Chapter 19

On Friday morning, eight o’clock sharp, I deliver the vases to Tracy. She’s drinking coffee from a massive mug, a green-and-blue-striped shawl covering her shoulders. She looks up at me, raising her arrangement recipe book in salute. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose once I set down the box. “Here they are. How long until opening?”

“I set it back to ten so we can get everything done.” Tracy taps the glass edge of one vase. “These are pretty. Want to grab the flowers at the back of the cooler and then we can get started?”

I nod, grab my apron, and get to work. I’m unusually jittery, rushing with nerves and excitement. I want to create these centerpieces, and I want them to be beautiful. I want them to make Ivanka smile. (Also: I want to impress Levi.)

I drag out the wedding flowers. Pink peonies—the last of the season; wax flower; lisianthus, in lavender and white; pink spray roses; bright orange dahlias. There is also white misty and some leather. I stand back and watch Tracy as she looks over everything, as if trying to decide what to grab first.

She finally steps up to the worktable with two peonies, one lavender lisianthus, a handful of wax flower, and misty. I lean over the edge of the table, watching as she cuts them down to size—expertly and on the first try—and places the flowers in the vase at an angle. When she looks up at me, I’m already desperate to try it out.

I fill the first vase, my fingers learning the curve of the petals and the different feel of each stem. The textures relax me, and the sensation of the knife in my hand as I slice off the old ends makes me feel like I’m in control. I lower the flowers into the vase at the approximate angle Tracy did, gauging the weight of the peonies and the feathery buds of the misty to see where they will fall. I stuff it full of filler and leather, make sure it’s tight, and then turn to Tracy with the vase in my hands.

She tsks. “Stunning, Bee. Really. Just move this one here,” she adds, grabbing the peony and adjusting it ever so slightly, “and add a spray rose here.” She grabs and cuts a spray and puts it into the corner, where it fits perfectly with all its little buds. “Perfect. You’re a natural.”

“Really?” A bubbling sensation lifts my chest. “Are you serious?”

“What?” She grins, stepping backward, out of the way, as if she wants to give me room. “Doesn’t it feel natural when you hold the flowers, the way the knife curves against your palm?”

“Well.” I pause, gaping at her. “Actually, it kind of does.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” she says, her smile softening into something like pride.

After Tracy escapes into the back office to do paperwork, I busy myself making four identical arrangements. All of them beam at me on the table as I finally take a breather and a drink of water. “Eight more to go,” I call back to her.

She peeks around the corner, grinning. “They look excellent. Remember you have to learn how to make boutonnieres today so you can make them at home later. Remind me an hour before your shift is up.”

I finish two more arrangements before it’s time for me to open the shop. I begrudgingly drag myself away from the work table. Tracy’s promise to teach me something new is what spurs me on the rest of the day, through cleaning and broken buckets, grumpy customers and shattered glass. I don’t get why today had to be the busiest of the week, but with every new flower I trim and customer I help, I’m reminded of why I’m here. It brings a sort of comfort to me. I want this; I want to learn.

The crowd finally lulls around two o’clock. Tracy wraps up her current arrangement, sets it on the cooler rack, and sits beside the ribbon table.

The process for boutonnieres, while time-consuming, is very straightforward. There is a lot of wire, ribbons, and green tape. I twist the ribbons to make three loops on each side, using thin wire to hold it in place and create a tiny bow. Everything revolves around the little rose bud, popped off the stem and stuck through with another wire. The other pieces—the bow, the filler, and the greens—are wrapped with tape and into a little curly-Q at the end.

I leave at three, my fingers sore from ripping tape and folding wire. I have four more boutonnieres to make when I get home, so I put all the supplies into the back of my car and close the trunk. I’m getting into the driver seat when I see Tracy running after me, another bucket of flowers in her hand.

She comes to a stop by my door, huffing and leaning against it. “I forgot—I need you to make the bride’s bouquet.”

“What?!” I suck in a breath. “I’ve never made—”

“No, I know. If I see it tomorrow and it doesn’t look good, I’ll fix it. But I need you to try tonight. I already have to make the flower crown because we didn’t have time for me to teach you, and you have five more centerpieces to make tomorrow. Unless you can get them all done tonight.”

I push down my sudden outbreak of panic. “Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

She breathes out deeply. “Thank you. I’m just too busy with the other wedding.”

