Chapter 12

Amber Lee’s laughter filled the shop.

Liv raised exasperated eyes to the spiderwebs on the ceiling. “It’s not funny. This could be very bad for business. The whole funeral was ruined.”

“First of all,” Amber Lee said, “from what you told me, most of the guests were gone. Second of all, I’d think the tent rental company or the weather would get most of the blame.”

“Or Bixby,” I added, preparing yet another peach rose for the pew decorations. “He’s the one who wrestled the tent down.”

Liv gave me the look. “Because someone backed him into a corner. Really, kid, what were you thinking?”

“Backed him into a corner? Me?” I flashed her my most innocent look. “I never raised my voice. We had a civil conversation. At least he agreed to look for that bag.”

“Civil conversation? Waving those flowers around. I’m surprised he didn’t press charges.” After a moment or two of silence, Liv’s lips pressed together in an expression designed to stifle a giggle.

Growing up, sitting at the table over milk and cookies, we’d often get the affliction Grandma Mae called the giggles. I don’t remember anything funny that started these sessions. But one of us would start laughing, and then the other, and then we couldn’t control ourselves. Tears ran down our eyes, milk (and sometimes cookies) spurted from our noses, and we had trouble remaining upright in our chairs. The sessions generally ended in hiccups and deep breaths, with more than an occasional relapse.

So it wasn’t unusual, when I saw her try to suppress a giggle, that a similar one rose in my throat. When my laughter bubbled over, Liv’s chin quivered a brief moment before she caved, and the back room filled with laughter. It spread to our floral design interns, and even Opie cracked a broad smile.

When the bell over the door rang, tears were still running down my face. “I’ll get it.” I wiped the streaming tears with the back of my hand as I walked out, only to see Nick staring at the offerings in the self-service cooler.

“Hi.” He flashed me a dazzling smile. That man missed his calling. He should be doing toothpaste commercials. I wondered how someone who spent his days working with sugar could keep his teeth so perfect.

He opened the cooler and pulled out a small bouquet of delicate dendrobium orchids. A symbol of beauty—letting the recipient know she’s considered a belle, someone admired for her beauty and charm. The sight plummeted me back to earth. Nick obviously treasured a beautiful woman, and I, with my windblown hair and tears streaming down what was sure to be a rather red face, would never be more than a friend. I was someone to talk shop with, to share wedding plans with—for other people’s weddings—and to help tote home drunken matrons.

I forced a smile as I cashed him out.

“These are pretty,” he said. “More than pretty. Exotic. Unusual.”

“Interesting.” I’d long since noticed that what men see in flowers they often see in the women they’re enamored with. So Nick went for the unusual and exotic type. Unusual was something I could accomplish pretty well. Exotic was another story. I pictured some slim, petite Asian woman with pouty red lips. She’d be wearing a sleek silk suit with impossibly high heels and carrying some purse-bound pooch.

I, on the other hand, was more of a homegrown girl: fresh faced, all denim, cotton, flat shoes, and corn bread and apple pie. Nick’s sweetheart was probably somebody new to the community—maybe one of those DC types who’d moved into the area in recent years, looking for more affordable housing despite the two-hour rush-hour (an oxymoron, if I ever heard one) commute. Which could also explain why nobody could claim to have seen him with anybody. People who spend four hours a day in the car can spare little time or energy for socializing, especially if they’re tossing doggie treats into their purses all day.

“Will you . . . uh . . . be at the wedding tomorrow?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ve known Carolyn for years now, and we’re doing the flowers, too. It never hurts to invite your florist as a guest.” I chuckled. My earlier mirth evaporated, however, melting away at the sight of those blasted orchids. I needed to get over this silly infatuation. “It helps in case of any last-minute wilting issues, too.”

He laughed as I handed him his change. “Maybe I’ll see you there, then. We’re doing their cupcakes. And I’ll be there to handle any last-minute frosting debacles. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to work myself and let you get to yours.”

