The Wedding Dance (12 page)

The other woman sighed. “If you had said anything else, anything other than this flower being about love...let’s call it fifty dollars, just to cover my brother’s trouble.”

“I can have the flower?” Phoebe felt hope finally spring to life inside of her, light breaking through the darkness, at last. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck with that man of yours. I hope he’s worth it.”

Phoebe had never been more sure of anything in her life. “He is.”

Chapter Eighteen

Patrick’s office was halfway up a block of buildings he had helped to design, giving him a view out over the Chicago skyline that was hard to match, as well as an address that attracted high end clients. The office itself was spacious and open, with models of previous buildings placed strategically around the room on stands, and a desk in the middle big enough for Patrick to work on blueprints by hand. A laptop sat on it, along with his phone and the papers relating to his upcoming project.

He was walking a slow circuit around the office, making his way around the models he’d built, looking for inspiration. Lord knew he needed it considering he hadn’t been able to start work on the changes he needed to put in place for his new client’s house. It should have been a simple matter of moving a couple of rooms, but he couldn’t quite find the balance of the space.

What, he wondered every few minutes, was Phoebe doing? She’d be working on the flowers for Marge Banning’s wedding by now, wouldn’t she?

Patrick could easily picture her sorting through the blooms with a deft touch, frowning just slightly as she concentrated on making it as beautiful, and meaningful, a display as anyone could. Tyce and RJ would be there, too, all three of them joking around to lighten the mood despite the pressure to put on another perfect wedding at Rose’s chalet.

For what had to be the hundredth time, Patrick pulled his phone out of his pocket and scanned through the address book for Phoebe’s name...but his finger stopped short of making the call.

She’d been so clear that they were over.

And that she didn’t want anything else from him.

Patrick put the phone down, even though his instincts said that he shouldn’t, that he should phone her...and that he shouldn’t give up until she saw how good what they’d had was.

Only, the unassailable truth was that a relationship took two people. However much he wanted what they could have had, it only worked if Phoebe wanted it as well. That thought was frustrating enough that Patrick barely realized he had a stack of papers crushed in his fist moments before he destroyed them.

He forced himself to turn back to figuring out a way to make his new clients’ requirements work. He’d done it plenty of times before. It was just a case of focusing in on the kind of couple that his new clients were.

And what about the kind of couple you and Phoebe would have made?

Patrick tried with all his might to ignore that thought. But, again and again, every time he tried to start work on the plans, all that came to mind were visions of Phoebe.

Playing miniature golf blindfolded.

Leading him through the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral.

Kissing him for the very first time.

Her softness as she lay against him, when he’d told her that he loved her.

And then the way she’d all but kicked him out of her apartment the next morning as soon as he’d mentioned needing to work on a long-distance project.

Knowing he had to think about something else if he was ever going to get any work done, he moved over to the window, looking out at Chicago. With any luck the sight of the city would inspire him. It generally did, even if it was occasionally just by reminding him of what he’d done before. After all, he’d been part of the architectural team on several of the newer buildings.

He let his gaze drift along the city’s skyline, determined to come up with an answer this time. Briefly, his eyes flicked down to take in a restaurant just across the street from his office, a fancy French place that even he’d had trouble getting into. Patrick winced as he remembered that date. The woman he’d been with had been nice enough, he guessed, but the whole occasion had been so stilted and formal that they’d never gotten to know a thing about one another. That relationship hadn’t lasted long.

Patrick shifted his gaze to where Wrigley Field sat farther away, but easily visible from so high up. That date had been even more disastrous with a woman he’d met at an architectural awards show. It had just seemed so obvious at the time that they should date, since they were about the same age, working in the same field, and at least a little attracted to one another at the awards. Patrick had surprised her with two tickets to a Cubs game. It had turned out that she didn’t like baseball, or any sports at all, come to that. She hadn’t liked nachos, or any of the other snacks that had seemed like such an essential part of the experience to Patrick. She’d even spent most of the game complaining that in a world that valued architects, they’d be allowed to pull down places like this and re-design them “properly.” They hadn’t gone on a second date.

More memories of dating disasters came back to haunt him one by one. There had been the one where he had suggested indoor rock climbing, and his date had pulled out. And then another where it had been obvious from the moment they sat down together at a restaurant that they simply weren’t right for one another. There had been others where things had started all right, then simply petered out. Where the woman he’d been dating had seemed nice enough, but they simply hadn’t clicked well enough to want to go to the next level.

Whereas, in the short time he’d been with Phoebe, Patrick had gotten closer to her than to anyone else before. She loved doing crazy, offbeat things as much as he did. She was smart, and strong, and caring enough that she’d been able to cope with her mother and the demands of her job at the chalet.

If only she didn’t build up all those walls around herself to keep people out, they could…

A knock came at his office door. He went over to open it and found a man in his fifties holding a long, slender box.

“Mr. Knight?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Oh, good,” the man said, sounding incredibly relieved. “If you wouldn’t mind signing to say that you received it, that would be very helpful.”

He pulled out a small notepad from his jacket pocket and Patrick signed as he looked at the box, trying to work out what might be inside the plain white container.

“Do you know what this is?”

“I’m sorry, but the young lady asked me not to say anything. She did send a note though.” The man handed over a small envelope. “I
can
tell you that she went to a great deal of trouble over this, though. My sister normally doesn’t let anyone have her…well, that would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it? I suppose that there has to be some kind of confidentiality for florists.”

Florists? That word was enough that Patrick almost ripped the box open there and then.

“Enjoy,” the man said, turning and leaving Patrick holding the box as he walked away.

Patrick placed the box carefully on his desk, not caring if it smudged the plans beneath, and opened the box slowly. There was a single flower within.

