Dearly Depotted (2 page)

It had to be fine. I needed that big fat fee Trudee had promised.

My cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my jeans pocket and read the message on the top. JILLIAN CALLING, it said, which could only have been worse if it had been Satan on the line.

“Excuse me a moment. I have to take this call,” I told Trudee, opening the phone.

“That’s okay. I need coffee. I’ll be inside.”

As she undulated toward her house I forced a note of cheer in my voice. “Happy wedding day, Jillian.”

“It’s off, Abby. The wedding is
off.
I can’t go through with it.”

“Jillian,” I said through gritted teeth, “it’s early. You don’t get up until noon. Go back to bed for a few more hours and you’ll feel like a new woman.”

“I’m serious, Abby. I’m going to call Claymore right now and tell him.”

I could tell by the determination in her voice that she meant it. “Hold on,” I told her, then said to the boys, “Go mark off the flag in the backyard. The string and stakes are in my car.”

As they shuffled off, grumpy now that Trudee and her spangles had gone, I put the phone to my ear once more. “Jillian, one crisis per morning is all I allow myself, and I’ve already had it, so pay attention. You cannot call off this wedding. Do you know how many flowers I’ve ordered? . . . Jillian, are you listening?”

She wasn’t. “Claymore is such a jerk. What did I ever see in him? Tell me!”

What I wanted to tell her was
“I told you so.”
Claymore Osborne was the younger brother of Pryce, the rat who’d dropped me because his parents couldn’t live with the shame of my flunking out of law school. For the Osbornes it was all about appearances, and I had warned Jillian of that when she first showed me her three-carat diamond engagement ring. But when had she ever listened? Not when she’d gotten engaged to the Italian restaurant owner, the moody French artist, the English consulate, or the Greek plastic surgeon. In fact, not since she’d discovered boys.

Jillian was tall, gorgeous, and twenty-five. She’d graduated from Harvard, grown up in a big house, vacationed in exotic locales, and had a father who was a stockbroker and a mother who golfed. Because of all that, Jillian fit in with the Osbornes. I never had.

Besides not being able to cut it at law school, I was petite (the Osbornes liked statuesque women), I freckled rather than tanned, and I hated the country club scene. I’d gone to school on money from my grandfather’s trust supplemented by summer jobs, and I had a father who was a retired cop and a mother who taught kindergarten and made weird clay sculptures.

The only reason the Osbornes hadn’t objected to me at first was because my two older brothers, Jonathan and Jordan, were doctors. That, combined with their marrying fashionable wives and joining the country club, made them acceptable. Lucky them.

“Claymore adores you, Jillian,” I assured my weeping cousin. “He would do anything for you. Why wouldn’t you want to marry him?”

“Because he’s an idiot. He has no taste. He
hates
the ascot I chose for him.”

“Wait a minute. You’re calling off the wedding because of a tie?”

She sighed dramatically. “It’s an
ascot,
Abby.”

“That is
not
reason enough to call off your wedding. But this isn’t really about the ascot, is it? It’s never about the ascot. You’ve got cold feet again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m marrying into one of the wealthiest families in New Chapel. Why would I have cold feet?”

“Because you like being pampered and courted, and you’re afraid once you get married it will end. In other words, you don’t want to grow up.”

“You,” she said, highly irritated, “are a snot.” And she hung up.

She’d go through with it now just to prove me wrong.

With a quick glance at my watch, I dashed to the backyard and found that the boys had outlined the flag. As we marked off the stripes, the fourth quad showed up with the paint, so we spread the pink carnations in the designated area and sprayed them red. I checked my watch. Half an hour lost.

“Won’t that kill the grass?” Johnny asked me as we stepped back to study our handiwork.

“It’ll grow back.”

 

I left the quads filling in the blue and white parts of the flag and headed for the flower shop to pick up Trudee’s indoor decorations. Because of all the street closings for the Fourth of July parade, I had to park blocks away from the town square, then weave through people who had already staked out their spots to watch the ten o’clock parade. Normally I wouldn’t have minded the hike, but today I didn’t have time to spare.

