Dearly Depotted (4 page)

Fortunately, none of the hornets’ victims required emergency care. Back at Bloomers, Lottie iced their stings, doused them with calamine lotion, and drove them home, while I took the tuxedo my aunt had dropped off to Down the Hatch. Marco was eating a sandwich at the sleek black desk in his office, and he didn’t look extremely happy to see me.

“Here it is,” I said, putting lots of enthusiasm in my voice. “Your tuxedo.”

“Did you get longer pants?”

Did I want to tell him I forgot? “They’ll fit,” I assured him.

He took the black suit, hung it on the back of the door, and removed the pants from the hanger. He pulled off his white socks, started to unbutton his jeans, then stopped and eyed me.

“Are you really going to ask me to turn around and close my eyes?” I asked. Then I caught his devilish gaze and my cheeks grew hot. I turned after all.

“Too short,” he announced moments later.

I stared at his ankles in dismay. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with them; it was just that they were, well, ankles. Not quite the formal look Jillian would want. Obviously, Marco had been right about being taller than Morgan, although it was more like two inches, not four. But was I going to argue the point?

I knelt down for a better look. “I have an idea.”

“You have red fingers.”

“I know that. It’s part of being a florist—like having a green thumb, only redder and more of them.”

“Looks to me like you were into red paint.”

“Are you going to take off those pants?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Fifteen minutes, a pair of scissors, and a roll of duct tape later, I had let out the hems and turned the raw edges inside. It wasn’t the neatest job in the world but, after all, who’d be looking at Marco’s ankles? Not me. There were other, more intriguing areas that had my eye.

“I’ll pick you up at seven fifteen,” I told him and took off. Another problem solved.

After a stop at the deli to eat a turkey sandwich, which took way longer than expected because of the hordes of people in town, Lottie and I loaded the van with the wedding decorations and raced over to the banquet center.

The Garden of Eden Banquet Center was an annex of the New Chapel Country Club, which made it an acceptable place to hold an Osborne wedding. The center had a grand ballroom, a fully equipped kitchen, a coatroom, dressing rooms, a posh reception area inside the glassed front entrance, and a large, shrub-enclosed garden with a gazebo for outside events. Everything about the banquet center was deluxe, down to the waiters’ short white jackets with tails, gold vests, black pants, and black and gold berets. However, the main reason Jillian had selected the center was because the nearby country club had a fantastic fireworks display.

The garden where Jillian’s ceremony would take place was a large square of plush Kentucky bluegrass enclosed by red rose shrubs and accessible through a white trellised archway. It had a redbrick center aisle, rows of white chairs, and a large, lattice-sided gazebo, open in front, with two wide steps leading up to a red cedar pulpit. Inside the gazebo were four chairs for a string quartet and electrical outlets for video equipment, a consideration for Jillian since she had hired a media team of two videographers and two photographers.

It took an hour to decorate the ballroom, then we turned our attention to the gazebo, which we draped with white gauze, peach satin ribbon, and cascades of climbing roses. As I positioned vases of white and peach-colored blossoms on risers beside the last row of seats, I noticed that the turf was damp, as though it had recently been sprinkled.

“The sun will dry it,” Lottie said. “Not a problem.” I left her fastening big satin bows on the end chairs, while I carried stacks of boxes filled with boutonnieres and bouquets to the kitchen, where preparations were already under way for the wedding feast. I gave wide berth to the team carving ice sculptures and carried my load to the industrial-sized coolers lining one wall. The only problem with that plan was that once I got there I couldn’t open a door without toppling the boxes.

“Excuse me,” I said to a scruffy guy in a stained white jacket washing dishes at a nearby sink, “will you open one of the coolers for me, please?”

“Why? What do you need?”

I peered around my tower of white cardboard to see whether he was serious. He was.

“Gunther, you blockhead,” one of the female employees snapped as she pulverized a mound of vanilla beans with a marble pestle, “open the . . . Oh, for pity’s sake, I’ll do it myself.”

She put the heavy pestle down with a thunk, then stalked over and pulled open one of the massive doors, letting out a cloud of frosty air. “Slacker,” she muttered, casting the dishwasher a glare. She was a tall, thin-faced, droopy-eyed woman, probably in her late thirties, and definitely a candidate for
What Not to Wear
. Her white kitchen coat hung open, revealing a teal tank top paired with red spandex pants and navy sneakers.

She took half my load and set it in the cooler, and I followed with the other half. “Thanks,” I said. “Sorry for the interruption.”

She gave me a quick once-over. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”

“Possibly from my flower shop, Bloomers.” I stuck out my hand. “Abby Knight.”

A big smile spread across her face as she shook my hand. “Sheila Sackowitz. Sure, I’ve been to your shop—gosh, it’s been months—but as I remember, it was a nice little place.”

I dug in my purse for one of the coupons I’d had printed. When it came to promoting Bloomers I was unabashedly forward. “Here’s a reason to come again.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet? Thanks, I will.”

“Gunther! Telephone,” someone called from the hallway.

Dripping soapy water, the dishwasher rushed past me and nearly bowled over Lottie, who was just coming to get me. As we left the banquet center, we saw him in the reception area with his face tucked into the marble phone niche, having a hushed conversation. At that moment my cell phone rang. I checked the screen, saw JILLIAN CALLING, and started to put it back.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Lottie asked.

I showed her the screen. “Good choice,” she said.

We made a quick stop at Trudee’s, where I was relieved to see that the flowers, even the painted ones, were holding up. I misted them, and we made it back to Bloomers by five o’clock, just as Grace was getting ready to leave. “Jillian’s been calling every fifteen minutes,” she told us. “That can’t be good.”