No kidding. I smile thinly, putting my car into gear. “Thanks for your help, Tracy. I know Ivanka is going to be so excited.”

“I can’t wait to see pictures,” she says, and moves out of the way so I can back out.

I wait until I’m stuck in ridiculous traffic before I pull out my phone to call Levi. “Levi, I think I’m dying,” I say, so fast I don’t even think he said hello. “Is there anyone who can come over tonight and help me? I have a billion things to do before tomorrow.”

“I can help you,” he says. “I got the catering for tomorrow fixed—did I tell you about that? Big fiasco. Anyway. I’ll just pick up my dry cleaning and come over.”

I breathe out. “Really? Are you sure? Tomorrow’s a big day and I don’t want to bother you. I thought you might be at the office and could send someone over. I just got stressed…and there were a bunch of upset customers ordering for funerals, which made everything worse. But I don’t know why I’m freaking out because it’s not that big of a deal. I can get it done, I just…” I shrug to myself in the car and then realize Levi can’t see it. “I don’t know,” I finish. “I’ll just call one of the other girls, it’s no big deal. Sorry to bug—”

“Bee!” he yells over my rambling, and then I realize he’s been talking to me this whole time. “Don’t you dare call the other girls. I remember recently a certain someone stepped in and helped me when I was stressed, so now I’m going to return the favor. Where should I meet you? And what do you need help with?”

I smile. I can feel the warmth spreading under my skin. I want to hug him. Indefinitely. (Forever.) “I’ll be at my house if that works. Otherwise, I can drive to you.”

“No, that works. Text me your address.”

“I will. And it’s to do with the table arrangements, the bouquet, and the boutonnieres. I just need someone to stand with me and fold ribbons and cut wires and hold things. I’m still new to this, so I’m afraid I’m going to screw everything up.”

“Bee, stop.” His voice is so commanding that I do. I stop. He clears his throat. “You’ve got to take this one thing at a time. We’ll start with what’s most important, and work our way down. I can hire another florist if we run out of time.”

“Okay,” I say. I take a deep breath in and breathe out. “I’ll be home in thirty minutes. See you whenever you can get there.”

“See you soon.”

Thankfully, I’m able to get home five minutes earlier than expected. (A miracle.) I pull into the roundabout and wave to my sister, who’s sitting on the front porch with a book in her hand.

“Hey, Astrid! Will you help me?”

She lopes over to me. “What’s up?”

“I need you to carry these two buckets in.” I open my trunk and set the buckets into the crooks of her arms. “Send Millie out here, too, will you?”

Astrid wanders off, watching her step so she doesn’t splatter peony blooms all over the porch. A few moments later, Millie runs out of the house. “Hey Bee! Guess who’s here!”

I look up quickly, brushing my (bothersome) hair from my eyes. Millie streaks past me, grabbing the basket of supplies I hold out to her. Levi’s on my front porch, hair a mess, hands in his pockets. He starts to walk toward me.

(Oh, God.)

“Oh, hi,” I say. “I didn’t even see your car.” But when I look around, I see it right on the street, as obvious as the GIANT palm trees in our front yard.

He shakes his head, half a smile lifting the corners of his lips. “No need to stress, Bee. We’ll get this done.” And he hugs me, as if that’s super normal, as if it isn’t going to squash my lungs and paralyze my limbs. I lean against him like the helpless child I am and heave a sigh.

“Thanks,” I say. I grab the remaining bucket and the second supply basket, but he takes them from me. I just look at him in response. I’m afraid if I open my tired mouth, I’ll blurt out something stupid (like, “I kind of love you”), or if I try to grab them back I’ll trip over my own feet. So I let him go and shut my trunk and follow him inside.

I shut the front door behind me, and when I turn, Millicent is smiling dreamily at Levi. “Levi met Dad,” she says to me.

“Oh?” This news wakes me up. “And how did that go?”

Levi cracks a smile. “He told me he was disappointed that I haven’t seen Back to the Future, but he was pretty impressed with my knowledge of Adam Ant and Danny Elfman.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s my sci-fi buddy. I get all my nerdiness from him.”

Levi follows me out to the backyard, where I set everything on the patio table. “I’d like to watch Back to the Future now. I’m feeling…out of the loop.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassure him. “Don’t say anything, but…I haven’t seen it either.”

Levi clears his throat. “Speaking of…”

“Hey, Bee.” My dad puts his arm around my shoulder. “How was work?”

