by Sarah Kelly
“I do hope you’ll like your accommodation,” Sarah said. “The rooms aren’t all that big, but they’re cozy for sure.”
“Cozy’s good,” India replied, getting a better grip on her case handle. She noticed as the walls changed from white plasterboard to honey brown wood as they reached the second floor. The way the sconces illuminated the walls with splashes of golden light looked very cozy indeed.
“Here’s the first room,” Sarah said, opening a door right at the top of the stairs. She looked at them, her eyes wide and eager for approval.
India stepped in. “Oh, wow. Sarah, this is gorgeous,” she said, looking first up at the wood log paneling that made up the roof, then at the stone fireplace in the far corner, then at the big soft bed with a red and green plaid cover. The room was bathed in lamplight, and a small wingback chair was placed in front of the fire, a perfect spot for reading, India thought.
“If the other room’s like this too, you’re going to have a hard job getting rid of us,” Xavier said, beaming at India’s happiness.
“That’s right,” India said with a grin, turning to Sarah. “So… can we live with you?”
They all laughed together.
“You’re both so sweet,” Sarah said. “Now, Xavier, I’ll show you your room. And if either of you want the fires getting started, I’ll show you how. Or you can just use the heating thermostat to get comfortable. Whatever you like.”
The second room was remarkably similar, only in reverse.
“And I’m just across the hall in the evenings,” Sarah said when she was about to head downstairs. “I’m nearly always in the bakery or in here, but my cell number’s in the welcome pack on each of your dressers, so you can get me if I’m not here, or you’re out, or whenever.”
“Thank you,” India said, leaning on the doorframe to her room and feeling so happy to be there. “You have such a lovely home here, Sarah.”
Sarah smiled, but India fancied she caught a trace of sadness in her eyes. “If more people in the world were as nice as you two, the world would be a much better place.”
CHAPTER 2
The next morning was bright, the sun shining down on the quiet narrow streets of Abingdon Fork and beginning to melt the snow.
“Wonderful!” Elise Flores said, her sing-song voice so happy it made India smile. “I’m so glad everything worked out just fine. You know, you’re my first long distance client. I just had to get everything right. Now, you’ll love what Mariette Fairfax has done for you. She’s incredibly difficult to work with, let me tell you, but she’s the best florist. Not only in Abingdon Fork, oh no, perhaps in the whole vicinity of Fond du Lac. People come from all over. I heard someone once say she’s the best florist in the state.” She laughed a tinkly, happy laugh. “Though that might well have been Ms Fairfax herself. Modesty perhaps is not her strongest point.”
India and Xavier had barely managed to get a word in edgeways since Elise had arrived at Sarah’s Bakery, but they didn’t really mind. She was like a tornado of friendliness, and they were happy to get swept up in her natural joy.
“Oh, and I cannot wait to see the gown. You said it was going to your parents’, right? Oh, your parents are so lovely. And their home. Oh! Gorgeous. I think it’s the perfect choice for the reception. That’s what I told them. And whisking the guests from the chapel here in Abingdon Fork, through the countryside out to Melville, I think that’s quite a magical ride, especially for Christmas Eve. You’ve really given me a lot to work with. Oh, and Xavier, we must meet up to get your tux tried on. I think the idea not to have groomsmen or bridesmaids was an interesting choice. Keep the wedding party small, intimate. And to have a wedding right smack bang in the middle of the holidays? Well, this whole thing is just a joy. A real joy, I tell you. So creative, you two. So unorthodox.”
India laughed. “Elise, you’re something else.”
Elise widened her big brown eyes. “In a good way, I hope.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, family always says there’s never a dull moment with Elise. Or there’s never a quiet moment with Elise, maybe laced with a mild expletive, depending on how much I’ve annoyed them. Ooh, look. We’re here.”
They’d reached a gorgeous storefront. Vast windows showcased exquisite arrangements, while the wood framing was a sleek black. Mounted on the black wood was a silver sign in capital letters, reading FAIRFAX FLORAL.