I unlocked Bloomers’ bright yellow door and walked in to the sound of my assistant Grace humming as she ground coffee beans in the parlor, and my other assistant, Lottie, singing along with her radio from the workshop in back. I inhaled the sweet fragrances of coffee, roses, lavender, and eucalyptus, and, for a brief moment, all was right with my world.

Then I thought of Jillian’s wedding and got a headache.

Who held their nuptials on a Monday? Could she have chosen a Friday evening or Saturday afternoon like a normal person? Oh, no. Not Jillian. She had to have a Fourth of July spectacle. Her garden ceremony had been arranged to end just as the country club’s big, splashy fireworks display was beginning, so the sky would explode as if the heavens themselves were giving her a standing ovation. My cousin was not a normal person.

If I were merely her florist, I could have shrugged off Jillian’s eccentricities. Unfortunately, I was also one of her bridesmaids, and that meant suffering the company of my weasel of an ex-fiancé, the best man (as if!), who had dumped me two months before our own nuptials. Then there was my escort, deputy prosecutor Greg Morgan—New Chapel, Indiana’s, answer to Brad Pitt—who was so self-absorbed he couldn’t remember my being in the same high school with him.

I didn’t even want to think about the bridesmaid’s dress. Jillian had picked out a print that looked like a watercolor painting of white lilies swaying against an aquamarine sky—at least that’s what it looked like on the bodies of the three willowy women who comprised the rest of the team. On my height-challenged form it looked like a clown suit.

As a final offense, there was the picky bride herself, Jillian Ophelia Knight, first cousin on my father’s side, who had jilted four men already. If she made it through the wedding today, it would be a first. If I made it through the wedding without choking her, it would be a miracle.

Sadly, I had no one to blame for this situation but myself. Being the new owner of a floral shop, I had jumped at the chance to do the arrangements for Jillian’s wedding. I needed the exposure, not to mention the business. I had agreed to be a bridesmaid because that was what one did for one’s family. I hadn’t factored in having to deal with an ugly dress, a hateful ex-fiancé, a Fourth of July party, and a cousin who attracted trouble like a magnet.

There was only one way to get through the wedding, and that was to look at it as a challenge. I’d never yet shied away from a challenge. Also, I’d never shied away from money, and this fee was going to be huge.

“Good morning, dear,” Grace called from the parlor. “How are we this morning?”

“Wishing it were Tuesday,” I answered.

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” she reminded me in her crisp British accent. Grace had a quote for everything. It came from working as a librarian, just one of the careers she’d held in her sixty-odd years. She was a legal secretary at a firm where I clerked during my year in law school and had retired just before I bought Bloomers, so I coaxed her to come work for me and put her in charge of the coffee and tea parlor. “Is the wedding on or off?” she asked.

“On.”

“I wouldn’t place any bets on it,” Lottie said, coming through the curtain that separated the shop from the workroom. “Jillian’s track record is zero for four.”

Lottie Dombowski was a big-boned, big-hearted forty-five-year-old, with brassy curls, a laugh that could be heard across town, a gift for floral design, and more common sense than anyone I knew, other than Grace. Lottie had owned Bloomers for years, but then her husband’s health problems had nearly forced them into bankruptcy and she had to sell. And there I was, freshly booted out of law school and desperate to support myself. I used the remainder of my grandfather’s trust to make a down payment, and the rest was, well, hysteria.

“How did it go at Trudee’s house, or should I be afraid to ask?” Lottie said over her shoulder as she weeded out the wilting flowers in our glass display case.

“The supplier sent pink carnations instead of red and I had to paint them.”

“That would explain the condition of your fingers,” Grace said, handing me a cup of coffee. I took a sip and savored the subtle touch of cinnamon that passed across my tongue. If there was one thing that always improved a situation, it was Grace’s coffee.

“Fingernail polish remover,” Lottie said, heading back to the workroom with her bundle of old flowers. “That’ll take off the paint.”

