Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound)

by Barth, Christi

  Daphne followed them down the hall to the front seating area where they did most of the bridal consultations. Watched Milo clatter into a frenzy of preparing a tray of coffee cups, spoons, hastily plated cinnamon chocolate cookies and a bud vase sporting a single deep-purple tulip. Her overdeveloped sweet tooth instantly begrudged their visitor each of those cookies she had yet to even taste. Daphne had harbored private afternoon plans for them, involving a quiet, dark place and a noble drowning in a glass of chocolate milk.

  Ruth splayed her hands wide on the armrests of what Daphne called their throne chair. Like something out of Alice in Wonderland, the seat back rose to almost five feet. Covered in white brocade, it enveloped a bride, putting distance between her and the matching sofa where Ivy relegated however many well-meaning but overbearing relatives accompanied her.

  “Thank God you have coffee. I left Vermont at dawn. This adorable cheese and sheep commune, filled with lesbians. Mark my words, the ratings for that will be off the charts. Every red-blooded eighteen-to-thirty-five-year-old man will watch, convinced he’ll be the one who could turn them.” Ruth shook her head. Her hair flew in a nimbus, revealing streaks of gray. “Egotistical idiots.” But she smiled as she said it.

  Daphne figured she must be picturing the waist-high stacks of cash a show like that would generate. Probably heard a dinging in her ears akin to a slot machine paying out.

  “People will watch anything.” Ivy settled onto the long white sofa.

  “And thank God for it!”

  With the solemnity of the waiters at any of Chicago’s venerable steak houses, Milo poured for all of them. He must’ve remembered Ruth was left-handed. The delicate white mug was handed to her with handle facing left. While he might look like nothing more than a flighty trend-chaser, Milo’s attention to detail made him an invaluable member of the Aisle Bound team. He retrieved Ivy’s notepad from her office and placed it on the glass coffee table.

  Daphne understood why he fussed. Milo loved any excuse to play host on top of his office manager duties. And she definitely understood why Ivy would now and forevermore at least listen to any pitch from Ruth. The two contracts Ruth had hand-delivered to Ivy were the foundation of one heck of a nest egg. Ivy had used it to open A Fine Romance. Ruth had earned the place of honor by giving Ivy a chance to make her dreams come true.

  What Daphne didn’t understand was what on earth Ruth could want from Ivy. The contract to film Ivy and Ben’s wedding was already signed. They’d told her, in no uncertain terms, it would be the last thing Ivy filmed for RealTV. Daphne hovered by the front door. Not sitting allowed her to watch everyone’s body language and expressions. She liked Ruth well enough. Just didn’t trust that the woman had any motivation or ethical stance that wasn’t rooted in money.

  “I’d love the chance to catch up, but that will have to wait for your wedding day,” said Ruth, with an apologetic twist of her lips.

  Riiiight. Because a bride and groom had nothing better to do than shoot the breeze while they and their hundred closest friends were being filmed for live television. Daphne darted her hand in for a cookie. An objective observer still needed fuel. Then she faded back to hang by the display window. Mostly because she thought it rocked.

  To wipe the visual red-and-green slate of Christmas away, she’d gone with an elegant, winter-white theme. Daphne had covered two Styrofoam snowmen with leftover Christmas tree flocking for texture. One wore a shiny black top hat and a duo of white ranunculus. The stems were wrapped in glossy black ribbon. The snow-bride’s twig arm ended in a bouquet of white sweet peas and narcissus, interspersed with black privet berries. Black satin cinched it all together in a tight braid. Branches of white snowberries lay crisscrossed in between the bride and groom. No doubt she’d get ten calls before the week ended asking about the sophisticated bouquet.

  Draining her coffee in one big gulp, Ruth dropped her hands to her lap. Her gaze followed, a split second later. “I’m here to beg a favor.”

  No. Whatever it was, the answer had to be no. Ivy had sacrificed enough of her private life to this network of vampires, who profited by sucking everyday life out of their reality “stars.” Daphne wolfed down her cookie, ready to back up her friend when Ivy tossed the intractable Ruth out on her ear.