I hug him tight around the middle. “Really busy, actually. Aren’t you supposed to be at work today?”

“Nah, I got the day off.” He ruffles my hair.

“Papa, please.” I duck my head. “It doesn’t matter how old I get…”

My dad winks at Levi—winks! “You’ll never get out of the hair-ruffle,” he says to me.

Levi smiles at me, eyes lit by the pretty sun. (Or maybe it’s that his pretty eyes are lit by the sun?) “It makes you look like a wild pixie.”

I reach up and flatten my hair. “Gee. Thanks.”

Papa puts his hand on Levi’s shoulder, glancing between us. “You want anything to drink? Root beer? Orange juice?”

“Only if you put it in her sippy cup,” Astrid comments, passing through the room. Her grin is smug.

I choose (with some difficulty) to ignore her. “I’ll have a root beer, if there’s enough.”

Levi nods. “I’ll have one, too.”

I set up the buckets, my dad brings root beer to us in the mason jars my mom saves as cups, and Levi sits patiently, waiting for my instruction. I take a sip of the cold drink and sigh happily. “Okay. Levi. First, I need to teach you how to make bows.”

(Ah, the smirk. It returns.) “How manly,” he says, deepening his voice an octave.

“I know,” I say. “You should feel so privileged.”

“Dude, yes.”

I laugh, holding up a bow for him to see, and launch into an explanation. I show him an example and watch closely as he tries his own. Soon he has the hang of it, making the eight bows I need in rapid succession. While he’s busy, I pop four rose buds and loop a wire through each one. Levi sets down the ribbon and, catching on, starts to copy me with the wires, the leather, the green tape.

And so it begins. It takes us half the time to get through the boutonnieres, but we slow down again when I get to the bridal bouquet. My fingers, while accustomed to working with flowers, are not used to holding the stems like this. My wrists start to ache after a few minutes. Levi puts down the ribbon and tape and reaches for the buds, lightly covering the tops of the flowers, keeping them steady for me.

“Damn, Bee. I don’t know much about bridal bouquets—”

I give him a look.

He grins. It’s a sheepish grin. “Okay, I don’t know anything about bridal bouquets. But this is really beautiful.”

I fumble. “Thanks.” My vision narrows as I add flowers and filler inch by inch. With Levi there to hold everything down and fix strays, however, my load becomes lighter and I’m finished in two minutes. I grasp the stems as Levi ties everything off and cuts the stems down so they’re even. Then I hold out my arm and we look at my newest “masterpiece”.

“Wow.” Levi sits back on the bench and whistles. “Bee. I think we have something here.”

“What?” His words distract me from my (relatively pleased) inspection.

“I mean, like I said, I know nothing about this stuff—I work with cars, you know?” He laughs. “But.” He lifts a finger to make his point. “I know when I’m seeing talent.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly, but I’m grinning. “A-ny-way,” I say with emphasis, setting the bouquet in its square vase. There’s a bit of water at the bottom, just enough to keep it alive and healthy, but not enough to seep into the ribbon. “Will you put this in the fridge? Erm, the extra one in the garage. Millie can show you.”

My sister pops her head around the corner upon hearing her name. “Yeah, I sure can. Right this way, Mr. Orville.”

He grimaces. “Don’t even go there, Millie.”

She laughs and flounces her hair as he follows her into the house, out of sight. I stare after them, half thinking about Levi in the sunshine, half thinking, Oh my gosh, my sister is going to be such a flirt.

While I wait for them to come back, I start on the rest of the centerpieces. I sense my dad watching from the door, and after a few moments, he joins me.

“Bee, is there something going on?” He clears his throat. “Between you two?”

I blush. “No,” I say, because it’s the truth.

Dad looks at me pointedly. “But you want it to.”

My fingers idle, and I drop my hands to the table in a gesture of surrender. “Am I really that obvious?” I whisper.

“Maybe not to him. But I know my little girl. You look at him the same way you look at Henry Cavill on the TV.”

“Ohmygosh, DAD.”

“What?” He laughs when I punch his arm.

“I’ll stick you with these pins—just try me!”

He sticks his tongue out. “No thank you.” Then he nudges my arm. “Just be sure to tell me if something happens. I want to be in the know so I can kick that boy right in the baby-maker if he tries to hurt you.”

I laugh so hard at this, I feel my face getting red.

