Bed of Roses (3 page)

“The bride—”

“The bride is an asshole. The bride is an idiot, a whiny baby bitch who made it very clear nearly one year ago that she neither needed nor wanted my particular services. The bride can bite me because she’s not biting any of my cake now that she’s realized her own stupidity.”

In the cotton pajama pants and tank she’d slept in, her hair still in sleep tufts, Laurel dropped onto a chair in the breakfast nook.

“You need to calm down.” Parker bent down to pick up a file. Probably tossed on the floor by Laurel, Emma mused. “Everything you need is in here.” Parker laid the file on the table. “I’ve already assured the bride we’ll accommodate her, so—”

“So you design and bake a four-layer wedding cake between now and Saturday, and a groom’s cake, and a selection of desserts. To serve two hundred people. You do that with no previous preparation, and when you’ve got three other events over the weekend, and an evening event in three days.”

Her face set in mutinous lines, Laurel picked up the file and deliberately dropped it on the floor.

“Now you’re acting like a child.”

“Fine. I’m a child.”

“Girls, your little friends have come to play.” Mrs. Grady sang it out, her tone overly sweet, her eyes laughing.

“Ah, I hear my mom calling me,” Emma said and started to ease out of the room.

“No, you don’t!” Laurel jumped up. “Just listen to this! The Folk-Harrigan wedding. Saturday, evening event. You’ll remember, I’m sure, how the bride sniffed at the very idea of Icings at Vows providing the cake or any of the desserts. How she
sneered
at me and my suggestions and insisted her cousin, a pastry chef in New York, who studied in Paris and designed cakes for
important
affairs, would be handling all the desserts.

“Do you remember what she said to me?”

“Ah.” Emma shifted because Laurel’s finger pointed at her heart. “Not in the exact words.”

“Well, I do. She said she was sure—and said it with that sneer—she was sure I could handle
most
affairs well enough, but she wanted the
best
for her wedding. She said that to my face.”

“Which was rude, no question,” Parker began.

“I’m not finished,” Laurel said between her teeth. “Now, at the eleventh hour, it seems her brilliant cousin has run off with one of her—the cousin’s—clients. Scandal, scandal, as said client met brilliant cousin when he commissioned her to design a cake for
his
engagement party. Now they’re MIA and the bride wants me to step in and save her day.”

“Which is what we do here. Laurel—”

“I’m not asking you.” She flicked her fingers at Parker, zeroed in on Mac and Emma. “I’m asking them.”

“What? Did you say something?” Mac offered a toothy smile. “Sorry, I must’ve gotten water in my ears from the shower. Can’t hear a thing.”

“Coward. Em?”

“Ah . . .”

“Breakfast!” Mrs. Grady circled a finger in the air. “Everybody sit down. Egg white omelettes on toasted brown bread. Sit, sit. Eat.”

“I’m not eating until—”

“Let’s just sit.” Interrupting Laurel’s next tirade, Emma tried a soothing tone. “Give me a minute to think. Let’s just all sit down and . . . Oh, Mrs. G, that looks fabulous.” She grabbed two plates, thinking of them as shields as she crossed to the breakfast nook and scooted in. “Let’s remember we’re a team,” she began.

“You’re not the one being insulted and overworked.”

“Actually, I am. Or have been. Whitney Folk puts the
zilla
in Bridezilla. I could relay my personal nightmares with her, but that’s a story for another day.”

“I’ve got some of my own,” Mac put in.

“So your hearing’s back,” Laurel muttered.

“She’s rude, demanding, spoiled, difficult, and unpleasant,” Emma continued. “Usually when we plan the event, even with the problems that can come up and the general weirdness of some couples, I like to think we’re helping them showcase a day that begins their happy ever after. With this one? I’d be surprised if they make it two years. She was rude to you, and I don’t think it was a sneer, I think it was a smirk. I don’t like her.”

Obviously pleased with the support, Laurel sent her own smirk toward Parker, then began to eat.

“That being said, we’re a team. And clients, even smirky bitch clients, have to be served. Those are good reasons to do this,” Emma said while Laurel scowled at her. “But there’s a better one. You’ll show her rude, smirky, flat, bony ass what a really brilliant pastry chef can do, and under pressure.”

