The competing florists were set up in a straight line on the wide, white-paneled dance floor. They each got a worktable and a wire rack full of tools. And, in a bit of free publicity that would thrill her whole office to the core, a banner with the company logo draped across the front of the table.
“Great. If you see me freeze, will you do me a favor? Stick out your tongue. Make a funny face. Anything to break me out of my panic coma.”
Stuart patted Marge’s shoulder. “Marge, why don’t you go put your things down to hold seats for the others? Make sure you get enough for everybody.”
“Sure thing.” She kissed Daphne on the cheek, then scrubbed at the lipstick stain with a tissue she plucked out of her bra. “You’re gonna do great.”
Daphne watched her sashay the length of the room. “So you brought a date to my big day. Interesting. Did you have to promise Marge she’d get on television to get her to go out with you?”
“This isn’t our first date.” His always ruddy cheeks reddened to the color of a scarlet azalea blossom. “Just the first one you know about.”
“Oh.” So now Daphne’s sixty-year-old father was having more sex than her. Way to rub salt in the wound. Not that he knew about Gib. Easier to tell him after the competition, when she wasn’t using all of her willpower just to hold herself together. “Well, good for you. She’s always been like a surrogate aunt to me. You can’t do any better than Marge.”
He jammed his fingers through his wiry hair. “Can we not talk about my dating?”
Daphne knew that feeling. Her well-meaning friends had all pressed her for details about Gib. They all wanted to commiserate with her. Impossible to keep their three-day-old split a secret from them. Not when Milo lived with him and Mira was helping him organize his move.
Daphne appreciated their support. Knew she’d need it to make it through the next weeks and months without Gib. But right now, when it was still so raw, talking about him only burned like acid poured straight on her heart. She’d be happy to not discuss the love life of any member of the Lovell family for the foreseeable future. “Sure.”
“Actually, I want to talk about your mother.” Stuart dug in his pocket to produce a green velvet box. “You’ve got a lot of her jewelry. But there was one piece she wanted me to hold back. To give you on the most important day of your life. When we talked about it, she meant your wedding day.”
Another hit below the proverbial belt—even though her dad didn’t know it. “That’s going to be a pretty long wait.”
“Well, your mother and I didn’t sign a blood oath. I don’t think she’d mind my using my best judgment. I want you to have this today. To know that she’s with you. To make you feel as beautiful as I know you are. As all of America will see you.”
She took the box. When it hinged open with a click, Daphne immediately recognized the necklace. It was the one both her mother and grandmother wore in their wedding portraits. A cluster of garnets around a larger solitaire, reminiscent of a flower. Just holding it in her hand after all these years felt like a faint hug from her mother. Eyes welling with tears she refused to shed, Daphne threw her arms around her dad.
“It’s wonderful. I’m thrilled to be able to wear it today. Will you put it on for me?” It was easier for both of them in that emotionally charged moment to have him behind her, out of eyeshot.
“Standing up to that Sheila person takes real backbone. I’m very proud of you. No matter what happens today.”
“Thanks.” She patted the heavy weight of the pendant in the open neckline of her long-sleeved white polo. “But don’t worry too hard. I’ve got a good shot at winning.”
Gib hadn’t darkened her door—or even her Facebook page—since breaking her heart into a million agonizing shards. But he had given his competition preparation flash cards to Ivy. She’d worked with Daphne, putting her through her paces. Ben pitched in, filming her from every angle so she’d get used to the glare of a camera. Gib had also created a binder of recent work from each of the other competitors. It must’ve taken hours to pull the pictures from websites. Thanks to his hard work, she had a good sense for what design style they each favored. And knew how to turn that to her advantage.
Daphne had always been driven. One hundred and ten percent committed to creating the most beautiful, eye-catching arrangements in the entire city. With the love of her life soon to be an ocean away, she intended to throw herself even harder into her business. The best way to kick-start that new dedication would be to kick some serious butt tonight.
After another peck on the cheek, her dad wandered off. The room began to fill. Camera and sound techs in jeans and black tees put multiple layers of tape over all the cords snaking across the carpet. Four refrigerators were wheeled in and placed behind each station. They contained the assortment of flowers to be used tonight. Daphne couldn’t wait to get her first peek inside. The host and judges huddled in director’s chairs, receiving a final spritz of hair spray and powder. Audience members began to fill the seats. The level of energy, excitement and noise amped up with every passing minute. Her level of queasiness, however, remained pretty much the same.