I waved lamely at Nick as he left, wondering if he’d bring a plus-one to the wedding and we’d finally get a gander at this exotic mystery woman.

With a small sigh I returned to the back room and the mound of wedding work that yet awaited us. I demonstrated how to compose the pew arrangements to the interns, then turned the task over to them before diverting my attention to an arrangement meant to surround the unity candle.

For some reason, the phrase “Always the bridal florist, but never the bride” popped into my mind, and I couldn’t shake it. Maybe it was the long hours and little sleep, my aching feet and back, or just coming to earth over my ill-fated crush on Nick, but I could sense a major pity party coming on.

And a pity party without mentally rehashing that whole fiasco with Brad the Cad would be as complete as a Cinco de Mayo party without salsa.

Brad and I had been dating for about a year. Call it a premonition, but I’d tried to cancel our dinner date that night. It was just before Mother’s Day, and long hours had left me dead on my feet. But he begged and pleaded, so I knew something was up.

I was standing right at the same workstation, in fact, when I promised him I’d be there. He sounded excited on the phone as he told me to meet him at seven thirty at the restaurant at the Ashbury Inn. Liv and I spent a giddy afternoon speculating. She decided that his excitement on the phone, his insistence that I be there, and his choice of the romantic, expensive venue could only add up to a proposal. And I spent the rest of the afternoon making flower arrangements for other people while planning my own wedding flowers.

That was when I made plans for that now loathsome bouquet—the one scattered over Derek’s dead body. I then went on to plan the church decorations, and before quitting time, I’d put finishing touches on my mental plans for the centerpieces for the reception. I ran home, dressed up, treated my face to the rarity of the full makeup routine the stylist suggested that time Liv and I had closed up shop and headed to a pricey salon for a day of pampering. I even pulled the tags off and ironed my new dress and wrestled my feet into heels.

Brad, on the other hand, wore a sports shirt and khakis and had neglected to remove his five o’clock shadow. But I refused to let that dampen the moment. After all, a twinkle of excitement danced in his eyes as I answered his knock at my door. I guess I was so focused on that, I also took no notice that he didn’t comment on my appearance.

We ordered and ate our dinner as usual, except for a bit of silence in our ordinarily easy conversation. But I attributed that to nervousness over the upcoming proposal. His frequent wiping of his palms on his napkin confirmed the diagnosis. And mine were getting a little damp as well. Either it was nerves or we were both coming down with the plague.

I spent the silent moments working out more wedding details. If we held the ceremony in the gardens of the Ashbury, I might even arrive in a horse-drawn carriage festooned with roses and ivy. My brother, Philip, could walk me down the aisle, I supposed, as long as Mother didn’t mind if I didn’t ask her new husband. I’d only met the man a handful of times. Surely she wouldn’t expect—

“Audrey, I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here. I mean, besides dinner.”

I shrugged and sent him a shy smile.

“It’s just that, I think the time has come in our relationship . . .” He started picking at a dry cuticle, a nasty habit I hoped to break him of one day. “Well, I don’t know how to say it except to say it.”

Here it comes, I thought. I wondered if he would drop to one knee in the restaurant. And then I’d say yes, and everybody would clap. Maybe they would bring a complimentary dessert. Yeah, my priorities were probably off for thinking that, but then again, I’d tasted the dessert at the Ashbury before. Their cheesecake is to die for.

“Audrey . . .” He didn’t kneel but cleared his throat. “I’m moving.”

All the blood rushed to my face and my head started to buzz.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

“Moving?”

“Yes. It’s what I’ve been hoping for. A job with the production crew for a new TV show. A real break into the business.” He stared out the window. “No more videotaping weddings and transferring dreadful home movies that no one ever wanted to watch in the first place to DVDs that will just gather dust on a shelf.”

It might not be that bad to move, I thought. A local TV show filmed in Richmond or even Virginia Beach wouldn’t be too terrible. If we moved to Virginia Beach, I still had friends there. I know I said I never wanted to leave Ramble, but maybe we could find a place on the outskirts of town . . . I stopped myself short. Caught up in what he’d said, I’d missed what he hadn’t. He hadn’t asked me to marry him.