“Parker already tried that one on me.”

“Oh.” Emma sampled a skinny sliver of her omelette. “Well, it’s true.”

“I could bake her man-stealing cousin into the ground.”

“No question. Personally, I think she should grovel, at least a little.”

“I like groveling.” Laurel considered it. “And begging.”

“I might be able to arrange for some of each.” Parker lifted her coffee. “I also informed her that in order to accommodate her on such short notice we would require an additional fee. I added twenty-five percent. She grabbed it like a lifeline, and actually wept in gratitude.”

A new light beamed in Laurel’s bluebell eyes. “She cried?”

Parker inclined her head, and cocked an eyebrow at Laurel. “So?”

“While the crying part warms me inside, she’ll still have to take what I give her, and like it.”

“Absolutely.”

“You just let me know what you decide on when you decide on it,” Emma told her. “I’ll work in the flowers and decor for the table.” She sent a sympathetic smile at Parker. “What time did she call you with all this?”

“Three twenty A.M.”

Laurel reached over, gave Parker’s hand a pat. “Sorry.”

“That’s my part of the deal. We’ll get through it. We always do.”

 

 

 

T
HEY ALWAYS DID, EMMA THOUGHT AS SHE REFRESHED HER LIVING room arrangements. She trusted they always would. She glanced at the photograph she kept in a simple white frame, one of three young girls playing Wedding Day in a summer garden. She’d been bride that day, and had held the bouquet of weeds and wildflowers, worn the lace veil. And had been just as charmed and delighted as her friends when the blue butterfly landed on the dandelion in her bouquet.

Mac had been there, too, of course. Behind the camera, capturing the moment. Emma considered it a not-so-small miracle that they’d turned what had been a favored childhood game of make-believe into a thriving business.

No dandelions these days, she thought as she fluffed pillows. But how many times had she seen that same delighted, dazzled look on a bride’s face when she’d offered her a bouquet she’d made for her? Just for her.

She hoped the meeting about to begin would end in a wedding next spring with just that dazzled look on the bride’s face.

She arranged her files, her albums, her books, then moved to the mirror to check her hair, her makeup, the line of the jacket and pants she’d changed into.

Presentation, she thought, was a priority of Vows.

She turned from the mirror to answer her phone with a cheerful, “Centerpiece of Vows. Yes, hello, Roseanne. Of course I remember you. October wedding, right? No, it’s not too early to make those decisions.”

As she spoke, Emma took a notebook out of her desk, flipped it open. “We can set up a consultation next week if that works for you. Can you bring a photo of your dress? Great. And if you’ve selected the attendants’ dresses, or their colors . . . ? Mmm-hmm. I’ll help you with all of that. How about next Monday at two?”

She logged in the appointment, then glanced over her shoulder as she heard a car pull up.

A client on the phone, another coming to the door.

God, she
loved
spring!

 

 

 

E
MMA SHOWED HER LAST CLIENT OF THE DAY THROUGH THE DISPLAY area where she kept silk arrangements and bouquets as well as various samples on tables and shelves.

“I made this up when you e-mailed me the photo of your dress, and gave me the basic idea of your colors and your favorite flowers. I know you’d talked about preferring a large cascade bouquet, but . . .”

Emma took the bouquet of lilies and roses, tied with white pearl-studded ribbon off the shelf. “I just wanted you to see this before you made a firm decision.”

“It’s beautiful, plus my favorite flowers. But it doesn’t seem, I don’t know, big enough.”

“With the lines of your dress, the column of the skirt, and the beautiful beadwork on the bodice, the more contemporary bouquet could be stunning. I want you to have exactly what you want, Miranda. This sample is closer to what you have in mind.”

Emma took a cascade from the shelf.

“Oh, it’s like a garden!”

“Yes, it is. Let me show you a couple of photos.” She opened the folder on the counter, took out two.

“It’s my dress! With the bouquets.”

“My partner Mac is a whiz with Photoshop. These give you a good idea how each style looks with your dress. There’s no wrong choice. It’s your day, and every detail should be exactly what you want.”

