“Good. Two more things I can cross off my list.” Amy looked accomplished, and most important, she looked happy. Maybe she'd be in a better mood the rest of the day.
“Did you want us to pull some necklaces to try with the dress?” the saleswoman asked.
“No,” I blurted. “I mean, no, thank you. We have a family necklace we're hoping she can wear.”
“I see.”
“It was our mother’s,” I added. “She wore it the day she was married to our dad.”
“It sounds wonderful,” the saleswoman answered, seeming wholly disinterested. She was probably pissed at me for cutting down on her commission.
I walked up to Amy after the seamstress announced she had everything she needed. “You look absolutely beautiful. Luke is going to flip.”
“Do you really think we should count on the necklace? Maybe I should just pick something out to be safe.”
I shook my head. “No. I will get that necklace if it's the last thing I do.”
Chapter Ten
The moodof the shopping trip with Amy took a noticeable turn when we left Vera Wang and there was only more stop to make—Maggie's Floral. Mother Nature had gone for the purely theatrical and moved a bank of gray clouds in over the city, shutting out the sun, and casting everything in an eerie blue. It sure as hell felt like the arrival of Mom’s ghost. Flowers were her specialty. She should have been here for this.
“Do you want to stop and get a coffee? Maybe frozen yogurt? A cookie?” I asked, sensing that Amy might want to put this off. I could be totally onboard with that.
“No. Maybe we should save that for after. I'm still pretty hopped up on caffeine from breakfast anyway.”
Amy was going for the “let’s just get this over with” approach. I admired her fortitude in the face of what might be her greatest bridal hurdle. “Great. Then lead the way.”
The sky was threatening to open up, sprinkling raindrops on us, so we nabbed a cab as soon as we could. Once again, things were quiet between us, but this was one of those symbiotic sister moments. Neither of us had to say what we were feeling or thinking. We were battling the same inner conflict, wanting so desperately to be able to saunter into Maggie’s Floral and revisit happy memories of our mom. But we both knew it would never be as simple as that. The good was too inextricably tied to the bad.
When Amy and I were kids, our mother worked at Taylor & Daughters Flowers, a few miles from our house. She'd actually started there when she was pregnant with me. She even went into labor while working the counter, her water leaking all over the gray-and-white checkered linoleum floor. Our mom lived for that job. Amy and I loved the shop, too. It was pure magic.
A hippie lady named Sarah Taylor, who wore long flowing skirts and jangly bracelets, owned it. Ms. Taylor didn't have any actual daughters, but she resented how businesses had “& Sons” tacked on to the end of their name like that was supposed to make them more legitimate, but daughters were never discussed. I'd heard Sarah say many times to her customers that the women who worked in the shop were just like her daughters, and she tended to hire women who were, by her own admission, a bit lost. Apparently our mom fell into that category, a community college dropout with an interest in art, but no real talent for things like paint or sculpture. But she had an eye for color and design and she became a master with flowers.
For as long as I could remember, Amy and I spent every Saturday at the shop. It was a necessity when Dad was out of town on a work trip, which as we got older, was pretty much every week. It was like a fairytale, with big windows that faced the street, the sun streaming across the long wood counter marred with deep gouges from scissors and clippers. There was this unavoidable feeling that anything could happen there, but it never seemed foreboding. It felt more born of possibility.
The smell in the shop was like nothing else—sweet and fresh and heady, like a garden in the middle of summer, but even more potent. If there were lilies in the shop, the fragrance always made me a bit sick, but Amy loved it. She would run into the back room and stick her face into the profusion of blooms. If the lilies were open, she’d end up with stains of orangey-brown pollen on her cheeks and nose. Mom was always busy doing arrangements and assisting customers, so it was my job to help Amy get cleaned up. It always took a lot of rubbing with rough brown bathroom paper towels. There were invariably tears and accusations that I was a mean older sister, followed by a stern reminder from me that if she would just stop doing that, I wouldn't have to scrub her face clean in the first place.
Saturdays were big days at Taylor & Daughters—wedding day. Much of the work would've been done Friday, but there were always a million last minute things to do. Mom was the one who made everything come together. She ensured the flowers were still looking their best, replacing any blooms that might have drooped overnight. Wanting no bride to ever be disappointed, she double and triple-checked the order, then packed everything up in the big white delivery van. That's how Mom became involved with Gordon. He was the delivery driver for Taylor & Daughters, hired when I was one year old. Gordon and Mom had known each other in high school. They'd even dated. Right there, in the charming shop that Amy and I loved so much, was where their affair began.
The cab zipped up to the curb and jerked to a stop in front of Maggie's Floral. Amy collected our things while I paid the driver, and we made our way inside. A tiny bell chimed when Amy opened the door. An older woman with kind violet eyes emerged from the back room. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. Hi. I'm Amy Fuller. Are you Maggie? I called about flowers for my wedding. Mrs. Mayhew recommended you. She's my future mother-in-law.” Amy was rambling and her voice was tight. I knew she was feeling just as overwhelmed as I was—the sights and smells made it feel like we’d been thrust into a movie made of our own memories.
“Oh, yes.” Maggie smiled. “This must be your sister. The one with the special eyesight?”
Amy slipped out of her coat, draped it over her arm and turned to me. “Yes. This is Katherine.”
“It's not really that special,” I said. “I mean. It's not like it's a talent. I was just born this way.”
“Your sister told me all about it on the phone. She's very proud of your abilities.”
I could feel a blush creeping across my cheeks. It felt good to know I was the only one who could help Amy in this way, but it didn't take away the bittersweet edge of picking out flowers. “That's my sister. Always bragging about something.” I elbowed Amy and she tittered nervously.
Maggie pulled out a large three-ring binder and placed it on the counter in front of two stools. She sat on the opposite side. “These are some bouquets I've done for other brides. I find it best to start with the bouquet and work everything else from there.”
“Our mom always said that,” I said. “When she worked with brides. She worked at a florist when we were little.”
“How nice,” Maggie offered. “Will she be helping with the wedding?”
