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I sat at our consultation table and read up on the bride. Wedding six months from now in May. We’d have to go with flowers that could handle the Arizona heat. Small church venue. Reception following. Indoors, thank goodness. Wedding colors—eucalyptus, fuchsia, and pale petal pink. It didn’t take a genius to see flowers had been on her mind when she picked those colors out.
I wasn’t as good at designing as Grace, but possibilities formed in my mind as I pulled up the app we used for wedding consultations. Well, the one I used. Grace preferred to sketch out her bouquet ideas. My creative skills were more of the click and drag variety. I liked that I could sort through flower selections by season, hardiness, and availability.
The bell over the door chimed and I looked up to see our bride-to-be; dark-haired, tall, and looking very excited. She was followed by a short scowling woman.
The bride hurried over and put out her hand. “You must be Isaac. Grace told me all about you. I’m Amalia, and this is my mother, Maria.”
“Hola,” Maria muttered, settling into a chair across from me and setting a big lumpy bag on top of her lap. She pulled out some kind of needle-point project, followed by handfuls of embroidery thread that immediately fell all over the floor.
I reached out and gathered up the fallen thread, ready to make a friendly inquiry as to what she was working on, but Amalia gave me a tiny headshake that clearly meant,don’t engage. Okay then.
I put all the thread on the table like it belonged there, and then immediately turned to Amalia. “Let’s get started.”
Like many brides, she’d created a Pinterest board, so we scrolled through that and talked options, including what each would cost per piece.
“Amalia.” Maria tapped her daughter’s arm, interrupting her. “Amalia.” She glanced at me before launching into rapid Spanish.
I knew enough to pick out bits and pieces, especially the words I often encountered in my line of work. It boiled down to this: Amalia had an aunt (or maybe Maria had an aunt?) who would do the flowers for cheap. This situation came up more than you would think, and who won in the end always boiled down to who was the more determined party. My money was not on Amalia, but maybe she’d surprise me.
Amalia frowned. “No, Mamá.No quiero flores artificiales.”
“Flores de seda. Silk,” Maria said, finally turning and acknowledging me. “They last forever.”
“Mamá.” Amalia put her hands up in a plea. “I don’t want them to last forever. That’s what pictures are for. And we’re already using Tomás for the pictures. He’s good. I’m not saying he’s not. But we also have Santi and Theresa making the cakes. The D.J. is your cousin’s boy. How many favors do you want to owe?”
It was the right question to ask. Or maybe the wrong one, because Maria narrowed her eyes and turned to study me, making me feel a little like a dusty item she’d suddenly found a use for.
“You are very handsome. Are you single, too?”
“Má.” Amalia groaned. “No.”
“She’s taken,” I pointed out, hoping with all my heart this wasn’t about finding her daughter a replacement groom.
Maria laughed. “Oh, you are funny. Amalia is too good for you. No. I have a list. You pick from this list.” She reached into her needle point bag and pulled out several half-done projects, setting them on the table before finding a tattered notebook.
Amalia groaned. “She keeps a list of every single person she knows, so she’s always prepared to make a match when the time is right. And there’s never a wrong time.”
“Never a wrong time,” Maria echoed, ignoring the sarcasm from her daughter.
“Do they know they’re on this list?” I asked.
“They know. I’m an excellent matchmaker. A call from me is like…” She stopped to think. “It’s like the Publisher’s Clearing House of love. That’s me. And you,señor, are like the big check that shows up at the door.” She held out her arms. “Big check.”
“As flattering as that is, I don’t think…I…can…” My words slowed as her answering glare burned into my soul. I could do this. It was a simple no. I said no all the time. I’d said no to the leftover cheesecake in my fridge this morning. I could say no to this woman. And I would… as soon as she stopped staring at me like that.
Maria narrowed her eyes. “You want to do Amalia’s flowers? You pick from this list.” She jabbed at the old notebook in her hands.
I made the mistake of glancing at Amalia for support. And while she was definitely appalled at her mother’s behavior, I also saw desperate hope there. I was her wild card, her Hail Mary, her last-ditch effort to have real flowers at her wedding. If I said no, what would she have to go through at the next flower shop?
This was hitting at a weak spot I thought I’d conquered. Because of some serious stupidity in my teen years, I never wanted to disappoint people again. I avoided it whenever possible. It was why my ex-fiancée had to be the one to break things off. I couldn’t do it. I was terrified of hurting her. Instead, she’d hurt me.
I didn’t even know Amalia, but I could feel that familiar dread creeping up. This was a small thing for me if I said yes, and it would mean the world to her.
I scratched the back of my neck. “So, I choose a name? And then what?”
“Two. You pick two girls. I set up the dates.”
When had we bypassed picking one name? “Two dates?”
