Amber Lee saluted. “Agent double-oh six and three-quarters reporting for duty. Licensed to grill.” She swooped out to greet the customer.
“And each of you is also deputized.” I nodded to Liv, Shelby, and then Darnell, our other part-timer. “You never know where information will come from. Just make sure we don’t give it out.”
“Uh, Audrey?” Amber Lee peeked her head back in the door. “Gary Davoll and Brad Simmons are here.”
“Game time!” I wiped a sweaty palm on my pant leg. “Show them back, please.”
I greeted them both with a smile and an offered hand, hopefully dry.
Brad, of course, had been in the back room any number of times when we were dating. He took my hand with a brief but tender shake, letting his fingers graze against my palm. I’d have to do something about that boy.
Gary had stopped mid-stride, placed his hands on his hips, and stared at the cacophony of colors and shapes lining the walls. “I’m glad we decided to film the floral segment at the Ashbury.” He poked at some green floral foam soaking in the utility sink. “This place is a mess.”
“It’s a working flower shop,” I said. “Unfortunately they tend to be a little more cluttered than the quaint sets used by Martha Stewart.” I offered my hand again. “I’m Audrey Bloom. We talked on the phone.”
“Ah, yes.” He stared at my hand for a moment before he gave it a brief shake. “I wanted to talk about the shooting schedule.”
“I was about to tell my staff that the bridal bouquets needed to be ready by Tuesday morning.”
“We’ve upped it to Monday.” Gary crossed his arms in front of him. “Some snag with the fashions not being shipped on time. Can’t be helped.”
“But that’s the day after tomorrow.” I have a special talent for stating the obvious.
“Will that be a problem?” He turned to Brad. “You said the local florist could be counted on, but I didn’t know it would be such a small operation. Maybe we should call in—”
“We can do it,” I insisted, surveying my staff. Liv dipped her chin in firm resolve. And Shelby bobbed his head enthusiastically.
“They’re really quite good,” Brad said.
“Tell me what you have in mind.” Gary hoisted himself onto a worktable and sat cross-legged.
“Three designs,” I explained, “each using bell-shaped flowers. One inspired by the Victorian language of flowers. Very traditional. The second design clean and modern. The third a little on the edgier side.”
“Audrey is known in the whole region for her designs based on the language of flowers.” Brad’s voice carried a smidgen of pride. “If you recall, a feature article that was carried by quite a few papers called her the botanical Dr. Dolittle.”
I resisted the urge to cringe at the mention of that unfortunate nickname. Made me sound like a nut who talked to flowers and fancied that they talked back. Rather, I liked discussing the meanings of flowers with prospective brides. Many had enjoyed creating their own personalized bouquets with flowers that held meanings that matched their personalities or characterized their relationships with their future spouses.
I scrutinized Brad’s face, wondering if he was poking a little fun at me with the Dr. Dolittle reference, but his expression bore no trace that he was teasing. I remembered his mother had told me she was going to send him the article written for the On. The story was later picked up by a news service and had generated a little business for us at the time, but things like that are quickly forgotten.
“Make sure you don’t ‘do little’ this time.” Gary snorted. “And tell me a little more about this flower language of yours.”
“The Victorians associated meanings with most flowers common to them at the time,” I began. “Bouquets often communicated messages, sometimes secret ones. Some of my brides find it interesting. If you think viewers would like it, I could explain what each of the flowers in the bouquets mean.”
“Maybe for the Victorian one.” Gary pulled out his smartphone and started scrolling through messages. “I don’t want to get bogged down with that jazz, but it could be an interesting side note. We’re shooting at eight on Monday. Be there an hour before. Three bouquets, but two identical versions of each one. Sure you can do that?”
“Absolutely! We’ll be there.” I resisted the urge to add “with bells on.”
Gary slid off the worktable and took one step toward the door, then stopped. He turned back to face me. “You’ll be there. One person.”
“But—”
He shook his head. “Too many people clutter the shot and take the attention away from the flowers. Just you.” And then he was out the door with Brad in his wake.
