Dane's Storm(3)



That damn photograph. I felt blindsided, and I didn’t even know exactly why. As if I’d been walking through a peaceful, familiar field, and a landmine had suddenly blown up under my feet. And that hadn’t happened for so long. So, so long. Get a grip, Audra.

I halted and stepped into the doorway of the now-empty shop that would house Pastries by Baptiste soon. I took a deep breath, summoning my courage before continuing to my shop.

“Good morning,” Jay said as I pulled the door open. He stood from where he was seated at his desk, widening his eyes in silent communication that told me he was as surprised as I was that the two women sitting at the round table where I met with clients were already here. He gestured to them. “Audra Kelley, this is Felicity McMaster and her mother, Alice.”

I moved forward, smiling and moving the flowers to my left arm so I could offer my right hand to the two women. Felicity was a slim blonde with a dainty, upturned nose, wide, blue eyes, and a rock on her finger the size of Gibraltar, and Alice was an older version of Felicity. Of course, I already knew who they were. I’d seen their picture in the style pages of the local paper and looked up Felicity’s engagement photo. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m sorry, did I misunderstand the time of our appointment? I apologize if I kept you waiting.”

“No, no,” Alice said, waving her hand. “We simply have a million things to do today and need to get out of here by nine forty-five. We didn’t think you’d mind if we came early.”

“No, of course not,” I lied. I pushed the bundles of flowers toward Jay, and he disappeared through the door to the back room, shooting me an encouraging smile over his shoulder. I slipped off my coat, putting it over the back of my chair, and set my purse on the floor before taking a seat next to Felicity.

“As you can imagine, planning a wedding with five hundred guests in two months is going to be quite the task. We need the very best vendors to help pull it off.”

I smiled. “Yes, of course.”

I already knew a little bit about the wedding from my initial phone call with Alice. If I got this job, it was going to be a huge account. A local wedding magazine was going to be showcasing the nuptials in a “winter wedding” feature, and I’d already let my mind wander to designs. A winter wedding—with a budget like the McMasters had mentioned—was a chance to do something unique and amazing. Of course, it could also be incredible publicity, free advertising. And I needed all the free I could get right now.

“I’m so honored to have the opportunity to develop designs for your wedding. May I ask how you found my name?” I’d been shocked when they’d called to set up an appointment at all, considering what a boon it would be for any vendor to work their event, and considering how small potatoes I still was.

“Actually,” Alice said, “you did the flowers for the Art in Auction event we attended a few months ago. We’d never seen such beautiful arrangements. We were surprised to hear such a no-name floral designer did them. But we decided to meet with you anyway.”

No-name floral designer. Meet me anyway. I managed what felt like a weak, somewhat embarrassed smile. “Well, thank you. I appreciate the chance.” It’d been a lucky break to get that job, and because of it, I’d secured several other highbrow charity events. And because of those unexpected projects, I’d been able to reduce a nice chunk of the loan I owed the bank. I pulled the tablet of paper and the pen sitting in the center of the table toward me and wrote Felicity’s name at the top. “Do you want to start by telling me your vision for the flowers?”

Felicity glanced at her mother. “Peonies, roses, and tulips.” Spring flowers for a winter wedding? Ugh. Only the rich and famous believed they could bend nature to their own will.

“I realize they’ll have to be flown in from a greenhouse,” her mother added on a small laugh, “but Felicity wants what Felicity wants.” She shot her daughter an indulgent smile as if she was proud of Felicity’s apparent penchant for making decisions that were both difficult and costly. “The other five florists we’ve met with promised it wouldn’t be a problem.”

My heart dipped. Five? I nodded. “Oh, I see. Yes, you could go that route,” I said slowly, “or you could do something more . . . individual, unique. Something that speaks not only of your excellent taste, but of your love story.”

Felicity frowned and her mother looked a little shocked, maybe even confused, as if this might be the first time she was considering that her daughter’s wedding involved a love story. “My . . . love story?” Felicity asked.

My heart picked up speed. “Well”—I cleared my throat—“flowers tell a story, not only with their beauty, but with their meaning.” I pulled the pad nearer to me and began sketching a bouquet, the smooth strokes of the pen providing calm, allowing me to drift into my own head, away from the nerves assaulting me. “Timeless garden roses,” I murmured, “sensual succulents, tender paperwhites, and sweet anemones with a touch of depth at the center, speaking of those secret things shared only between the two of you.” I shot her a knowing smile, and she looked briefly surprised but then tilted her chin, one side of her mouth tugging upward. The small upward lift of her lips boosted my courage, and I continued sketching, drawing a few more flowers as I listed them, creating the bouquet on paper.

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