“But you’re right, aren’t you?” Miranda studied both pictures. “The big one sort of, well, overwhelms the dress. But the other, it’s like it was made for it. It’s elegant, but it’s still romantic. It is romantic, isn’t it?”

“I think so. The lilies, with that blush of pink against the white roses, and the touches of pale green. The trail of the white ribbon, the glow of the pearls. I thought, if you liked it, we might do just the lilies for your attendants, maybe with a pink ribbon.”

“I think . . .” Miranda carried the sample bouquet over to the old-fashioned cheval glass that stood in the corner. Her smile bloomed like the flowers as she studied herself. “I think it looks like some really creative fairies made it. And I love it.”

Emma noted it down in her book. “I’m glad you do. We’ll work around that, sort of spiraling out from the bouquets. I’ll put clear vases on the head table, so the bouquets will not only stay fresh, but serve as part of the decor during the reception. Now, for your tossing bouquet, I was thinking just the white roses, smaller scale like this.” Emma took down another sample. “Tied with pink and white ribbons.”

“That would be perfect. This is turning out to be so much easier than I thought.”

Pleased, Emma made another note. “The flowers are important, but they should also be fun. No wrong choices, remember. From everything you’ve told me, I see the feel of the wedding as modern romance.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m after.”

“Your niece, the flower girl, is five, right?”

“She just turned five last month. She’s really excited about scattering rose petals down the aisle.”

“I bet.” Emma crossed the idea of a pomander off her mental list. “We could use this style basket, covered with white satin, trimmed in baby roses, trailing the pink and white ribbons again. Pink and white rose petals. We could do a halo for her, pink and white baby roses again. Depending on her dress, and what you like, we can keep it simple, or we can trail ribbons down the back.”

“The ribbons, absolutely. She’s really girly. She’ll be thrilled.” Miranda took the sample halo Emma offered. “Oh, Emma. It’s like a little crown! Princessy.”

“Exactly.” When Miranda lifted it onto her own head, Emma laughed. “A girly five year-old will be in heaven. And you’ll be her favorite aunt for life.”

“She’ll look so sweet. Yes, yes, to everything. Basket, halo, ribbons, roses, colors.”

“Great. You’re making it easy for me. Now you’ve got your mothers and your grandmothers. We could do corsages, wrist or pin-on, using the roses or the lilies or both. But—”

Smiling, Miranda set the halo down again. “Every time you say ‘but’ it turns out fantastic. So, but?”

“I thought we could update the classic tussy-mussy.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a small bouquet, like this, carried in a little holder to keep the flowers fresh. We’d put display stands on the tables by their places, which would also dress up their tables, just a little more than the others. We’d use the lilies and roses, in miniature, but maybe reverse the colors. Pink roses, white lilies, those touches of pale green. Or if that didn’t go with their dresses, all white. Small, not quite delicate. I’d use something like this very simple silver holder, nothing ornate. Then we could have them engraved with the wedding date, or your names, their names.”

“It’s like their own bouquets. Like a miniature of mine. Oh, my mother will . . .”

When Miranda’s eyes filled, Emma reached over and picked up the box of tissue she kept handy.

“Thanks. I want them. I have to think about the monogramming. I’d like to talk that over with Brian.”

“Plenty of time.”

“But I want them. The reverse, I think, because it makes them more theirs. I’m going to sit down here a minute.”

Emma went with her to the little seating area, put the tissue box where Miranda could reach. “It’s going to be beautiful.”

“I know. I can see it. I can already see it, and we haven’t even started on the arrangements and centerpieces and, oh, everything else. But I can see it. I have to tell you something.”

“Sure.”

“My sister—my maid of honor? She really pushed for us to book Felfoot. It’s been
the
place in Greenwich, you know, and it is beautiful.”

“It’s gorgeous, and they always do a fabulous job.”

“But Brian and I just fell for this place. The look of it, the feel of it, the way the four of you work together. It felt right for us. Every time I come here, or meet with one of you, I know we were right. We’re going to have the most amazing wedding. Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes again.

“Don’t be.” Emma took a tissue for herself. “I’m flattered, and nothing makes me happier than to have a bride sit here and cry happy tears. How about a glass of champagne to smooth things out before we start on the boutonnieres?”