“Looks fancy,” Xavier said.
“Indeed,” Elise replied with a nod. “Only the best for my valued clients.”
As they ventured inside a tinkling bell rang through the store, and the woman at the counter glanced up briefly from where she was attending to some papers. She had glossy, well cared for gray hair falling in loose waves down her bare arms, but her eyebrows were deep black, perfect arches. They were creased in annoyance, one raised, as though Elise and India and Xavier were irritating her immensely merely by their presence.
“Ms Fairfax,” Elise said.
“Just a minute,” she snapped.
Elise widened her eyes at India, and India gave her a sympathetic smile in return. Then she watched Ms Fairfax, who was a rather eye catching figure. Her bone structure was incredible, with high cheekbones. Her heart shaped face was almost pixie-like, and her glasses rested delicately on the bridge of her straight nose.
“Yes,” Ms Fairfax said finally, coming out from behind the counter. She wore what appeared to be a knitted cape-style cardigan, in a deep mulberry shade, and black trousers and boots. Looking disinterested but still judgmental, she surveyed India and Xavier up and down. It was very difficult to like her, even for India, who could always see the good in people.
“These are my clients, Ms Fairfax,” Elise said.
“Will you call me Mariette?” Her voice was tense, almost on the brink of shouting, it sounded like. She marched over to a display and straightened a basket that was out of line, with unnecessary force.
“Sorry, Mariette.” Elise made her voice sound contrite, but she rolled her eyes at India when Mariette wasn’t looking. “They’re staying at Sarah’s Bakery. Aren’t her cakes just delicious?”
Mariette still didn’t look at them. “Absolutely ghastly. Laden with sugar and carbohydrates and senseless indulgence. I would not eat there if a gun was placed to my head.”
“You’ve made two arrangement samples for them to choose from, right?” Elise said, quick to change the subject. “I mean, I suggested just taking photos or videos on iPhone and sending—”
“Oh, you kids and your technology,” Mariette said disparagingly, going into a storeroom in back. “It’s not the same as being there in person, I don’t care what anyone says. It is just not.”
India smiled brightly, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, we’re here. In the flesh.”
“Horatio Sebastian Fairfax!” Mariette suddenly yelled at the top of her voice. “Where on earth are the ribbons? Where did you put them, you bumbling oaf!”
“Horatio?” Xavier whispered, frowning. “Is that the guy from the bakery?”
“I didn’t touch them!” Horatio shouted back from a room deeper inside the store.
“Must be. No wonder he’s so antisocial,” India whispered back, then turned to Elise. “Is Mariette Horatio’s mother?”
Elise shook her head, pursed her lips, and blew a stream of air out of her nose. “Unfortunately for him, yes. But then he’s not exactly winning nice guy of the year award, either.” She shrugged. “I guess floristry is more of their strong point. They do win awards in that.” She nodded at the wall toward where certificates hung in modern chrome frames. “Well, Mariette does. She won’t let him so much as touch a flower stalk. He does deliveries, mostly, and cleaning.”
Mariette came back with two flower arrangements in baskets and a dreadfully sour face. “This is for the center pieces, but it illustrates the entire theme.” She seemed to speak to nobody in particular, staring at the flower arrangement. “Of course, you’ll have to return wi
th the mother of the bride for the hairpieces, and the bride will have to come for the bouquet and such. Once the theme has been selected, the rest of the pieces will be arranged, and you will return to confirm they are acceptable to you.” There was so much venom in her voice India wondered what on earth would happen if someone found them unacceptable. She imagined a lot of shouting and wounded artist pride. Perhaps bloodshed, she thought to herself with a smirk.
“Is something amusing?” Mariette said. “Do you find my award winning floristry to be a laughing matter?”
“Not at all.” India was confident and held her head high. There was no way she’d be intimidated by rudeness. “So you have a red and gold arrangement, and a silver and white arrangement,” she said, nodding toward where Mariette had set them upon the counter.
