“Yeah, didn’t think it would be,” I say as we head on over to the florist.
“Ophelia, please don’t drag your feet. It’s unbecoming.” Lia clamps her lips together, probably to keep her from snapping back. The Beave’s mood has carried over from yesterday, and it has been fucking unpleasant. “Now, I just spoke with the florist and she said she can accommodate our order of red roses, but we need to act quickly.”
“Red roses?” Lia sneers. “Those are so formal.” She hates red roses. Thinks they’re so cliché. Can’t say I disagree.
“Exactly, this is a formal wedding, Ophelia. What do you expect to have at the wedding? Daisies?” The Beave snorts as if that’s the most preposterous thing she’s ever heard.
“As a matter of fact,” Lia says, “I was thinking daisies would be perfect. They were my mom’s favorite flower.”
The Beave pauses and then clasps her hands together. “Ophelia, I appreciate your dedication to your mother’s favorite flower. Very admirable, but this is a wedding, not a memorial. This is a celebration.”
Oh fuck.
Lia gasps. It’s under her breath—subtle—that you almost don’t hear it, but it’s just enough for me to notice.
Just enough for me to know what’s going to happen next if I don’t interject.
“Mrs. Beaver,” I say, stepping in before Lia loses it. “I don’t want to step on any toes here, but I believe it would be a kind and serving thing to honor Lia’s late mother by including daisies. It would be a way to include her mother since she can’t be here.”
“But roses and daisies don’t go well together.”
“I can include daisies in the bride’s bouquet,” the florist says.
“I don’t need a bouquet,” Lia says, causing The Beave to snap her head in her direction.
“What do you mean you don’t need a bouquet? What on earth would you possibly walk down the aisle with?”
“I made a bunch of knitted flowers with my mom and grandma. I’ve saved them so I could make a bouquet out of them one day.”
The Beave is silent, and then slowly, she starts to chuckle.
The chuckle grows.
And grows.
It’s probably the most offensive thing I’ve seen. This woman thinks she has class, but she actually has none.
“Knitted flowers? For a wedding? You can’t be serious.” The Beave waves her hand in front of her, dismissing the whole notion.
“I’m pretty sure she’s serious, or else she wouldn’t bring it up,” I say, losing my cool.
Lia gently places her hand on my arm, letting me know she has this. “Mrs. Beaver, I appreciate your need to make this a beautiful wedding, but you need to remember that you’re around to see your son get married, and my parents aren’t, so incorporating them into the ceremony and reception is important to me.”
“And it should be important to you as well,” I say, backing her up.
Sensing the tone, The Beave straightens. Her expression morphs into one of understanding, and she quickly slips back into the prim and proper woman she attempts to portray herself as. She turns to the florist and says, “Well, if we could find a suitable way to incorporate daisies without looking tacky, we would appreciate it.”
The florist glances between us, looking entirely too frightened. “I believe we can.”
“What a nice compromise,” I say as a bee buzzes near my head. I swat it away. “I think daisies and roses will go well together.”
“Especially white roses,” Lia says.
“Oh, come now, you can’t be serious,” The Beave says. “White roses? You might not be getting married in a church, but for heaven’s sake, white roses? We’re not lying to our guests.” I watch a bee float around The Beave’s head, but either she doesn’t care or has no sense for nature because she doesn’t move.
“Why would we be lying to the guests?” Lia asks.
The Beave folds her hands together and says, “Ophelia, I have turned a blind eye to your nighttime activities with my son, but not everyone is as forgiving. White roses symbolize purity, and I’m afraid you’re anything but pure.”
I watch as Lia’s cheeks grow red with embarrassment. “I don’t think that matters.”
“Oh, it matters,” The Beave says.
“Okay, then maybe pink,” Lia suggests. “Doesn’t that have to do with grace or something?”
“Grace and sweetness,” the florist adds.
“That would be good then,” Lia says just as the bee flies near her head, and I wince, knowing she’s going to freak out. “Oh my God,” she squeals as she shifts up against me, ducking.
“What on earth are you doing?” The Beave asks.
“It was a bee.” It buzzes near her head again, and Lia squeals once again while jumping toward the left. “Don’t sting me,” she calls out.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s just a bee. If you can’t handle that, how are you going to get married in the gardens at the club?”
“As long as they don’t—booooother-her-her me,” Lia says, hopping around again when the bee goes for her ear. “It’s dive-bombing me. It knows I’m weak.”
“Ophelia, you’re making a fool of yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” she says as she straightens up, just in time for the bee to hit her in the ear. “Mother of God!” Lia screams as she flails her arm out to the side, unfortunately striking The Beave right in the boob.
Plop.
And together, we all watch in horror as the fragile woman flails her arms up in the air, a croak falling off the tip of her tongue as she teeters backward.
There’s no stopping the inevitable.
We all see it happening.
She’s headed right for the stacks of hydrangeas.
And with a crash, a groan, and a tumble, the nursery falls silent as The Beave sinks into the table of flowers.
Buckets of water fall everywhere.
Hydrangea branches snap.
And a wince felt around the world appears on all of our faces.
“Get me out of here at once,” The Beave says. I rush to her side and help her out, only to quickly go to Lia’s side for protection because the inner depths of hell are about to part, and I’m pretty sure if I don’t hold on tight enough, Lia is going to be sucked in.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Lia starts, but The Beave holds her hand up to stop her.
Straightening her jacket and wiping the water from her face, she looks up at Lia and says in a voice I think was only intended for nightmares, “There will be red roses at the wedding with very minimal daisies. End of discussion.” And then she takes off, her assistant at her side.
We stand there, a touch stunned as the florist leaves as well. After a few seconds, Lia says, “That, uh . . . that wasn’t ideal.”
I can’t help it. I let out a low chuckle and say, “Who knew you would get to second base with your mother-in-law today? What did it feel like? In my head, they’re just sacs of dust.”
She coughs a few times. “Is that what I’m tasting? Boob dust?”
I let out a wallop of a laugh as I drape my arm over her and guide her toward the exit. “Just be glad your arm didn’t fly low, or else you would have a mouthful of vagina dust.”
“Vagina dust . . . isn’t that just Old Bay seasoning?” she asks, causing me to snort.
“Oh fuck . . . I love you.”