“It’s just nerves,” I said. “She wouldn’t call off the wedding this late. Even Jillian wouldn’t be that brazen.”

The phone rang, as if on cue. Grace and Lottie exchanged glances, then Lottie patted my shoulder. “Good luck,” she said; then she and Grace fled.

I picked up the phone and heard noisy sobs on the other end. “What is it now, Jill?”

“You were right, Abby. I’ve got cold feet. I can’t marry Claymore.”

“Jillian, listen to me. The flowers are in place. The food is simmering. The quartet is probably tuning up this very minute. Two hundred people are putting on their dress clothes and combing their hair in preparation to see you march up that aisle. You
have
to marry Claymore. Now, put your mother on the phone. I need to talk to her.” I’d have to alert Aunt Corrine that Jillian was a flight risk so she could block the exits.

“You can’t talk to her because I’m not at home. I
left
home and I’m never going back.”

 

 

 

 

I
glanced at my watch and did a quick calculation. Since I’d last seen my cold-footed cousin, she’d had ample time to drive clear across the state and head off in any direction she chose. That was what she’d done before the last four weddings. “Where are you, Jill?”

“In my car.”

“So help me, Jillian, if you don’t come back this instant I will hunt you down and—”

“I’m in the alley behind Bloomers.”

“Behind
my
Bloomers?” I slapped the phone into the cradle, ran to the back exit, pushed open the heavy door, and there she was in her gold Volvo, the cell phone to her ear, her forehead against the steering wheel. I nearly collapsed in relief.

“You almost gave me a heart attack, do you know that?” I asked, sliding into the passenger side. “Get a grip, Jillian. You’re not Julia Roberts in
Runaway Bride
. People will not be amused if you cancel this wedding.” When she didn’t say anything, I let my head drop against the back of the seat. “What are you going to do?”

“I wish I knew,” she said in her little-girl voice.

“Do you love Claymore?”

“Uh-huh.”

Good sign. She hadn’t said that about the last four grooms. “Does he love you?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to marry him.”

“I’m afraid he’ll change.”

“You’ll change, too. The trick is to change together.”

“What if he gets fat and bald?”

“You’ll have to get fat and bald with him.”

She snorted back a laugh. “Yeah, like that would ever happen.”

“So you’ll exercise together and get hair plugs. Should I bother listing all of Claymore’s good qualities?”

“What good qualities?”

“How about this? Do you love that three-carat honker of a ring on your hand? Because if you call off this wedding, the ring goes back.”

Her head came up and she stared at the diamond. “Claymore bought me matching stud earrings as a wedding gift.”

“Also going back.”

“He said I’d get the pendant on our honeymoon.”

“Back.”

As she gazed lovingly at the rock on her finger, I saw her lips press together and a steely look come into her eyes. She muttered something that sounded like, “I’ll do it.”

“Would you repeat that, please?”

“I’ll do it. I’m going to marry Claymore.” With a slightly hysterical laugh, she lunged across the console and squeezed me tight, rocking us back and forth. “Thank you, Abs. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I wub—”

I freed myself in time to clap my hand over her mouth. “You’re getting married today. Time to get over the baby talk.”

“Well I do love you,” she said, taking my hand away.

I studied that face I knew so well, remembering everything we’d been through together—good vacations, bad holiday parties, first bras, painful sunburns . . . Her getting married was sad in a way—the end of an old chapter and the beginning of a new one—but certainly nothing to get all weepy about. So why were my eyelids suddenly scratchy?

Enough of that nonsense. “Jillian, rest assured that to my dying day I will never forget that you forced me to wear a ridiculous bridesmaid gown at your wedding.”

She laughed, then I laughed, and our mushy moment was over. “Silly,” she said. “The dress is only ridiculous on you. On everyone else it’s darling. Now scoot, scoot, or I’ll never make it by eight o’clock.”

I glanced at my watch in dismay. Jillian wasn’t the only one pressed for time. I had less than an hour to whip my hair into some kind of shape, don the ugly dress, and return for Marco.

 

At seven fifteen Marco came striding out of Down the Hatch looking like an understudy for Pierce Brosnan in a James Bond movie. His black hair had been combed back, setting off his angular face, which, even shaved, still showed traces of five o’clock shadow. The black tux only further emphasized his dark eyebrows, and the cut of the suit on his torso made my stomach go marshmallowy. He slid into the passenger side and all I could do was gawk at him.

“Don’t say anything,” he grumbled, misreading my look. “I told you I hated these monkey suits.”

“Honestly, Marco, when I saw you come out of the bar, a monkey was the farthest thing from my mind. At the risk of inflating your ego, I have to say you look like a movie star.”

“Groucho Marx was a movie star.”

I was searching for a comeback when suddenly he gave me that little Marco grin, a slight, almost imperceptible upturn of his mouth that stirred my heart into a strawberry fondant. Then, as if he’d just noticed, he took a long look at my outfit. I braced myself for a wisecrack.

“Pretty hot, sunshine.”

Fearing I was having one of those weird dreams where I forgot to put on clothes, I quickly glanced down at the dress. Whew. It was still there. “You actually like it?”

“I like
you
in it,” he said in a throaty male purr, his gaze lingering on the V-cut neckline.

Wow. Maybe I wouldn’t have to join the circus after all. I fingered a strand of hair that my roommate Nikki had arranged to hang
artfully
(her word) in front of my right ear, hoping to look even hotter. “Thanks.”

“I like your hair up, too,” he added.

Now my whole body was blushing, melting that clown image into a puddle of red rubber noses. I was
hot.
I was so hot I was sizzling.