“So I needn’t worry myself about you being colorblind,” Mariette said icily. “Red and white together are thought to be bad luck. Here in the red arrangement, we have amaryllis, red spray carnations, tulips, Asiatic lilies, and of course poinsettia flowers. The gold details are Grevillea leaf, birch, and wooden ornamentation.”
“It’s very vivid and bright,” Xavier said approvingly.
“Yes,” Mariette said, as if he’d stated the obvious and shouldn’t have done. “The white and silver arrangement is made up of the delicate white Gypsophila, white spray carnations, chrysanthemums, and alstroemeria.” For all India understood, she could have been speaking Dutch. Though India had always had a vague idea she’d like to plant her own things, nothing had ever come into fruition, and plant names remained a complete mystery. “The silver details are rucus leaves.”
India was genuinely torn. “This is such a hard decision. I think the white and silver would go much more nicely with my gown. The red would overpower it, I’m sure. And yet…” She was still drawn to it. “Oh, I know! How about we use the white for the ceremony, and the red for the reception?” She looked to Xavier to see what he thought, but his eyes had the glazed over look they took on when she talked about weddings for too long.
“I was under the impression you wanted one theme for one wedding,” Mariette said snippily. “Not two themes.”
Elise touched India on the arm. “It’s totally up to you.”
“Oh, and they should have ribbons on them.” Mariette crossed her arms and looked away from them again as she spoke. “Not tacky cheap things, of course. Thick, sheer, expensive ribbons…” She raised her voice again. “…which somebody without a single brain cell in their head said they didn’t move, when they most definitely did.” She suddenly changed then, her eyes taking on a new look, as if she had come out of a dream. Looking at India, she smiled, and it seemed almost genuine. “Oh dear, I’m being a dreadful bore, aren’t I?” Her voice was excessively posh, perhaps even tinged with an upper class British accent. “Oh, never mind. I mustn’t let silly old Horatio get to me. It’s my fault, anyhow. I always say that I should have named him Hervé.” She laughed as if it were terribly funny. “Anyway, of course you can have two different themes. You’ll come back with a part of your wedding dress, won’t you? And with your mother, for her fascinator?”
India, nonplussed, nodded. “Yes.”
“That would actually work out great for me,” Elise said. “Maybe we could head over to your parents’ home, India. I can stay with Xavier and your father, and we’ll make sure your tux is right, Zave. Then you and your mother can come down to see Mariette and ensure the bouquet is right.”
“Jolly good,” Mariette said, smiling from ear to ear. “I shall see you later.”
***
“Do you know anything about Mariette Fairfax, mom?” India asked. She was chewing absent mindedly on a carrot stick, her elbow resting on the wooden kitchen table they’d had since her childhood.
“That’s your florist,” Rose Kirby replied. She was rearranging her cookery books on the shelf. She rarely actually did any cooking, and it was mostly left to India’s father, who seemed to favor Eastern European recipes. The only other cuisine he dabbled in was Indian, which he cooked once a year and once a year only, on their anniversary. Their honeymoon had been in Mumbai. Only India had delved into the Italian and Jamaican and Ghanaian and Brazilian cookbooks stacked up on the shelves. Her mother seemed keener on keeping them organized or reading through the interesting cultural information in the prefaces. She’d always been more of a theoretical than practical woman.
“Yes,” India said. “Our florist. I’m not trying to be nosy or anything but she seems rather…”
“Rather…?”
“I’m not sure.” She didn’t want to be rude about someone she hardly knew.
“Well, in answer to your question, yes. As it happens, I know a great deal about her. Well, I can’t exactly say that. More to say I’ve heard a great deal about her, but since it is in such glowing terms, one can’t help but wonder if the account is entirely accurate.”
“From who?” India asked, astounded.
“It’s from whom, India, from whom. Your grammar’s gone to pot since you moved to Florida.”
“All right, all right,” India said with a sigh. “From whom?”
