“I set it back to ten so we can get everything done.” Tracy taps the glass edge of one vase. “These are pretty. Want to grab the flowers at the back of the cooler and then we can get started?”
I nod, grab my apron, and get to work. I’m unusually jittery, rushing with nerves and excitement. I want to create these centerpieces, and I want them to be beautiful. I want them to make Ivanka smile. (Also: I want to impress Levi.)
I drag out the wedding flowers. Pink peonies—the last of the season; wax flower; lisianthus, in lavender and white; pink spray roses; bright orange dahlias. There is also white misty and some leather. I stand back and watch Tracy as she looks over everything, as if trying to decide what to grab first.
She finally steps up to the worktable with two peonies, one lavender lisianthus, a handful of wax flower, and misty. I lean over the edge of the table, watching as she cuts them down to size—expertly and on the first try—and places the flowers in the vase at an angle. When she looks up at me, I’m already desperate to try it out.
I fill the first vase, my fingers learning the curve of the petals and the different feel of each stem. The textures relax me, and the sensation of the knife in my hand as I slice off the old ends makes me feel like I’m in control. I lower the flowers into the vase at the approximate angle Tracy did, gauging the weight of the peonies and the feathery buds of the misty to see where they will fall. I stuff it full of filler and leather, make sure it’s tight, and then turn to Tracy with the vase in my hands.
She tsks. “Stunning, Bee. Really. Just move this one here,” she adds, grabbing the peony and adjusting it ever so slightly, “and add a spray rose here.” She grabs and cuts a spray and puts it into the corner, where it fits perfectly with all its little buds. “Perfect. You’re a natural.”
“Really?” A bubbling sensation lifts my chest. “Are you serious?”
“What?” She grins, stepping backward, out of the way, as if she wants to give me room. “Doesn’t it feel natural when you hold the flowers, the way the knife curves against your palm?”
“Well.” I pause, gaping at her. “Actually, it kind of does.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” she says, her smile softening into something like pride.
After Tracy escapes into the back office to do paperwork, I busy myself making four identical arrangements. All of them beam at me on the table as I finally take a breather and a drink of water. “Eight more to go,” I call back to her.
She peeks around the corner, grinning. “They look excellent. Remember you have to learn how to make boutonnieres today so you can make them at home later. Remind me an hour before your shift is up.”
I finish two more arrangements before it’s time for me to open the shop. I begrudgingly drag myself away from the work table. Tracy’s promise to teach me something new is what spurs me on the rest of the day, through cleaning and broken buckets, grumpy customers and shattered glass. I don’t get why today had to be the busiest of the week, but with every new flower I trim and customer I help, I’m reminded of why I’m here. It brings a sort of comfort to me. I want this; I want to learn.
The crowd finally lulls around two o’clock. Tracy wraps up her current arrangement, sets it on the cooler rack, and sits beside the ribbon table.
The process for boutonnieres, while time-consuming, is very straightforward. There is a lot of wire, ribbons, and green tape. I twist the ribbons to make three loops on each side, using thin wire to hold it in place and create a tiny bow. Everything revolves around the little rose bud, popped off the stem and stuck through with another wire. The other pieces—the bow, the filler, and the greens—are wrapped with tape and into a little curly-Q at the end.
I leave at three, my fingers sore from ripping tape and folding wire. I have four more boutonnieres to make when I get home, so I put all the supplies into the back of my car and close the trunk. I’m getting into the driver seat when I see Tracy running after me, another bucket of flowers in her hand.
She comes to a stop by my door, huffing and leaning against it. “I forgot—I need you to make the bride’s bouquet.”
“What?!” I suck in a breath. “I’ve never made—”
“No, I know. If I see it tomorrow and it doesn’t look good, I’ll fix it. But I need you to try tonight. I already have to make the flower crown because we didn’t have time for me to teach you, and you have five more centerpieces to make tomorrow. Unless you can get them all done tonight.”
I push down my sudden outbreak of panic. “Okay, okay, I’ll try.”
She breathes out deeply. “Thank you. I’m just too busy with the other wedding.”
No kidding. I smile thinly, putting my car into gear. “Thanks for your help, Tracy. I know Ivanka is going to be so excited.”
“I can’t wait to see pictures,” she says, and moves out of the way so I can back out.
I wait until I’m stuck in ridiculous traffic before I pull out my phone to call Levi. “Levi, I think I’m dying,” I say, so fast I don’t even think he said hello. “Is there anyone who can come over tonight and help me? I have a billion things to do before tomorrow.”
“I can help you,” he says. “I got the catering for tomorrow fixed—did I tell you about that? Big fiasco. Anyway. I’ll just pick up my dry cleaning and come over.”
I breathe out. “Really? Are you sure? Tomorrow’s a big day and I don’t want to bother you. I thought you might be at the office and could send someone over. I just got stressed…and there were a bunch of upset customers ordering for funerals, which made everything worse. But I don’t know why I’m freaking out because it’s not that big of a deal. I can get it done, I just…” I shrug to myself in the car and then realize Levi can’t see it. “I don’t know,” I finish. “I’ll just call one of the other girls, it’s no big deal. Sorry to bug—”
“Bee!” he yells over my rambling, and then I realize he’s been talking to me this whole time. “Don’t you dare call the other girls. I remember recently a certain someone stepped in and helped me when I was stressed, so now I’m going to return the favor. Where should I meet you? And what do you need help with?”
I smile. I can feel the warmth spreading under my skin. I want to hug him. Indefinitely. (Forever.) “I’ll be at my house if that works. Otherwise, I can drive to you.”
“No, that works. Text me your address.”
“I will. And it’s to do with the table arrangements, the bouquet, and the boutonnieres. I just need someone to stand with me and fold ribbons and cut wires and hold things. I’m still new to this, so I’m afraid I’m going to screw everything up.”
“Bee, stop.” His voice is so commanding that I do. I stop. He clears his throat. “You’ve got to take this one thing at a time. We’ll start with what’s most important, and work our way down. I can hire another florist if we run out of time.”
“Okay,” I say. I take a deep breath in and breathe out. “I’ll be home in thirty minutes. See you whenever you can get there.”
“See you soon.”