“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.
My mind wandered even more, my hand seeming to move of its own accord, the way it did sometimes when creativity blossomed inside me.
“What’s that one?” Felicity asked, pointing to a flower I’d just drawn.
I blinked at it, surprised I’d included it. Maybe it was because my mind had drifted, maybe it was because the emotion—one I still wasn’t sure I could name—of Victor’s photo simmered inside me, maybe it was because I’d spoken of true love. “That’s a hellebore, sometimes called a winter rose.” I paused. “There’s a local legend about this flower. Would you like to hear it?”
Both women nodded in unison, their eyes following my pen as I added greenery, kale, and air plants to make the bouquet rich and lustrous.
“An old Indian legend tells of a chief who fell desperately in love with a beautiful woman named Aiyana who was said to live her life in such a way that each day, she inhaled the sunrise and exhaled the sunset. She was not of his tribe, but her spirit called to him so he made her his bride. They lived in happiness and harmony for many years when she tragically drowned, leaving the chief’s heart broken and his life empty. A few days after she was buried, the chief was shocked to see small flowers pushing through the winter-hardened earth above her final resting place. Delicate green hellebores who turned their faces to the mountains and the sky, inhaling the sunrise and exhaling the sunset.”
I glanced up at Felicity and Alice, and they looked rapt with attention. “But soon an unexpected snowstorm came and the chief was fearful it would cover those delicate flowers and block out what he believed to be his bride’s view of the sky, her everlasting happiness. So he stood beside where they grew and curled his body over them and provided shelter as the storm raged and he froze in place. The sky god recognized the chief’s great love and sacrifice and turned him into a tree. And now, if you see a tree whose branches cover a patch of hellebores, you know it’s the chief, forever bent in protection over his beloved, together for all time. And the hellebore signifies true, unending love.”
I drew a quick grouping of stems, wrapped in a ribbon, and ended with a flourish as I looked at Felicity, my heart beating heavily in my chest, my throat clogged.
Felicity sighed dreamily and her mother gripped her hand on the table. “David does look at you that way, Felicity. Like you exhale the sunrise itself.”
Felicity’s eyes widened. “He does?”
Her mother nodded and the two shared a tender look. “Oh yes.” Alice looked back at me. She shook her head and laughed softly. “Well then.” She glanced at my drawing. Even I had to admit it looked lovely, as far as drawings went. “It is . . . beautiful. Unique.” She tilted her head. “And it would certainly make a statement.”
She glanced at Felicity who then grinned at her mother. Alice looked at me once again. “We’ll need matching centerpieces for fifty tables, flowers for the altar . . . oh the works. Send me a quote and my husband will put a deposit in the mail.”
I felt my eyes widen as my heart leapt, though I still felt slightly dazed. “I . . . I’ll get you a quote by tomorrow afternoon. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Wonderful.” They both stood and shook my hand one more time as I gave them a breathless smile. They began to move toward the door when Felicity turned back toward me so suddenly I startled. She pointed at the black ink drawing, still sitting on the tabletop. “Can I have that? The drawing is beautiful. Do you mind?”
I blinked. “Oh, no, of course not.” I ripped the page from the pad and handed it to her. She offered me another smile and then Felicity followed her mother out the door. As it clicked shut behind them, I sank back into the chair.
Jay, who had come out of the back at some point without me even noticing, rushed to my side, pulling up a chair next to me and gripping my shoulders.
“You’re brilliant,” he whisper shouted.
I put my hand to my forehead. “Am I going to be able to pull this off, Jay? Five hundred guests and a magazine spread.”
“Hell to the yes. You got this.” He frowned at me for a moment. “Aren’t you happy?”
I think so. I should be. Only I felt . . . strange. Still off balance. “Yes. Yes, of course. This is huge. I guess I’m just shocked.” I gave him a small laugh.
“Well get un-shocked. You have work to do.” Jay put his hand up and I high-fived him, laughing again and giving my head another shake, trying to break out of this odd feeling of disconnection. Telling that story . . . it was like the weight of those words still sat on my heart.
As if reading my mind, Jay asked, “Where’d you hear that story anyway?”