Sherryl Woods - Flowers on Main

There was a quick flash of hurt in her eyes, but then she nodded slowly. “Okay, then,” she said softly, a quiver in her voice that told him she was near tears. He steeled himself against it. So what if he hurt her? It was nothing to the pain she’d caused him.

She turned on her heel and walked away, giving him a perfect view of her excellent backside. Just staring after her stirred him in ways it shouldn’t. What was wrong with him? Was he a total jerk? A glutton for punishment? Because he knew with every fiber of his being that given a chance, he would take her to bed. Not into his heart again. Never that. But sex? Oh, yeah.

After her uncomfortable—okay, awful —confrontation with Jake, Bree sat in an Adirondack chair on the front porch, her feet propped up on a post, a notebook in her lap. She was making a list, something that was more like Abby than her. She had to get a handle on what she could do if she stayed here, because if she didn’t have a solid plan in mind, it would be too easy to drift back to the life she knew in Chicago, lousy as it was. So far she hadn’t written down one single thing, maybe because she couldn’t stop thinking about Jake and the way he’d looked at her.

Had she hurt him again for no good reason? If she couldn’t come up with a plan, then she couldn’t stay, and that whole ugly scene would have been for nothing. Hearing the anger and disdain in his voice had dredged up the way she’d felt on the night he’d walked out of her apartment and out of her life. She’d known then, just as she had today, that she deserved every bitter word. Why she’d expected anything different was beyond her. Had she honestly expected him to welcome her home with his familiar crooked smile and a solid, reassuring hug? The idea was ludicrous. Men didn’t just forgive and forget. Most of them wanted to get even. If that was his goal, to hurt her as she’d hurt him, he was well on his way.

A hint of forgiveness would have been nice, she admitted to herself with a sigh. Jake had been more than the man she’d loved six years ago. He’d been her best friend. He’d been the one she would have talked to about this crossroad in her life. Now they couldn’t even exchange a civil word.

When her cell phone rang, she answered eagerly. Any distraction was better than this sudden rootlessness she was feeling.

“Bree, thank goodness,” Jess said, sounding frantic. “Can you get over to the inn right now?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

“I have a wedding here in three hours. The florist who’s supposed to be doing the flowers is in the hospital. He didn’t have a backup, so the wholesaler just dumped boxes and boxes of flowers on my doorstep. I have no idea what to do with them.”

“Give me ten minutes,” Bree said at once. “Do you have vases, wire, ribbons, anything for making arrangements?”

“I have vases. That’s it.”

“Are the bouquets made, at least?”

“Not that I can see.”

“Okay, make it a half hour. I’ll pick up some supplies on the way. Is there any way you can call the bride’s mother or a bridesmaid and find out what they had in mind without starting a panic?”

“I’ll try. The matron of honor is actually upstairs. Lauren’s a lot calmer and more practical than Mrs. Hilliard. I’ll ask her to meet us in a half hour.”

“Perfect.”

Rather than risking a wasted trip to Ethel’s Emporium for supplies they might not have, Bree raided her grandmother’s greenhouse and sewing room. She arrived at the inn with ribbon in a variety of colors, some scraps of lace and everything else she thought she might need.

She found Jess and Lauren Jackson, who’d been in Abby’s class at school, waiting for her, surrounded by open boxes of long-stemmed white roses, white snapdragons, white orchids and white lilacs. There was one box filled with trailing ivy.

“Hey, Lauren,” she said, looking over what they had to work with. “Any idea what the bride had in mind?”

“Simple. Her bouquet was going to be white orchids and lilacs. There are three attendants, and we’re supposed to have a single white rose with some long white ribbons.” She glanced at Jess. “I think there are supposed to be stands with vases of roses and snapdragons up by the minister, and then small arrangements on the tables. It’s not a huge wedding, just family and a few friends, so there are only four tables, maybe. Is that right?”

Jess nodded. “She said something about the ivy going across the table from the centerpieces.”

“Okay, then. I think that gives me enough to work with. Are the groom and best man and ushers supposed to have flowers for their lapels?”

Jess and Lauren regarded her blankly.

“I have no idea,” Lauren admitted. “I’ll call Tom, that’s the groom, and ask him.” She took out her cell phone and dialed. When he answered, she explained the situation and asked about the flowers, then shook her head for Bree’s benefit. She lowered her voice. “There is no need to panic, Tom. I swear it. Someone’s here right now, and we have it all under control. Whatever you do, do not say anything about this to Diana. She’ll freak out. Bye.”

She stuck her phone back in her pocket. “Everything set here?” she asked Bree. “Do you need me to stay and help?”

“No. I can take it from here. I’ll do the bouquets first, if you want to send someone down in an hour to get them. If they’re not right, we’ll have time for adjustments.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Bree. I’ll make sure Diana knows about this.” She grinned. “After the ceremony, anyway.”

When Lauren and Jess were gone, Bree took stock of the flowers and went to work. The bouquets were easy enough, thanks to the bride’s desire for simplicity. She held them up for Jess’s approval when she came back from checking on things in the kitchen to make sure the food for the reception was on track.

“What do you think?” she asked her sister.

“Classy and elegant,” Jess said at once. “I’m in awe of you.”

“Let’s see how you feel when I’m through with the tough stuff.”

As she finished each centerpiece, she carried it into the dining room where four tables were set with white linens, sparkling crystal, white candles, sterling-silver place settings and silver-edged china. She set the low arrangement of flowers in the center, then pulled strands of ivy between some of the place settings. She studied it, decided it didn’t look quite right and went back to gather some of the extra rose petals to scatter across the table with the ivy. She stood back again and concluded it didn’t look half-bad.

Jess came in as she was placing the last arrangement. “Oh, my,” she said, her voice filled with delight. “Bree, they’re beautiful. A professional couldn’t have done better. I swear if you weren’t off making a name for yourself as a playwright, I’d insist you do this for a living.”

Bree regarded her with surprise. “Really?”

“You’ve always had a knack with flowers, but what you’ve done here today, especially under pressure, it’s amazing. Much better than what I’ve seen from the florist that people around here usually use. The Hilliards are going to be ecstatic. You really did save the day. I’ll see to it that they pay you accordingly.”

“I don’t need to be paid,” Bree said. “This was an emergency. I did it as a favor to you. Besides, it was fun. I’ve always loved doing stuff like this.”

“You do work like this, you get paid,” Jess insisted. “And I’m taking pictures of these arrangements, too.”

Bree regarded her blankly. “Why?”

“Who knows, maybe one of these days you’ll get sick of Chicago and decide you want to take up floral design,” she said jokingly. “These will be the first pictures for your portfolio. I’m starting one for the inn, so I can show clients other events we’ve held here.”