My dad raises one eyebrow. “I was serious.”

“I know, Papa. I know.” I wipe my eyes free of tears.

“What’s going on?” Levi asks, coming outside again. He looks at me curiously. “I keep finding you with your face all red.”

I gasp out a ridiculous sort of squeak and say, “Um, my dad was just…being weird.” I put both hands on my dad’s back and push him toward the door. “He was also just leaving. Go on, shoo-shoo. I need to work.”

Papa shrugs, patting Levi’s arm on his way back into the house. “Don’t let her eat you alive,” he whispers at the last second.

“Whose side are you on?” I shout, then drop my head in my hands, listening to Levi’s quiet chuckle. The door shuts but I’m still hiding. (And I’m still reeling from my dad using the words “baby-maker” in reference to Levi.)

Speaking of… He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Bee,” he says, and when I don’t move, he drapes one arm around me. (Nonononono nooooooooooo.) (But also: YES.) “You look embarrassed,” he says, teasing in his voice.

“Let’s just say my dad has no shame, living in a house of mostly girls.” I look up and grin. I can’t help it. Smiling is my mouth’s automatic response to seeing his face.

“Oh, it’s the same with my mom, having lived with only boys for nineteen years.”

“I’m glad someone shares my pain.”

He smiles and nods at the work table. “Can I do anything else?”

Just like that, I’m back in stress mode. I reach for one of the last buckets. “If you could cut three of each of these flowers to the same length as my examples, that’d be great.”

He gets to work, his fingers quick with the knife. I arrange the flowers as he passes them to me. Eventually, I break the silence between us. “How are things coming along for the fundraiser?”

“Great, actually.” Levi passes me a stem of hot pink sprays. “Aside from the catering mix-up.” He glances at me. “Seriously, dude, you have no idea how easy you’ve made this for me.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

He cuts two more stems down before saying, “Did you figure out what to wear?”

“Actually, I have two dresses I’m deciding between.” I set the last flower into the last vase and sigh happily. “Done!”

Levi stands back and looks at my handiwork. “Ivanka is going to love this.” He pauses, his thumb brushing a tiny spray rose. When he opens his mouth again, his words surprise me. “Once we put these away, can I see the dresses?”

“I mean…um…” I clear my throat. “Yeah. Sure.” I gather two vases and gesture for Levi to do the same. We put them in the garage fridge (which barely closes, it’s so full) and head back inside. “Here, I’ll grab the dresses.” I reach my door, opening it, about to let Levi in when—

I jump back. “Um, I forgot to clean my room. You can’t come in.”

Levi shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.”

“You’ve been busy lately. It’s understandable.”

“Yes, but I still don’t want you to see it. It’s…awful.” Okay, it’s not really, but it’s bad enough to be embarrassing. “I’ll be right out.”

He stays obediently in the hallway. I grab the dresses on their hangers, and a few seconds later I’m standing in front of him, holding them up for him to see. One is navy blue with an empire waist and loose pleats in the skirt. The other is green and fitted, patterned lace forming to its shape. It’s a total hip-hugger, and when Levi immediately points to it, I blush. (Why am I blushing?!)

“This one. Absolutely, one hundred percent.”

“Really?” I squeak out.

“Yeah. That green will look beautiful on you.”

I think my throat is closing, but I force words out anyway. “That’s…sweet.” Oh gosh, Bee, keep it together. He just called the dress beautiful and you’re acting like he proposed.

“Trust me?” he asks.

The question tugs at the corners of my mouth until I’m grinning. “I think so...”

“Good. Because if you don’t wear it…” He gives me a pointed look.

“What? Are you threatening me?”

He laughs. “God, no. I’m just…well, yeah, actually. I am. Watch out—you don’t want to incur my incredible, overwhelming, and absolutely terrible disappointment when you show up in a dress just as beautiful.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing, too. “You’re the worst at threats, you know.” I dodge his hands, which are—to my absolute horror—reaching out to tickle me. “Don’t!”

“You’re no fun, Bambina.”

“Stop!” I shriek as he reaches for me again. I’ve cornered myself, but I’m quick to open my door and rush inside, shutting it in his face. “My name,” I yell, “is NOT Bambina!”

I soak in his laugh through the door as I lean against it and hug the dresses to my chest. In the heat of the evening, with sunshine littering my room, I imagine that his laugh commands the sun’s rays, and the sky is bursting with our joy.