“Where is the job?” I took a sip of my water with shaky hands, then put my nervous energy to work shredding my napkin in my lap. And no, the Ashbury doesn’t use paper napkins.

“Manhattan.”

“As in New York City? That Manhattan?”

“None other.” He gave me one of those quirky grins of his, his head held high and the pride ringing in his voice. He considered this move making the big time.

“That’s crazy,” I said, popping his balloon. He seemed to shrink into his chair. “There’s all kinds of wackos in New York. Pedophiles and mass murderers and rapists and riffraff urinating on subways and mugging joggers in the park.”

He rolled the salt shaker between his hands and wagged his head. “I’ve made up my mind, Audrey. I’ve given notice and sent in my intention letter. One of the guys in the crew had a room to rent, so that’s all settled. I start in two weeks.”

So everybody and his brother knew about this before me. Without even telling me he’d applied, his plans were all made. It seemed like he had all the details settled but one.

“What about us?” Yes, I’ll admit, it was a direct question.

He reached over and laid his hand on mine. “Audrey, you know how I feel about you.”

“Enlighten me.”

He let out a lungful of air from pursed lips. “I think this is a new beginning for both of us.”

“A beginning of what?”

“Audrey, I can’t take you to New York, and it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to wait for me. Maybe this is a test. Maybe in a few years I can come back to Ramble and be content. But I think it’s time to explore what’s out there, expand our horizons.”

“You mean date other people.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you think that’s best?”

I studied his face. His expression was somber, but something around the corners of his eyes gave him away. “You want to break up.”

He held up a hand. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

“Audrey, it’s about the job.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s about all the glamorous women you think you’ll find in New York City. A bigger pond and more fish to choose from. Well, let me tell you, it’s not all Sex in the City. Not everyone is a size-two fashion model and they’re not going to line up to date some small-town videographer. A big city can also be a lonely place.”

“Audrey, keep it down, will you?”

And then it dawned on me why he was dropping this bit of news on me at the Ashbury. So I wouldn’t make a scene. Little did he know.

I stood up and pointed my finger in his face. “Well, you listen, Mr. Big-City Show-Biz Tycoon. Go to New York. Expand those horizons of yours. And when you get your fill of the skyscrapers and subways and hookers on every street corner and all that other Yankee foolishness and come back here with your tail between your legs, do me a favor.”

Brad winced. “What’s that?”

I leaned over the table, until nose to nose with him.

But I had nothing more to say. I yanked my purse over my shoulder and walked out to the applause of our fellow diners.

Kathleen Randolph left the check-in desk, ran out after me, and drove me home.

“You know what I think?” she’d said as she turned onto Ramble’s Main Street. “I swear the reason men stink at relationships is because of battle genes. When men go to war, the ones who survive are either very good at fighting or very good at running.”

“Brad’s never been in the service.”

“No, but I bet his father or grandfather has. Think about it. Johnny comes marching home again, gets married, and has little Johnnies. Sometimes I think the ability to sit down and work things out has been totally bred out of the male sex. Especially in Ramble, Audrey. After all, this town was settled by Josiah Carroll.”

“The Revolutionary War hero, I know. He was a spy. Brad’s a descendant on his father’s side.”

“Hero and spy, my foot. The only reason Carroll was able to warn the troops about the British presence was because he was running away from them at the time. Take it from me, Audrey. I’ve been married three times. And all men seem to want to do is fight or run.”

I’d thanked her, and as I leaned against my apartment door, I thought for a moment about her theory. Perhaps Brad was bred to fight or run. Or maybe he was just being a jerk. Like my dad.

Either way, I hadn’t talked to Brad since.

How I could have been so foolish as to misinterpret a breakup date for a proposal, I’m not sure. Liv suggested that maybe we believed what we wanted to. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I’d wanted to marry Brad after all. Was he the love of my life? Or were we two people thrown together into a comfortable relationship because we were both single in a small town?