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We’re putting the last zhuzhing touches on the tables when a bridesmaid comes in wearing a pink satin robe and fuzzy slippers, her makeup done but her hair in curlers.
“Abi?” she hisses.
“Yes?” Seeing the panic in her eyes, I amend my response. “What’s wrong?”
“The bouquet! Claire’s dog got ahold of it,” she says in near-hysterics. “Claire doesn’t know . . . yet.”
“Her what? I didn’t even know she had a dog!” My voice is too loud, drawing the attention of the other workers, and the bridesmaid shushes me with a hand.
Looking at me in confusion, she asks, “Do you not follow her? Of course, she has a dog. Adopted from a rescue that she supports and volunteers for.”
Of course. That actually sounds like something Claire would do.
“Janey, you got this?” I gesture to the tables around us.
“Yep, you handle that before the bride finds out and has a mental breakdown,” she responds, and I’m off, running for the elevator with a bucket of loose flowers, matching pace with the bridesmaid.
In the bridal suite, I find a party atmosphere with several other bridesmaids surrounding Claire. They hold up champagne flutes and smile as they ooh and ahh over how beautiful Claire is. But I see several pairs of eyes cut to me with a silent plea for HELP!
I give them a nod. I’ve got this.
And I’m quite sure of that until I see what has become of the gorgeous bouquet I designed. “Oh, no,” I cry, slapping my hands over my mouth so Claire doesn’t hear me.
The bridesmaid who came for me says, “You can fix it, right?”
I look at her with wide eyes, incredulous. “Fix this?” The flowers are destroyed, more petals than actual blooms, and the ones that are still held together at the stem have bite marks on them. “No, but I can replace it. Give me a few minutes to work my magic.”
“Please!” she begs.
A cheer goes up in the other room and Claire shouts happily, “Madison! What are you doing? Come toast with us.” The bridesmaid flushes, and I guess she’s the missing Madison.
“Go, just keep Claire in there. And where’s the dog?” The last thing I need to do is recreate a masterpiece and then have Cujo eat it again. The bridesmaid points to a kennel where a fluffy white mop of a dog is sleeping soundly.
Madison leaves me alone and I raise a brow at the dog. “Why you gotta destroy my hard work?” The dog doesn’t answer, but even in sleep, it growls unhappily.
I sort through the bouquet bits one by one to see if anything is salvageable and discover there are a few usable pieces. Very few. Using the loose blooms I brought with me, I’m able to create another bouquet. It’s not as large as the original, but it’s the perfectly round poof of multi-colored blooms that Claire requested. I even add a cascade of pearls that I swiped from the tablescape downstairs to tie it together with the whole design.
Looking at the snoring dog, I’m struck with an idea of brilliance. I grab a few more flowers and a length of ribbon to fashion a collar of sorts for Cujo, or whatever Fluffy McFlowerEater’s real name is.
“Flower girl, I thought you had already delivered the bouquet. What are you doing here?” Meredith’s voice sends a chill down my spine. How does she do that? I swear she needs a bell tied around her neck so she can’t sneak up on people.
I spin, the dog collar going behind my back. I’m sure I look as busted as I feel, though I’m not doing anything suspicious. Or at least not now that the bouquet crisis is handled.
“Oh, hi, Abi!” Claire calls from beside Meredith. “The bouquets look so gorge!” She swooshes into the room in a white satin robe, her hair and makeup perfect. She comes over to the desk to pick up the new bouquet, looking at it through glossy eyes. “I can’t believe it’s all happening today,” she says earnestly, not even noticing that the bouquet is different than it was before.
I swear, this woman is too damn perfect. She’s beautiful, kind, big-hearted, saves dogs, thinks of her guests and followers, and appreciates the work everyone’s doing to make her dream come true.
If she wasn’t so nice, I’d hate her. But she is . . . So. Nice.
I’m still worried about that phone call I overheard, and I even consider telling Claire about it so she could do what she wants with the information. But I don’t know anything. Not really. It could’ve been nothing. God, I hope it’s nothing. Because I don’t want to be a gossiper. I’ve seen how quickly a rumor can run amok and cause all sorts of problems. And in the end, it doesn’t even matter what’s true and what’s exaggerated.