It was electric blue above a slender stem, with four petals spread out in a semi-circle around the front of the flower and a fifth standing straight. The heart of the flower curled over in a mixture of yellow, darker purple and a deep red-brown. The overall effect was that of fragile beauty, nearly translucent when Patrick held the flower up to the light coming through the window.

There was no note, just the flower, and he knew Phoebe was using the language of flowers to tell him something very important. Praying it was what he thought it was, first he had to rule out what it wasn’t.

He’d looked up the meaning for the pasque flower and knew what it meant, and that it wasn’t good. He went over to his computer, searching for images of flowers. He typed in “the pasque flower” and when he saw the purple petal in the first picture that popped up on his screen, a moment of physical pain shot through him.

But when he took a breath and looked at it more closely, however, he could see it simply wasn’t the same as the flower that sat on his desk. Next to this flower Phoebe had sent him, the pasque flower was ordinary, not nearly so beautiful.

Patrick hardly dared to type the next words in, praying harder with every letter that appeared on his computer monitor. He sent the new search off, and held his breath for the fraction of a second it took to come back with an answer.

He reached out to lift the flower Phoebe had sent and hold it next to the image on his screen, looking from one to the other, wanting to be sure.

Only when he was absolutely certain that he had found the right flower, did he stand again, walking over to the window holding the flower Phoebe had sent him.

A Caladenia orchid.

Cally.

It was every bit as beautiful as Phoebe had said it was…and it was in full bloom.

Which meant miracles really did happen.

Chapter Nineteen

Nothing.

How could there be nothing?

Phoebe stared at her phone accusingly, praying for it to ring. But it remained still and cold in her hand, the way it had the previous nineteen times she had checked it.

“We’re ready for the bouquet,” Rose called out.

Phoebe put the phone away. If Patrick were going to phone, he would have done it by now. She knew he’d received the flower, because Brian had called with the news of his successful delivery while leaving Patrick’s building.

Looking up, Phoebe realized Marge Banning was standing a couple of feet away in her wedding dress. She looked amazing...like a woman in love whose every dream was coming true.

Phoebe carefully picked up the bouquet she’d put together for Marge. Roses, exactly the same as last time, yet today they looked fresh and bright. They went perfectly with the wedding dress, and if Phoebe didn’t know better, she would have sworn that Anne had secretly made some changes to it. It was the same flowing dress in delicate cream with expertly picked out stitching that it had been before, but today, it looked truly perfect on Marge.

As Phoebe handed her the bouquet, she said, “You look beautiful.”

Marge was normally a good looking woman, but today she shone with happiness, and that only made her more beautiful. Phoebe had never before believed that brides could be “radiant” but tonight it was the only word to describe her.

“Thank you,” Marge said softly. “It’s amazing what being in love will do for you.”

“Good luck,” Phoebe said.

“You know what?” Marge said with a smile that only made her look more radiant, “I don’t think luck is going to come into it this time.”

On the other side of the doors to the Rose Chalet’s main room, Tyce and the string quartet he was directing struck up the wedding march.

Phoebe concentrated on pinning the ribbon from the bouquet to the dress. “There,” she said to Marge. “Perfect.”

The other woman studied her for a second or two. “You know, Phoebe, there’s something different about you today.”

Phoebe felt those darn tears she’d had so much trouble with lately rise up again and she shook her head. “There is,” she admitted, “but today is about you, not me. Are you ready to go in?”

For the first time, Marge actually looked a little nervous. Phoebe put a hand on her shoulder, searching for the right thing to say. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to find it.

“Third time’s the charm, remember?”

She opened the door for Marge, giving them both a clear view down the aisle to where RJ’s re-creation of Tara stood. Phoebe had to admit it was impressive today with the guests gathered around. The flower arrangements at the end of each row and on the tables were stunning, even if RJ had put together at least half of them in the end. The guests all looked like they were enjoying themselves, even though most of them had been to the first two weddings, too.

The groom waiting on the deck was a good looking man, distinguished and fit, but right then, his looks weren’t what mattered.

All that mattered was the way he looked back at Marge standing there, and the way she looked at him.

With pure love.

They both looked so nervous and so happy as Marge made her way down the aisle. Phoebe knew that she ought to be feeling cynical about their chances right then, given Marge’s track record, but she couldn’t. Not this time.

Not now that she knew what it felt like to be head over heels in love.

“You’re braver than I am, Marge,” she whispered.

And luckier, apparently, because there was still nothing from Phoebe’s phone, which she’d silenced so she wouldn’t interrupt the ceremony.

Usually, she disappeared at this point, went back to clean up her work. It was the best way to avoid as much of the wedding as possible. But today, she found that she wanted to watch, wanted to be a part of two people making vows of
forever
to each other.

All at once, Patrick’s parting question came back to her:
“Have you ever thought about why you chose to be a florist for weddings, Phoebe?”

Oh my God, she thought as she stumbled back from the doorway and braced herself against the wall. Patrick, amazingly, knew her so well that he’d figured her out long before she had.

All these years, she’d rationalized being a romantic cynic who had taken a job doing flowers for weddings by telling herself it had been better paying, with better hours, than most florist jobs, with the bonus of not being tied down by her own shop.

But now—finally—she realized what the real reason was.

Phoebe had taken the job at the Rose Chalet because she’d been secretly hoping the day would come when she could find a reason to believe in love.

It had taken a long time, but she’d finally found that reason…in Patrick Knight. If only she’d realized it before it was too late.

Oh god, she prayed, it couldn’t be too late.

As Marge and her groom began to say their simple vows, Phoebe remembered the very wise bride telling her that when you had found the right man, the actual details weren’t important. Love was all that mattered.