  “We’ve got a show finale coming up in just over two weeks. This one is big. Has a huge following. You wouldn’t believe the number of tweets it gets every week. But one of our participants had to back out.” Ruth leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I can’t tell you why, but if you guessed botched plastic surgery, I’d give you a knowing nod.”

  Ivy tucked the toe of one beige platform pump behind the heel of the other. After watching Ivy drool over the Duchess of Cambridge’s most-buzzed-about shoes, Daphne had bought her a pair as an engagement present. Ben, however, didn’t get a present. She adored him, and truly believed he’d be a wonderful husband. But he’d snatched Daphne’s best friend—and best roommate—away from her. She considered Ivy to be gift enough for him.

  “I’m grateful that you gave me the means to kick-start A Fine Romance. Grateful beyond words that you brought Ben and me together.” A conciliatory smile belied the ice hardening Ivy’s green eyes, as delicately hard as hoarfrost on pine. “But I won’t be on another show for you.”

  “Yeah, I got that the first twenty times. You don’t have to hit me over the head with a rock.” Ruth lifted her head to stare straight at Daphne. “I want your partner.”

  Good thing she’d finished that cookie, or the breath she sucked in would’ve vacuumed the crumbs straight to her lungs. Daphne flattened her palms against the glass door. Amazing how such a ridiculous notion tripped her heart into triple time. All she had to do to quell the panic was spit out one simple, unequivocal word. “No.”

  As sinuous as the serpent who tempted Eve in the garden, Ruth arched her body forward. A smile flirted at the corners of her unpainted mouth. “You haven’t heard my proposition yet.”

  Mouth dry, blood pounding in her ears, Daphne reminded herself of the obvious. Ruth had no angle here, no leverage to convince Daphne to do the impossible. The reason Ivy agreed to let RealTV’s cameras follow her for months on end was to bring a long-held dream to life. But Daphne didn’t have any unfulfilled dreams left. Owning the floral shop, partnering with Ivy in Aisle Bound was everything she’d ever hoped for.

  Almost. One pipe dream still flitted through her consciousness. Now, more than ever, she’d barter away her Catholic soul for the chance to sleep with Gib. But even Ruth Moder wasn’t wily enough to make that happen. Daphne pushed off the door. “You want me to be on television, right? The answer is no.”

  “Daphne doesn’t like being the center of attention,” Milo explained. He patted Daphne’s arm. It made her feel a bit like a skittish colt being settled. But he was right. Her four brothers were so big, so loud, that they’d taken up most of the space in her life for a good many years. Daphne found it easy to fade into the background at home. She had no idea how to compete with the status—and makeup-obsessed girls in high school, so the background comforted her there, too. Attention made her self-conscious. It fit about as well as a wet suit three sizes too small.

  “You think I don’t know that? Hours upon hours of good footage, left on the cutting room floor because this one’s,” Ruth hooked her thumb at Ivy, “love-drunk fiancé insisted on keeping you out of the shot.”

  Awww. Maybe she’d get Ben a present after all. Right after shooing Ruth and her crazy-ass offer out the door. “Ben knew I didn’t want to be on camera. I’m sorry if his respecting my wishes complicated your production schedule. But Planning for Love signed a contract with Ivy, not with me.”

  “Millions of people would kill to accidentally be captured on film.” Ruth shook her head. “You’re one of a kind, Lovell.”

  “Maybe so. Nevertheless, I’m afraid you’ve wasted
a trip.” Standing her ground got easier each time. After all, Ruth didn’t scare her. The clammy skin and near need for a paper bag washing over her right now was only about Daphne’s camera phobia.

  Ruth combed stubby fingers through her hair. “Will you at least hear me out? I did fly all the way to this ice-pit of a city to pitch you.”

  Why not? Ivy had drummed into her that it cost them nothing to be nice, no matter how crazy a client might be. A little courteous listening might dial back the concern she saw reinforcing the titanium-like tightness of Ivy’s posture. Now that she’d made her stance clear, Daphne could relax. Nothing Ruth said would make her change her mind. “Let me pour you a second cup of coffee. I know you’ll need to race out the door after that.”