“See you later, Audrey,” Brad called, as the door jingled once more.
I turned to Liv and Shelby. “I’m so sorry. I thought you’d each be on camera.”
“It’s okay.” Liv patted her belly. “Not the most flattering time for me to be on television, anyway. You know, the whole adding-ten-pounds thing.”
“I disagree.” I put an arm around her shoulder. “You’re rocking that baby bump.”
Liv smiled, but Shelby was silent for a moment. He finally shrugged his shoulders. “It’s okay with me, too.”
“I’ll try to mention your names, at least,” I added.
That drew a smile from Shelby.
“But now we’ve got to hurry.” Liv glanced at the wall clock. “That’s less than forty-eight hours away.”
“Hurry is what we do best,” I said.
* * *
Choosing what to wear for dinner with my ex and his mother turned out to be harder than picking the flowers for my Victorian-inspired bouquet. I vacillated between dressing up and dressing down. Part of me wanted to show Brad the Cad, the one who dumped me, that he wasn’t worth the effort, so I pulled out a comfortable pair of yoga pants and a tee. Then again, if I pulled out all the stops and slithered into a slinky dress, I could show him what he missed out on. In the end, I split the difference and left the tee and the drop-dead dress draped over my bed and opted for black pants and a flattering purple V-necked top. I took a quick shower to wash off the perspiration the day’s heat had caused, glad to get rid of the hat hair that I’d struggled with all day.
Dressed, but still toweling off my hair, I sat on the couch in front of the air conditioner. Chester hopped up, landed his bulky gray frame onto my lap, and nosed my chin. I guess it was his way of saying I was his woman. What did I need to mess with Brad for?
I took his furry head in my hands and stroked his ears just the way he liked. “I am not messing with Brad. Just having dinner with an old friend.”
Chester climbed up and rested his head on my shoulder, lying against me like a little baby before letting out a kitty sigh that smelled vaguely of rotting tuna.
“Oh, you’re one to judge. You’ve got it rough, don’t you?”
A knock sounded at my door. I rose without disturbing Chester.
Brad stood outside, smiling an iridescent smile, looking dapper in khakis and a stiff-collared polo with the Fix My Wedding logo embroidered on it. It looked like it just came out of the package. He held a box of chocolate truffles—the best gift for a florist, by the way. I let him in.
“Audrey, I . . . I thought you’d be ready,” he said, probably eyeing my dripping hair.
“Sorry,” I said, immediately a little ticked off. I’d forgotten how Brad’s obsessive punctuality grated on me at times. And I hated how I always groveled to explain and justify myself, but found myself doing it anyway. “I was working on the bouquet for Monday since Gary upped the taping. I may even have to go back to work on it some more tonight. I was only able to finish one of them. Amber Lee offered to replicate it, but—”
Brad let out a lungful of exasperation. “Sorry. Old habits die hard. Of course you were working. I’ll sit and get reacquainted wit
h Chester while you finish getting ready.” Brad held his arms out for my cat, but when I tried to hand him over, he jumped out of my arms, leaving a cloud of fur and dander. He hit the floor on all fours with a thud, then scampered off into the kitchen.
“I’ll just be a moment.” I darted into the bathroom. While using a cool hair dryer, I reasoned with my reflection in the mirror. “Not a date,” I said, as I applied a little blush, but skipped the mascara and lip gloss. I added earrings and a scarf, then went back and added the mascara and lip gloss. “You’re an idiot. You know that, right?”
My reflection nodded. Glad someone agreed with me.
“Ok, let’s roll,” I called to Brad as I grabbed my purse and slid my feet into wedges.
“You look great, Audrey.” Brad followed me out the door. I turned the lock and pulled the door shut with a bang before Chester could come running and escape. He was never an outdoor cat, but he did like to explore the neighborhood, though usually not getting much farther than my neighbor’s truck tires.
“That’s not good for the locks, Audrey. You really ought to use the key.”
“So my landlord has told me.” I raised one eyebrow in challenge.