I parted the curtain and followed her into my favorite place in the whole world. Although our workroom was windowless, the abundance of blossoms and fragrances made it feel like a tropical garden. Pastel-colored wreaths and brightly hued swags hung on one ivory latticed wall. Vases of all sizes and containers of dried flowers filled shelves above the counter on another wall. A long, slate-covered worktable sat in the middle of the room. A stainless steel walk-in cooler occupied one side, and a desk holding my computer, telephone, and the normal assortment of items sat on the other side.

I printed out my list for the party, then opened the heavy cooler and stepped inside to check on the arrangements we’d done the evening before.

“Abby? Hello? Are you in there?”

I turned around, and there was the bride-to-be, searching the dim interior with a bewildered gaze. The cooler was such a riot of bright colors that I, with my red hair, yellow tank top, and black capris, blended into the background like a gigantic gerbera daisy.

Jillian was dressed in her usual chic style—mango-colored silk tee, ivory linen skirt, and sexy sandals that emphasized her long legs. Her copper-colored hair fell in shimmering waves around her shoulders, her perfect skin glowed with dewy freshness, and her golden eyes gazed out at the world with a look of keen intelligence, belying the SPACE FOR RENT sign behind them.

“Abs, we have a problem,” she said, spotting me at last.

“
We
have a problem? If this doesn’t concern flowers, I don’t have a problem; you do.”

Pushing out her lower lip like a wounded child, Jillian plucked a deep plum rose from a container and buried her nose in the fragrant petals. “But you always know what to do. And it’s just an itty-bitty problem.”

She knew how to yank those guilt strings. I guided her out of the cooler and we sat on stools at the worktable. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. I worked on your flowers until after midnight and I’m a little tired. Now, what’s the problem?”

Jillian gave me a pained smile that told me that this was a whole lot bigger than itty-bitty. “Greg Morgan sprained his ankle playing tennis yesterday. You don’t have an escort.”

“If you’re telling me I have to stand alone in that dress all evening,” I managed to say through a clenched jaw, “you can find yourself another bridesmaid.”

“I don’t know what your problem is with that dress.”

I eyed a pot of ivy within arm’s reach, wondering whether I could use one of the trailing vines to choke her. “It’s made for tall women, Jill.
Tall
women. Do I look at all tall to you?”

She leaned back to study me, as if it had never occurred to her that I only came up to her shoulder, then she sighed and said, “Okay.”

“
Okay
? You don’t care if I’m not in your wedding?”

“Of course I care, silly. I wouldn’t want to get married without you there.”

“Then why did you say ‘okay’?”

“Because I understand how you feel. And because I know you’ll find a replacement.”

“Me?” I choked out.

She shrugged. “Unless you want to walk up the aisle alone. I mean, you don’t honestly believe I have time to look, do you? And you can’t possibly think Claymore can handle it. With his nerves?”

That trailing vine was so close . . .

Jillian slid off the stool and gave me a hug, pressing my face into the gold coin that hung from a chain around her neck. “I knew I could count on you.” She hurried off, calling, “I’ll have the tux sent over before noon.”

The bell over the door jingled and she was gone. I glanced at Lottie, quietly snipping flowers, and she shook her head. “How many more fires are you going to have to put out before she says ‘I do’?”

“Not a single one. Zip, zero, zilch. Not even if her head were to burst into flames.”

The bell jingled again and seconds later Jillian swept back through the curtain. “One more thing. Claymore’s grandmother is coming, and I need you to keep an eye on her during the reception. She tends to wander off looking for water.”

There was absolute silence in the shop. Across the table Lottie continued to work, waiting to see what I’d do, and I was fairly certain Grace was hovering on the other side of the curtain, holding her breath.

I planted my hands on my hips and glared at my cousin. “Are you out of your mind? Don’t you think I have enough responsibilities without adding a ninety-year-old woman to my list? If something happened to her, the Osbornes would roast me over live coals. Give her bottled water to keep in her purse.”

“She won’t remember it’s there.
Puh-leeze,
Abby! You’re the only one Grandma trusts. She’ll be sitting with Claymore’s parents for the dinner. You’ll only have to keep an eye on her afterward, and she won’t be staying long anyway.” She folded her hands beseechingly and gave me that helpless little-girl gaze that always got to me. “Pretty please?”