  “We’ve got a flower competition show—Flower Power.” Ruth slitted her eyes. “Surely you watch it.”

  Slowly, Daphne shook her head. “I watch lots of movies. And The Bachelorette.”

  “We both do,” said Ivy. “Frankly, it’s because we like to stare at hot guys who take their shirts off ten times an episode.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Milo winked.

  “Wish we’d thought of that show. Brilliant concept. Constantly reinvents itself, so it’ll never die. God, the money that show’s brought in could buy a small European principality.” Ruth shook her head, clearing the regret from her eyes. “Well, think of a chef competition, where they all try to make dishes off the same theme in an hour.” She waited until they all nodded. “Now do it with flowers. Monkey-themed baby shower. Orange-and-purple wedding. Funky birthday bouquet.”

  As much as Daphne hated to admit it, the show sounded like fun. Maybe she’d try to catch up on a few episodes online during the next blizzard. She handed Ruth a brimming mug, and snagged another cookie. “Is this where I say no again, or is there more?”

  “Ha! You’ve got a zingy edge. Like a kumquat. Our viewers will eat you up.”

  Ewww. “And yet still I say, no.”

  Ruth barreled ahead as if Daphne hadn’t said anything. “We’ve had weeks of preliminary competitions, semifinals, quarterfinals, etcetera. Now we’re finally down to the big finish. We’re taping it right here in Chicago.”

  Huh. Maybe she’d misjudged Ruth. Watching the live competition could be a heck of a lot of fun. “Oh, well, if you’re offering free tickets, that’s a different story. Sure, I’d be happy to come sit in the audience. I’ll even bring my big foam finger from the last Bears game.”

  “The woman didn’t fly all the way out here to offer you tickets.” Milo pursed his lips, staring at Ruth. “My guess is color commentary. She wants you to narrate all the technical stuff. So they aren’t limited to talking about pretty orange flowers and even prettier pink flowers over and over.”

  “And, that would be a no as well. No talking to the camera.” God, her skin crawled just thinking about it.

  Ruth shook her finger. “You said you’d hear me out.”

  True. But the thought of all that awaited her back in her workroom made Daphne want to hurry this along. “Sorry.”

  “No need for you to do color commentary. We have a host and a judging panel already. Did you not hear me say this has been running for a whole season?” The look of exasperation she shot Milo sent him into a full retreat back to his desk. “What we’re missing is one of our four finalists. Maria Carmelo. She’s pregnant, which isn’t a problem, but her mandatory bed rest for the next four months is a huge problem.”

  Ivy’s tongue pushed out the side of her cheek. “I’d say it’s a bigger problem for her.”

  “You’d be wrong,” Ruth snapped. “The doctors assure her that both she and her baby will be fine if she stays horizontal. RealTV, however, has sponsors and advertisers and a devotedly rabid fan base. We can’t bring back a former contestant. Not once they’ve been judged as unworthy of being in the finals. The viewers wouldn’t stand for it. So we’ve got to come up with a fourth finalist, out of the blue. Someone whose floral creations are out of this world. Someone who could easily hold their own against the three best florists in the country.”

  Blah, blah, blah. Ruth could pour the sugar on all day. Daphne knew a snow job when she heard one. “Correction—someone who is desperately seeking either fame or money.” Belatedly, she remembered to add, “No offense, Ivy.”

  “None taken. When I agreed to do Planning for Love, it was to raise the money to open my romance store. I’ve never hidden that fact. In fact, you’re the one who talked me into doing it.”

  Ooh, it was a low blow for Ivy to bring that up. “True. Because it was a brilliant solution to a tough problem. For you. For me, who neither wants fame nor particularly needs a windfall, it would only cause ulcers and unhappiness.” Daphne dusted the cookie crumbs off her fingers. “So my answer remains unchanged.”

  Ruth leaned back, both hands cradled around the mug. “Why don’t I tell you about the other contestants? There’s Luther McGraw from Southern Gardens, Maude Henderson from The Bloom Box and Sheila Irwin from, well, I believe you know Sheila?”

