn’t good for me. I was booked solid today, and still have about another hour before—”

“You’ve got to eat, right? And if you’ve been working all day you deserve to play. Come play with me.”

“That’s sweet, but—”

“Don’t make me go to the party by myself. We’ll swing by, have a drink, a couple laughs, leave whenever you want. Don’t break my heart, Emma.”

She cast her eyes up to the ceiling and saw her early night go up in smoke. “I can’t make dinner, but I could meet you there around eight.”

“I can pick you up at eight.”

Then angle to come in when you bring me home, she thought. And that’s not happening. “I’ll meet you. That way if I need to go and you’re having fun, you can stay.”

“If that’s the best I can get, I’ll take it. I’ll see you there.”

CHAPTER TWO

S
HE LIKED PARTIES, EMMA REMINDED HERSELF. SHE LIKED people and conversation. She enjoyed picking the right outfit, doing her makeup, fussing with her hair.

She was a girl.

She liked Adam and Vicki—and had, in fact, introduced them four years ago when it had become clear she and Adam made better friends than lovers.

Vows had done their wedding.

She liked Sam, she thought with a sigh as she pulled up in front of the contemporary two-story, then flipped down her visor mirror to check her makeup.

She enjoyed going out with Sam—to dinner, to a party, to a concert. The problem was the spark-o-meter. When she’d met him, he’d hit a solid seven, with upward potential. In addition, she’d found him smart and funny, appreciated his smooth good looks. But the first-date kiss had dropped to a measly two on the spark-o-meter.

Not his fault, she admitted as she got out of the car.
It
just wasn’t there. She’d given it a shot. A few more kisses—kissing was one of her favorite things. But they’d never risen over the two—and that was being generous.

It wasn’t easy to tell a man you had no intention of sleeping with him. Feelings and egos were at stake. But she’d done it. The problem, as she saw it, was he didn’t really believe her.

Maybe she’d find someone to introduce him to at the party.

She stepped inside, into the music, the voices, the lights—and felt an immediate lift of mood. She really did like parties.

After one quick scan, she saw a dozen people she knew.

She kissed cheeks, exchanged hugs, and kept moving in a search for her host and hostess. When she spotted a distant cousin by marriage she shot out a wave. Addison, she mused, and signaled that she’d be back around to say hi. Single, fun loving, stunning. Yes, she could see Addison and Sam hitting it off.

She’d make sure she introduced them.

She found Vicki in the kitchen area of the generous great room, talking to friends while she refreshed a tray of party food.

“Emma! I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

“It’s going to be practically a hit-and-run. You look great.”

“So do you. Oh, thank you!” She took the bouquet of candy-striped tulips Emma offered. “They’re beautiful.”

“I’m in a ‘Damn it, it’s spring’ frame of mind. These said I’m right. Can I give you a hand?”

“Absolutely not. Let me get you a glass of wine.”

“Half a glass. I’m driving, and I really can’t stay very long.”

“Half a glass of cab.” Vicki laid the flowers on the counter to free her hands. “Did you come alone?”

“Actually, I’m sort of meeting Sam.”

“Oh,” Vicki said, drawing out the syllable.

“Not really, no.”

“Oh.”

“Listen. Here, let me do that,” she said when Vicki got out a vase for the flowers. Lowering her voice, Emma continued as she dealt with the flowers. “What do you think about Addison and Sam?”

“Are they an item? I didn’t realize—”

“No. I was just speculating. I think they’d like each other.”

“Sure. I suppose. You look so good together. You and Sam.”

Emma made a noncommittal sound. “Where’s Adam? I didn’t see him in the mob.”

“Probably out on the deck having a beer with Jack.”

“Jack’s here?” Emma kept her hands busy and her tone casual. “I’ll have to say hi.”

“They were talking baseball, last I heard. You know how they are.”

She knew exactly. She’d known Jack Cooke for over a decade, since he and Parker’s brother, Delaney, had roomed together at Yale. And Jack had spent a lot of time at the Brown Estate. He’d ultimately moved to Greenwich and opened his small, exclusive architecture firm.

