it’s the symbolic and ritualistic beginning of the marriage, so—”
“They got married in Vegas.”
He continued to eat, face bland as he watched her try not to laugh.
“Many people get married in Vegas. That doesn’t mean they won’t have many happy and fulfilling years together.”
“By a transvestite Elvis impersonator.”
“Okay, now you’re making things up. But even if you’re not, that kind of . . . choice shows a sense of humor and fun, which, I happen to believe, are important elements for a successful marriage.”
“Good save. Great pasta.” He glanced over to where Parker sat with potential clients on the main terrace. “Business seems to be clicking along.”
“Five events this week on-site, and a bridal shower we coordinated off-site.”
“Yeah, I’ll be here for the one Saturday evening.”
“Friend of Bride or Groom?”
“Groom. The bride’s a monster.”
“God, she really is.” Emma leaned back and laughed. “She brought me a picture of her best friend’s bouquet. Not because she wanted me to duplicate it, which she certainly did not. Hers is a completely different style, but she’d counted the roses, and told me she wanted at least one more in hers—and warned me she’d be counting them.”
“She will, too. And I can pretty much guarantee no matter how good a job you do, she’ll find fault.”
“Yeah, we’ve figured that out. It’s part of the job around here. You get monsters and angels and everything in between. But I don’t have to think about her today. Today’s a happy day.”
He knew she meant it. She looked relaxed, and had a glow about her. Then again, she usually did. “Because you have fifty bouquets to make?”
“That, and knowing the bride of fifty years is going to love them. Fifty years. Can you imagine?”
“I can’t imagine fifty years of anything.”
“That’s not true. You must imagine what you build lasting fifty years. Hopefully much longer.”
“Point,” he agreed. “But that’s building.”
“So’s marriage. It’s building lives. It takes work, care, maintenance. And our anniversary couple proves it can be done. And now I have to get back to them. Break’s over for me.”
“Me, too. I’ll get this for you.” He loaded up the tray, lifted it as they rose. “You’re working alone today? Where are your elves?”
“They’ll be here tomorrow. And there will be chaos as we start on the flowers for the weekend events. Today it’s just me, about three thousand roses, and blissful quiet.” She opened the door for him.
“Three thousand ? Are you serious? Your fingers will fall off.”
“I have very strong fingers. And if I need it, one of the pals will come by for a couple hours and help strip stems.”
He set the tray on her kitchen counter, thinking, as he always did, that her place smelled like a meadow. “Good luck with that. Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” She walked him to the door where he stopped.
“What about your car?”
“Oh. Parker gave me the name of a mechanic, a place. Kavanaugh’s. I’m going to call.”
“He’s good. Call soon. I’ll see you Saturday.”
He imagined her going back to her roses as he walked to his car. Of sitting, for hours, drenched in their scent, cleaning stems of thorns then . . . doing whatever it was she did, he decided, to make what women who took the plunge carried.
And he thought of how she’d looked when he’d come upon her, sitting in the sunlight, face tipped up, eyes closed, those luscious lips of hers just slightly curved as if she dreamed of something very pleasant. All that hair bundled up and slim dangles of silver at her ears.
He’d thought, briefly but actively, about just leaning down and taking that mouth with his. He could’ve played it light, made some crack about Sleeping Beauty. She had a sense of humor, so maybe she’d have gotten a kick out of it.
She also had a temper, he mused. She didn’t cut it loose often, but she had
“They got married in Vegas.”
He continued to eat, face bland as he watched her try not to laugh.
“Many people get married in Vegas. That doesn’t mean they won’t have many happy and fulfilling years together.”
“By a transvestite Elvis impersonator.”
“Okay, now you’re making things up. But even if you’re not, that kind of . . . choice shows a sense of humor and fun, which, I happen to believe, are important elements for a successful marriage.”
“Good save. Great pasta.” He glanced over to where Parker sat with potential clients on the main terrace. “Business seems to be clicking along.”
“Five events this week on-site, and a bridal shower we coordinated off-site.”
“Yeah, I’ll be here for the one Saturday evening.”
“Friend of Bride or Groom?”
“Groom. The bride’s a monster.”
“God, she really is.” Emma leaned back and laughed. “She brought me a picture of her best friend’s bouquet. Not because she wanted me to duplicate it, which she certainly did not. Hers is a completely different style, but she’d counted the roses, and told me she wanted at least one more in hers—and warned me she’d be counting them.”
“She will, too. And I can pretty much guarantee no matter how good a job you do, she’ll find fault.”
“Yeah, we’ve figured that out. It’s part of the job around here. You get monsters and angels and everything in between. But I don’t have to think about her today. Today’s a happy day.”
He knew she meant it. She looked relaxed, and had a glow about her. Then again, she usually did. “Because you have fifty bouquets to make?”
“That, and knowing the bride of fifty years is going to love them. Fifty years. Can you imagine?”
“I can’t imagine fifty years of anything.”
“That’s not true. You must imagine what you build lasting fifty years. Hopefully much longer.”
“Point,” he agreed. “But that’s building.”
“So’s marriage. It’s building lives. It takes work, care, maintenance. And our anniversary couple proves it can be done. And now I have to get back to them. Break’s over for me.”
“Me, too. I’ll get this for you.” He loaded up the tray, lifted it as they rose. “You’re working alone today? Where are your elves?”
“They’ll be here tomorrow. And there will be chaos as we start on the flowers for the weekend events. Today it’s just me, about three thousand roses, and blissful quiet.” She opened the door for him.
“Three thousand ? Are you serious? Your fingers will fall off.”
“I have very strong fingers. And if I need it, one of the pals will come by for a couple hours and help strip stems.”
He set the tray on her kitchen counter, thinking, as he always did, that her place smelled like a meadow. “Good luck with that. Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.” She walked him to the door where he stopped.
“What about your car?”
“Oh. Parker gave me the name of a mechanic, a place. Kavanaugh’s. I’m going to call.”
“He’s good. Call soon. I’ll see you Saturday.”
He imagined her going back to her roses as he walked to his car. Of sitting, for hours, drenched in their scent, cleaning stems of thorns then . . . doing whatever it was she did, he decided, to make what women who took the plunge carried.
And he thought of how she’d looked when he’d come upon her, sitting in the sunlight, face tipped up, eyes closed, those luscious lips of hers just slightly curved as if she dreamed of something very pleasant. All that hair bundled up and slim dangles of silver at her ears.
He’d thought, briefly but actively, about just leaning down and taking that mouth with his. He could’ve played it light, made some crack about Sleeping Beauty. She had a sense of humor, so maybe she’d have gotten a kick out of it.
She also had a temper, he mused. She didn’t cut it loose often, but she had
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