by Laura Briggs
***
The day of the wedding dawned with a morning drizzle of rain. I watched it through the windows, holding my breath as I waited for it to stop. The arbor in the main garden needed its protective tarp removed and its living decorations added before the photographers arrived, and the chairs hadn't been set up on the open spaces around the main flower bed.
So many details were left, and I felt slightly dizzy at the thought of it all. Stay calm, I told myself. I took a deep breath, trying to tell myself it would be all right. But I had yet to face Petal with her substitute bouquet and explain that the one she had requested at the last minute was simply impossible. Telling someone like Petal Borroway that what they wanted was out of reach — I had a feeling those moments were unpleasant ones for whoever confronted her with the truth.
I could hear Dinah's anxious voice coming from the drawing room, where the cake was being assembled in its modern, skyscraper form, and the sound of guests coming to and from the breakfast room, where a complimentary spread was laid out before the ceremony.
The press would begin taking pictures within an hour. The wedding photographers were scheduled to shoot photos two hours before the wedding, in the main garden. Hopefully, Petal would be over her anger and disappointment by the time she was posing for portraits with the rest of the wedding party.
I didn't have time to listen in when press photographers covering the wedding paid compliments to its simple beauty. A few last-minute questions and issues, a few quick adjustments, and it was time for the bridal party to descend from the suite.
"...and I need to fetch my bouquet," Petal was saying. "Trixie, will you fix my veil, please? It's catching on my dress." Petal was descending the stairs, flanked by her chief bridesmaid, her mother, and a handful of friends.
Her dress was a beautiful, fitted white silk, studded with delicate seed pearls and tiny, glimmering stones, a thin, gauzy veil descending from the tiara crowning her hair. A pair of white and silver sandals studded with semi-precious stones were matched with her wedding dress, shoes I heard whispered were original Prada creations.
No wonder Petal was so eager to have a bouquet as original as her outfit. I sucked in a quick breath, thinking of the simple design of white lilies and garden-variety heath sprigs that I had managed to assemble. It was tucked in the basket beside the door, along with Trixie's smaller bouquet of white roses and sprigs of wild rosemary.
I was steadying myself for this moment, one which had been delayed as long as possible due to all the little tasks I had been hurrying to finish. As Petal approached, I made myself smile, calmly. The bride looked at me expectantly.
"Do you have my flowers?" Petal asked.
"She does." It wasn't my voice speaking, but Matthew's. He had approached behind me, and stood in the open front doors to Cliffs House. No dirt stains, only a neat, clean shirt tucked into his trousers, a corduroy jacket and clean boots. In his hands was a white floral box, tied with a single cord.
"This is yours, I believe." He was speaking to Petal, but looking at me as he placed it in my hands. He smiled at me.
I opened the lid. Inside was the bouquet I had designed — or a creation every bit its equal and better. Large white orchids flecked with pinkish purple and lavender, with bright pink and purplish-hued daisies that resembled the summer blooms and fall foliage of heath and heather. A small, delicate pink daisy interspersed among them, along with baby's breath and soft silvery-white sprigs of the rosemary herb. All bound with a simple pinkish-white ribbon that trailed from the base of its blossoms.
It was stunning. My eyes flew from the blossoms nestled in tissue paper to Matthew's face. He glanced from me to Petal, then back again.
"Best of luck," he said. With that, he left.
I looked at Petal. Her face had turned pale, then her cheeks flushed bright red. She looked as if she was on the verge of saying something — but whatever it was had died on her lips, apparently.
I lifted the bouquet from the box, and held it out to her. "Best of luck," I repeated. With a smile, I handed Trixie her smaller one, and stepped aside for the wedding party to make its way outside for the photographers.
As the wedding party assembled in the garden, I couldn't help glancing around me, seeing the members of Cliffs House staff who were watching discreetly as they finished up the last minute touches before the ceremony. I glimpsed the gardening staff taking away the hand carts that had been used to wheel in stacks of chairs — and among them stood Matt.
I could see his face clearly enough from here. He didn't look angry or hurt as he watched Petal and her husband-to-be pose for the camera. He stood there calmly, turning aside after a moment to answer someone who spoke to him. A second later, he was gone again.
Who had told him about the bouquet? Was it Lady Amanda? Or did one of the girls let it slip that I was struggling to find the flowers for the very bouquet Petal had rejected? One thing I felt very certain of, however, was that he hadn't done it for her. He hadn't raided his greenhouse and clipped blossoms from his carefully-tended plants for the woman who had crushed his heart to pieces years ago.
Maybe that's why two bright spots of pink invaded my own cheeks momentarily. I turned my thoughts somewhere else, to the immediate task of adjusting the front edge of the carpet rolled across the pathway for the bride's aisle.
I stood up and gazed at the carpeted walkway sprinkled with petals, and the beautiful arbor decorated with dried flowers and fresh blooms, reflecting the colors of wild Cornish blossoms. Everything was perfect. Cliffs House could be proud of itself at this moment, and that was what mattered to me.
Thank you, Matt, I whispered inside. I owed him more than I could say for this moment of satisfaction.