He’d been a rock, she remembered, when Parker and Del’s parents had been killed in a private plane crash. And when they’d decided to start the business, he’d been a lifesaver by designing the remodels of the pool house and guest house to accommodate the needs of the company.

He was practically family.

Yes, she’d make sure to say hi before she left.

She turned with the glass of wine in her hand just as Sam made his way into the room. He was
so
good-looking, she thought. Tall and built, with that perpetual twinkle in his eyes. Maybe just a
tiny
bit studied, with his hair always perfectly styled, his clothes always exactly right, but—

“There she is. Hi, Vic.” He passed Vicki a very nice bottle of cabernet—exactly the right thing—kissed her cheek, then gave Emma a warm, warm smile. “Just who I’ve been looking for.”

He caught Emma up in an enthusiastic kiss that barely bumped the pleasant level on her scale.

She managed to ease back an inch and get her free hand on his chest in case he got it into his head to kiss her again. She smiled up at him, added a friendly laugh. “Hi, Sam.”

Jack, dark blond hair tousled from the evening breeze, leather jacket open over faded jeans, walked in from the deck. His eyebrows rose at Emma; his lips curved. “Hey, Em. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Jack.” She nudged Sam back another inch. “You know Sam, don’t you?”

“Sure. How’s it going?”

“Good.” Sam shifted, draped his arm over Emma’s shoulders. “You?”

“Can’t complain.” He took a chip, shoveled it into salsa. “How are things back on the farm?” he asked Emma.

“We’re busy. Spring’s all about weddings.”

“Spring’s all about baseball. I saw your mother the other day. She remains the most beautiful woman ever created.”

Emma’s casual smile warmed like sunlight. “True.”

“She still refuses to leave your father for me, but hope springs. Anyway, see you later. Sam.”

As Jack walked off, Sam shifted. Knowing the dance well, Emma shifted in turn—so she avoided being trapped between him and the counter. “I’d forgotten how many mutual friends Vicki, Adam, and I have. I know almost everyone here. I need to touch some bases. Oh, and there’s someone I really want you to meet.”

Cheerfully, she took Sam’s hand. “You don’t know my cousin, Addison, do you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I haven’t seen her in months. Let’s track her down so I can introduce you.”

She pulled him into the heart of the party.

J
ACK SCOOPED UP A HANDFUL OF NUTS AND CHATTED WITH A group of friends. And watched Emma lead the Young Executive at Play through the crowd. She looked . . . freaking amazing, he thought.

Not just the sexy, sloe-eyed, curvy, golden-skinned, masses of curling hair, soft, full-lipped amazing. That was killer enough. But you had to add in the heat and light she just seemed to emanate. She made one hell of a package.

And, he reminded himself, she was his best friend’s honorary sister.

In any case, it was rare to see her when she wasn’t with her regular gang of girls, some of her family, surrounded by people. Or, like now, with some guy.

When a woman looked like Emmaline Grant, there was always some guy.

Still, it never hurt to look. He was a man who appreciated lines and curves—in buildings and in women. In his estimation, Emma was pretty much architecturally perfect. So he popped nuts, pretended to listen to the conversation, and watched her slide and sway through the room.

Looked casual, he observed, the way she’d stop, exchange greetings, pause, laugh or smile. But he’d made a kind of study of her over the years. She moved with purpose.

Curiosity piqued, Jack eased away from the group, merged with another to keep her in his eyeline.

The some guy—Sam—did a lot of back stroking, shoulder draping. She did plenty of smiling at him, laughing up at him from under that thicket of lashes she owned. But oh yeah, her body language—he’d made a study of her body—wasn’t signaling reception.

He heard her call out
Addison!
and follow up with that sizzle-in-the-blood laugh of hers before she grabbed a very fine-looking blonde in a hug.

They chattered, beaming at each other the way women did, holding each other at arm’s length to take the survey before—no doubt—they told each other how great they looked.

You look fabulous. Have you lost weight? I love your hair.
From his observations, that particular female ritual had some variations, but the theme remained the same.

Then Emma angled herself in a way that put the some guy and the blonde face-to-face.

He got it then, by the way she sidled back an inch or two, then waved a hand in the air before giving the some guy a pat on his arm. She wanted to ditch the some guy, and thought the blonde would distract him.