Her friends pushed through the growing crowd to surround Daphne in a tight circle. “We just saw Luther McGraw from Southern Gardens. For a black man, he’s surprisingly pale. I think he’s nervous,” stated Milo. He’d clearly dressed for the minuscule chance a camera might pan his way. A ruffled ascot frilled out of the high neck of a lavender tailcoat. All he needed was a top hat to finish the look, and he could pass for the Mad Hatter.
“He’s not the only one,” Daphne muttered.
“I’ve got you covered. Drink this,” Ivy ordered. Obediently, Daphne sucked on the straw in front of her. The soothing tickle of ginger ale coated her throat and almost immediately settled her stomach. “You think I really let any of my brides drink champagne? Heck, no. When you’re nervous, ginger ale is the only way to go.”
“Just what I needed. Thanks.”
“If you promise not to upchuck—” palms up, Sam waited to continue until Daphne nodded, “—I’ll tell you that we’ve got a little celebration planned. My mom baked like crazy for you. There’s chocolate pecan pie, turtle brownies, amaretto cheesecake and about five kinds of cookies.”
The sweetness inherent in their gesture warmed her heart. That is, the teeny tiny speck of it that wasn’t a bloody husk from already missing Gib. A party was exactly what she didn’t want to do tonight. Daphne couldn’t possibly let them know that, though. “Sounds right up my alley. Do I still get the cheesecake if I come in second?”
“Cheesecake, sure.” Ben shook his finger at her. “But if you don’t walk out of here with the big-ass trophy, then I do get first dibs on the pecan pie.”
“Fair enough.”
“Especially because you’re going to win,” said Mira. She smoothed a hand over the top of the perfect, bouffant ponytail that had kept Daphne in a salon chair for more than an hour. “Don’t lose sight of that important detail.”
“If all it took was sheer faith, you guys would have already earned me the trophy. I’m so glad you’re all here.” Daphne meant every word. But she couldn’t help looking over their shoulders for one more person.
“Gib didn’t come with us,” Ivy said quietly. Her partner knew her so well. “We all met at the shop and drove over together. He said he’d be there. We waited as long as we could.”
Daphne shrugged. But inside she was screaming he promised over and over again. “Doesn’t matter. The guy’s got an entire life to pack up in a few days.”
“It does matter. And you matter to him. I’m sure he’s just running late. He promised he’d be here, Daphne. Don’t give up on him.”
She ground her teeth. Giving up on Gib was exactly what she’d been ordered to do. A detail she’d glossed over during her hiccupping, crying, snotty recitation to Iv
y and Mira. She’d fallen apart for no more than ten minutes after he left her shop. Then a clarity descended. Daphne had focused on the competition. Locked away all her heartache and desperation into a thick vault in the deepest recesses of her mind. Once the competition was over, she’d give herself permission to fall to pieces. Even arranged for her part-time helper to come in and cover the shop for her two days next week. Daphne intended to spend both days nailed to the couch, sobbing until she literally ran out of tears. But tonight, she’d give this audience, and the entire nation, one hell of a show.
* * *
Daphne clasped her hands behind her back. That way she wouldn’t leave sweaty splotches on her lavender Aisle Bound apron. Oh, and the camera wouldn’t be able to catch the slight tremor in her fingers that developed the moment the buzzer indicated the end of the first round. Go big or go home. That’s what had run through her mind as she stared into the flower cooler. Their challenge for round one had been to make an arrangement that used fruits or vegetables along with flowers.
Easy. Do-it-hopping-on-one-leg easy. Many of her brides preferred a natural look. Daphne had made entire centerpieces out of herbs, or fruits. But this was a competition. Doing the expected just wouldn’t cut it. Certainly wouldn’t earn her the win. So she’d reached past the bucket of lemons and the adorable mini pepper plants for the less predictable. Now it was time to find out if she’d overreached.
Elegant and impeccable in a navy pantsuit, Sheila carried her centerpiece up to the judges. Halved lemons, cut side out, filled a square glass vase. Rising out of the center were branches of bright yellow forsythia. It was very precise. It also looked like two completely different things jammed together—about as cohesive as an alligator head on top of a lion’s mane.