Brad’s smile dimmed slightly, but he grabbed my elbow and led me to his car. Only it wasn’t his car. It was a huge black Range Rover.
“Is this . . . ?”
“It belongs to the show,” he said. “But I use it quite a bit.”
I sank into the seat and watched the town pass outside the windows. A few minutes of uncomfortable silence later, the top of the vehicle scraped the low-hanging branches of a mature apple tree as he pulled into his mother’s gravel driveway. Maybe it was a good idea we weren’t having dinner alone. So many things had been left unsaid when he left town. Our once-easy conversations were probably as extinct as the dodo bird, phone booths, and rabbit-ear antennas.
Mrs. Simmons greeted us on the porch, her pudgy face flushed, probably from cooking. By the time we’d mounted the steps, she’d enveloped me in a hug, then reached up to pinch my cheeks. “Audrey, so good to see you. You look lovely. So pretty in purple. Come in. The roast is almost ready.”
Ceiling fans were spinning rapidly, and the central air whined as it strained to keep up with the heat pouring from her kitchen. Fortunately, several enticing aromas also swirled through the space. Cooking a roast on the hottest day of the year? She must be really happy to see Brad.
At least I hoped it was Brad she was happy to see. Mrs. Simmons had never quite reconciled herself to the breakup, still wanting me to call her “Mom,” as she had asked me to do when Brad and I were serious and a proposal on the horizon had seemed a certainty. At least it had to everybody in the world except Brad.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said as she led us into the small eating area in the kitchen. I was surprised the table didn’t buckle under the full bowls and platters of food she placed upon it. A basket of fresh bread, a steaming platter of roast beef. A tureen of gravy. More bowls of hot vegetables. She had enough there to feed at least a dozen lumberjacks.
She coaxed Brad into saying the blessing over the food. Because their tradition was to hold hands while doing it, this sparked one of the first awkward moments of the evening. And as he held my hand under the table, I looked up into his blue eyes and could see only sadness in them.
Why was he sad? Sad to be here with me? Sad that he didn’t stay here with me? But the spell was broken when what seemed like three-quarters of a cow crash-landed on my plate.
“Thank you.” I avoided addressing her by name for fear of starting the controversy again. By the end of the meal, I was holding my stomach.
“I think it’s finally cooling down,” Mrs. Simmons said. “Why don’t you two go outside while I clean up a little? We’ll have coffee and dessert later.”
“Let me help you,” I offered.
“No, dear. I run a one-woman kitchen, and I’m just pleased to have you back.” She shooed me away with her dish towel.
Brad led me out onto the deck. The outside air was indeed growing cooler by the moment, a result of the town’s location in a valley near where the Blue Ridge and Appalachia meet. I never truly understood the meteorological hocus-pocus that caused the nights to be cool even on the hottest days, but the sudden change in temperature drew a shiver from me.
“Here.” Brad took off his coat and draped it across my shoulders. We sat on the old cushioned aluminum glider that overlooked the wooded backyard.
“This place hasn’t changed,” I said. “Your mom hasn’t changed, either.”
He reached out and took my hand. “We do have a lot to talk about.”
I yanked it back. I was here to put my negative feelings about Brad behind me, not to rekindle the positive ones. “How are you enjoying your job with Fix My Wedding? Are Gary and Gigi much like they are on the show? In real life, I mean.”
“You really want to talk about the show?” He used a finger to push back a stray lock of my hair and tuck it behind my ear.
“Yes, I really want to talk about the show.” I straightened up and put as much space as I could between Brad and me on the narrow glider.
Brad laughed and folded his hands in front of him before starting the glider in a gentle rocking motion. “Gary and Gigi are . . . entertainers. They’re a lot like they are on television, but a little less amplified, if that makes sense. They can be abrupt at times, but they’re extremely focused on the show.”
“The tabloids say they don’t get along.”