  Ohhhhh. Now it all made sense. This was, indeed, no random visit. No scroll-through the contact list, turning over every possible stone. Ruth’s diabolical plan deserved its own soundtrack: a screeching, evil cackle. The word no didn’t form so easily all of a sudden. Too shocked to spit out an automatic rejection, Daphne stalled. “Should I bother to pretend otherwise?”

  “No. We thoroughly vet all our stars. Can’t have a closet nutcase lose their minds in front of the cameras. There are a lot of weirdos out there.”

  “Auditioning for reality television?” Milo piped up. “Imagine that.”

  The look Ruth shot him this time promised that she’d never ask him to be in one of her shows, no matter what. “When we checked Ivy’s background, naturally, as her partner, we ran you through the same screening process. I could tell you the name of your elementary school, your gynecologist and the size shoe you wear.”

  Daphne had never experienced firsthand the clichéd nightmare of walking naked into a crowded room. But she certainly felt stripped bare now. “Aren’t you supposed to buy me dinner before we get all intimate?”

  “Honey, the money we’ll pay you will buy dinner every day for a year.”

  “Wait, you’re considering doing this?” Milo ratcheted his neck, turning from Ivy to Daphne and then back again. “What did I miss? Who is this Sheila Irwin?”

  Where to begin? Daphne could describe her in three words, three sentences or a three-hour diatribe. “My first boss. My mentor. Oh, and also the first person to can my ass.”

  Milo drummed his fingers against the white frame encasing the banner-size Aisle Bound logo on the wall. “More, please.”

  Saying Sheila’s name still roiled her digestive juices as badly as the iffy fried cheese curds Daphne had on a memorable-for-all-the-wrong-reasons trip to Milwaukee. Maybe eating them after two rounds of jalapeño poppers, baked beans and a burger had been a bad idea. She’d just been trying to eat a balanced meal. Dairy had to squeeze in there somewhere, right? To strike against osteoporosis? Her misguided attempt at nutrition had landed Daphne on the bathroom floor, curled around the toilet. Which is where she wanted to be anytime the memory of Sheila Irwin sludged into her brain. Daphne lowered herself onto the couch.

  Ivy took pity on her. She crossed to Julianna’s empty desk and perched on the edge of it. “Sheila took Daphne under her wing, let her intern summers during college. Taught her everything about the flower business. Like Julia Child teaching someone how to cook. Daphne adored her, and Sheila, well, she loved being adored. Two weeks after graduation—”

  Daphne cut her off. “—because you made me traipse around Niagara Falls with you.” Not Disneyland, not Manhattan, not even Miami. Nope, Ivy had dragged them to Podunk, New York, for their big graduation trip.

  “It is a breathtaking natural won
der of the modern world.” Ivy firmed her lips. It was only about the five thousandth time they’d had this argument.

  “It is a giant faucet.”

  Ignoring her, Ivy turned back to Milo. “—Daphne joined the team at Lakeside Flowers as a full staff member. Sheila worked her hard. Our Daph soaked it all up like a sponge. Almost too well. Clients started asking for Daphne. Requesting that she be the only one to do their flowers.”

  “Uh-oh.” Milo wrinkled his nose as if he caught a whiff of the stench of Sheila’s rottenness across the years.

  “Yeah. Jealousy fits Sheila like a well-tailored glove. She couldn’t take being upstaged, even though Daphne was making money for her hand over fist. So she fired her. At the top of her lungs. Claimed it was because she was ‘too innovative.’ No severance, no recommendation. Worse than that, she blackballed Daphne. Told every florist in town that she’d let her fingers linger too long and too often in the till.”

  Outrage jack-in-the-boxed Milo out of his chair. “She accused you of stealing?”

  “Yeah.” Daphne tried to shrug it off. But even after all these years, it still put a stake of humiliation and hurt straight into her chest.

  “Daphne couldn’t get a job. Anywhere,” Ivy said with grim finality. “When I came to her a month later with the idea for this partnership, she was waiting tables at Gulliver’s.”

  Thank God Marge took pity on her. “Made good tips. I’ve got awesome legs, and I’m not afraid to show them off.”

  Ivy stared for a moment, then hauled Daphne up by the arm. “You’ll have to excuse us, Ruth. I need to consult with my partner.”