“Her mother, actually. We play bridge. Your father and I against Lillian and her home health care worker, Denise. She’s not a well woman, Lillian. She’s been unwell for about three years now, I think. I wonder if you’ve ever seen her. They came to town when you were about thirteen, I would think. About fifteen years ago.”
India shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“We have to play bridge with the curtains drawn and a lamp, as she cannot tolerate light at all well. She coughs terribly, and Denise says it’s an awful struggle to get her to eat anything so she’s becoming frail.”
“Is it some kind of condition?”
“Multiple conditions. Certainly a kidney condition, but there are other symptoms the doctors are trying to diagnose. For example, sometimes she cannot sleep at all, and other times she simply will not wake up. Denise has had to ring and cancel twice as Lillian could not be roused to get ready for our game.”
India crunched on her carrot. “Poor woman. Sounds like Denise certainly has a job on her hands, too.”
“Absolutely.” Rose flicked through a Mediterranean cookbook. “To be fair, India, they’re not all that good at bridge. But I think it’s about the only enjoyment they get out of life, so we go over there once a month or so and give them a good game.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Rose shrugged.
India watched her mom’s cool detachment and couldn’t stop feeling what she always did when she was around her mother. No matter how much she tried to stop herself wishing for something else, she couldn’t help but dream her mother was warm and kind and nurturing and encouraging. Moving away to Florida had helped some, and she felt like she’d healed a lot. She’d hoped this visit would be different, and she’d be a calm, confident, independent woman who wasn’t reliant on her mother’s affection, but the ache in her chest was there, and she couldn’t deny it.
But in some ways, India was different since she’d moved away. She was bolder. Less willing to skulk into a corner and lick her wounds. “Mom,” she said, her heart beating a little faster. “How do you feel about me getting married?”
Rose paused for a moment as she returned the Mediterranean cookbook to the shelf. Then she continued, giving it a quick dust and taking down a book of sushi recipes. “Well, Xavier’s a good choice. He’s reliable, steadfast, and intelligent. Three excellent qualities in a man.”
“I didn’t ask you about Xavier,” India said. She felt a lump forming her throat, and wonder why her mother had such a strong pull over her feelings. No matter how resilient and cheerful India was out in the world, her heart was soft as butter at her mother’s feet. “I asked you about me.”
Rose stared resolutely down into the cookbook. “I don’t know what you want me to say, India. I am glad you are making a life for yourself.”
India gazed at the mes
sy part in her mother’s dark hair for a long while, willing her to look up and tell her something heartfelt. But she did not. “Thanks,” she said eventually, her throat feeling tight and dry.
Her mother’s eyes scanned the book, and then she looked up like wrenched from a dream. “What? Sorry, thanks for what?”
“Oh, nothing,” India said, getting up from her chair. Her voice was rougher than she meant it to be. “Let’s go to the florist’s. That lady Mariette wants to fix your fascinator and my bouquet.”
India went into the hall to try and calm down, telling herself it was silly to get so het up over nothing. People have it so much worse, she told herself as she put on her coat and gloves, but it didn’t seem to work.
“We’re off,” Rose called out, coming in the hall and swinging her thick puffer jacket on.
“See you later,” India’s father called back.
Xavier hurried from the sitting room into the hall. “Just one last kiss goodbye,” he said to India, followed by a shy smile when he saw her mother was in the room.
“Not too much of a long one, I hope,” Rose said. “Oh, no, I must warm up the car first.” She hurried out to crank up the engine. “India, put the kettle on, please.”
India went back to the kitchen and Xavier came along with her. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “You don’t look yourself.”
India sighed as she filled the kettle up in the sink. The water was freezing cold and uncomfortable as it splashed on her hands. It was such a long and complicated thing that she didn’t know where to start. And how was it possible to describe such a feeling? “I’ll be all right.”
“Pre-wedding jitters?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Well, maybe a little. Sort of. Not directly. But not because of you,” she hurried to add. “Just about me. And where I fit in.”