“The tabloids also say Elvis is an auto mechanic in Buffalo and that Michael Jackson transported down from another planet to study Earth culture.” He leaned his head back. “No, I’d say they get along fine. There’s an occasional squabble. Those two can fight like husband and wife. But they also have great chemistry, don’t they?”
“When I saw my first episode, I wondered if they really were married.”
Brad snorted. “I see you still have no gaydar. How have you survived all these years?”
“I don’t know. Maybe by trying to treat everyone I meet with the same kindness and respect.”
He smiled and took my hand again. “Nice sentiment.”
“But I have to admit, it hasn’t helped my dating life much.” I leaned my head back and watched the birds dart among the branches of the trees. “I did notice that Gary’s not as sweet in real life as he appears on the screen.”
“No, that part seems to be an affectation,” Brad said. “But if I had to describe Gary and Gigi, I think I’d call them professionals first. They have a job to do, and they do what it takes—become what it takes—to get the job done.”
“If Jackie sticks around, I imagine she might make that harder. Are you worried about her disrupting things?”
He shrugged. “Possibly. Not sure how she found us. We’re rather tight-lipped about our shooting schedule. After all, the show is pretty popular in its demographic.”
“Was it worth leaving Ramble for?”
Brad turned to me with that same sadness in his eyes. “I told you on the phone that I messed up. I was so focused on the job opportunity. I felt it was my last chance to . . .”
“To what?”
“I don’t know. Make something of myself? Run away from home? Keep Ramble from smothering my soul? I can’t explain it. It was like I was caught in a giant sinkhole that was swallowing me alive, and if I didn’t get out right at that moment, I’d never make it out at all.”
“But now you think you messed up.”
“Audrey.” Our gazes met and the twinkle in his eyes reflected the gathering stars. “I don’t regret leaving. Not at all. I regret not taking you with me.”
Brad traced my lips with his thumb before leaning in for a kiss—a long, slow, familiar kiss that I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed. “Come with me this time,” he whispered into my ear, then drew me int
o another kiss.
I lingered for a moment, feeling nothing but his lips caressing mine. Then an alarm bell sounded in my head. I grabbed his shoulders and pushed him away. “I could never leave Ramble. It’s not smothering . . . Well, it’s safe, it’s cozy, and it’s home. I have the shop . . . and Liv.” And I had something else, another important reason to stay, but that kiss seemed to have shorted my brain, and I wasn’t coming up with it at the moment.
Mrs. Simmons chose that second to walk outside and set a tray on the nearby patio table. “Coffee,” she trilled. “And lots of sugar because I remember that’s how you like it, Audrey. And sorry I didn’t have time to make dessert from scratch. But I got some lovely cupcakes from that Baby Cakes Bakery in town. Well, when I told that nice Nick Maxwell what I wanted them for, he made me promise to say hello to you, Audrey.”
Chapter 3
I arrived at the Ashbury at seven a.m. exactly. A wood police barrier, manned by Ken Lafferty, closed off the private road leading to the historic inn. Even that early in the morning, a crowd of curious Ramblers gathered near the road. They craned their necks from behind the barrier, binoculars trained on the gazebo where filming was rumored to take place. Jackie and her bridesmaids sipped coffee while waving their signs halfheartedly. Then they put them down, probably when they decided the Rose in Bloom delivery vehicle didn’t contain anyone they needed to impress. As I approached, the crowd parted peacefully. Then Ken swung the barrier off to the side to let me pass and waved me through.
I parked under a shade tree, leaving the flowers in the CR-V with the air conditioning running on full. Even at this early hour, it wouldn’t take long for the sun to bake the flowers. The three sample bouquets delicately packed behind me would look lovely on camera, but I wasn’t so sure I was “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” as Grandma Mae used to say. But don’t quote me on that. After working into the wee hours, I was too tired to turn around and check for a bushy tail. But I was certain I failed the bright-eyed part. I’d tried to fix that by loading the dark circles with concealer, then applying a perky shadow and mascara, since the packet Brad had sent me disclosed that I’d be responsible for my own makeup.
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls (A Bridal Bouquet Shop Mystery) Page 3