When she melted away in the direction of the kitchen, Jack lifted his beer in toast.

Well played, Emmaline, he thought. Well played.

H
E CUT OUT EARLY. HE HAD AN EIGHT O’CLOCK BREAKFAST meeting and a day packed with site visits and inspections. Somewhere in there, or the day after, he needed to carve out some time at the drawing board to work up some ideas for the addition Mac wanted on her studio now that she and Carter were engaged and living together.

He could see how to do it, without insulting the lines and form of the building. But he wanted to get it down on paper, play with it awhile before he showed Mac anything.

He hadn’t quite gotten used to the idea of Mac getting married—and to Carter. You had to like Carter, Jack thought. He’d barely blipped on Jack’s radar when he and Del and Carter had been at Yale together. But you had to like the guy.

Plus, he put a real light in Mac’s eyes. That counted big.

With the radio blasting, he turned over in his head various ideas for adding on the space so Carter had a home office to do . . . whatever English professors did in home offices.

As he drove, the rain that had come and gone throughout the day came back in the form of a thin snow. April in New England, he thought.

His headlights washed over the car sitting on the shoulder of the road, and the woman standing in front of the lifted hood, her hands fisted on her hips.

He pulled over, got out, then, sliding his hands into his pockets, sauntered over to Emma. “Long time no see.”

“Damn it. It just died. Stopped.” She waved her arms in frustration so he took a cautious step back to avoid getting clocked with the flashlight she gripped in one hand. “And it’s snowing. Do you
see
this?”

“So it is. Did you check your gas gauge?”

“I didn’t run out of gas. I’m not a moron. It’s the battery, or the carburetor. Or one of those hose things. Or belt things.”

“Well, that narrows it down.”

She huffed out a breath. “Damn it, Jack, I’m a florist, not a mechanic.”

That got a laugh out of him. “Good one. Did you call for road service?”

“I’m going to, but I thought I should at least look in there in case it was something simple and obvious. Why don’t they make what’s in there simple and obvious for people who drive cars?”

“Why do flowers have strange Latin names nobody can pronounce? These are questions. Let me take a look.” He held out a hand for the flashlight. “Jesus, Emma, you’re freezing.”

“I’d have worn something warmer if I’d known I’d end up standing on the side of the road in the middle of the stupid night in a snowstorm.”

“It’s barely snowing.” He stripped off his jacket, passed it to her.

“Thanks.”

She bundled into it while he bent under the hood. “When’s the last time you had this serviced?”

“I don’t know. Some time.”

He glanced back at her, a dry look out of smoky gray eyes. “Some time looks to have been the other side of never. Your battery cables are corroded.”

“What does that mean?” She stepped up, stuck her head under the hood along with him. “Can you fix it?”

“I can . . .”

He turned his head toward her, and she turned hers toward him. All he could see were those brown velvet eyes, and for a moment, he simply lost the power of speech.

“What?” she said, and her breath whispered warm over his lips.

“What?” What the hell was he doing? He leaned back, out of the danger zone. “What . . . What I can do is give you a jump that should get you home.”

“Oh. Okay. Good. That’s good.”

“Then you’ve got to get this thing in for service.”

“Absolutely. First thing. Promise.”

Her voice jumped a bit and reminded him it was cold. “Go ahead and get in the car, and I’ll hook it up. Don’t start it, don’t touch anything in there, until I tell you.”

He pulled his car around so it was nose-to-nose with hers. As he got his jumper cables, she got out of the car again. “I want to see what you do,” she explained. “In case I ever have to do it.”

“Okay. Jumper cables, batteries. You have your positive and your negative. You don’t want to get them mixed up because if you hook them up wrong you’ll—”

He clamped one onto the battery, then made a strangling noise and began to shake. Instead of squealing, she laughed and smacked his arm. “Idiot. I have brothers. I know your games.”

“Your brothers should’ve shown you how to jump-start a car.”

“I think they sort of did, but I ignored them. I have a set of those in the trunk, along with other emergency stuff. But I never had to use any of it. Under yours is shinier than mine,” she added as she frowned at his engine.