Daphne bit her lip to conceal the smug smile threatening to erupt. Thanks to Gib’s research, she knew Sheila never used fruits and veggies. Lakeside Florist was known for their perfectly elegant designs. If you wanted an over-the-top, three-foot-high vase sprouting masses of lilies and roses, they’d do it up right. Perfectly classic. And, to Daphne’s mind, perfectly boring. Which was, after all, the seed which grew into their long-ago split.
After a cursory glance, the judges beckoned Luther forward. In contrast to Sheila, he’d dressed to actually work in jeans and a logo T-shirt from his shop. His creation bore a similarity to Sheila’s—but it was much better executed. A clear vase held whole carrots and skinny peppers in variegated colors. The brilliance to his design was that he’d left on all the leafiness. It frothed out the top of the vase, providing the greenery backdrop for the clutch of yellow-and-orange dahlias. Quirky, natural and fresh.
Maude went a different way, using ornamental cabbages to create a bouquet. They were pretty and looked like purple flowers, but didn’t really follow the directive to mix flowers with food. She’d probably be the first finalist sent packing. So Daphne was brimming with confidence when she stepped forward. Her bouquet had three giant, deep-purple artichokes. Despite her recent, self-imposed ban on all Christmasy flowers, she’d spiked evergreens in between them. It was bold and gorgeous.
The three judges put their heads together. Covered their mics. Pushed score sheets back and forth. Mario Ferrante, owner of the swankiest flower shop in Manhattan, clapped his hands to quiet the low buzz of the crowd.
“For this round, we’ll just do a best and worst. Best goes to Daphne Lovell’s innovative and, yes, audacious presentation.”
Applause swelled. The urge to let loose with a fist pump tensed all the muscles in her arm. Instead, Daphne let her smile break free to beam thanks at the judges. Good start. Nobody would question her last-minute inclusion in the final round now that she’d nailed the first design.
Mario continued. “It is not enough to point out the best. We at the judging table hope that all the contestants, throughout this entire season of Flower Power, learn from our critiques. The worst arrangement of this round belongs to Sheila Irwin.”
Knocked out in the first round? With a tiny gasp, Daphne turned to look at Sheila. The older woman’s eyebrows were almost to the ceiling. And her hands were fisted so tight it looked like blood might start leaking out any minute.
“Your centerpiece felt disjointed. There was no cohesion to draw together the elements. Your attempt at this design failed. And if you want to know how you could’ve fixed it, just look to your left.” Mario pointed, with a faint smile. “Luther succeeded with this idea where you did not. Sheila, your flowers simply have no power.” An officious wave toward the exit. “Please leave.”
Well, that was one way to dispatch her archenemy. A bell dinged, signaling the five-minute break between rounds. Crew members scurried to clean up the stations. One guy rushed over, pulled Sheila’s arrangement from her hands and dumped it unceremoniously in the trash. Daphne saw this as her moment to rise above. To be the bigger, better person. Gib would want her to be classy in her victory. There’d be plenty of time to crow over Sheila’s downfall later, at the party. She strode over, hand extended.
“Good round. They really put you through the ringer each week on your way to the final round. Congratulations on representing Chicago so well.”
Sheila looked her up and down. Stared pointedly at Daphne’s chest, then dragged her eyes back up. “I’d still be in it if you hadn’t worn a shirt two sizes too small. Everyone knows that Mario’s a lecherous old goat.”
Suddenly, the cold burn of revenge dissipated. It all seemed so petty. So what if Sheila had tried to blackball her years ago. It hadn’t worked. Daphne’s career, albeit in a complete juxtaposition to her love life, was thriving. A bitter woman on the downward edge of her own career simply didn’t matter. “Sheila, let it go. I didn’t ask to be in this competition. I didn’t set out to undermine you. There are enough brides to go around in this city of eight million people. Can’t we have a truce?”
The host, a peppy local news anchor in a red leather suit, jammed her microphone in front of Sheila. “What’s it going to be, Ms. Irwin? Sour grapes or a sweet resolution?”
Sheila batted away the mic. “Why do you care, Mandi? It’s not as if you’re going put a former employee stabbing me in the back on the eleven o’clock news.”
“America cares.” The perfectly coiffed blonde pointed at the cameras ringing them. “This is a reality show. We never turn the cameras off. So are you going to bow out gracefully? Congratulate Ms. Lovell on a solid win?”
Daphne kept her hand extended, waiting. Held her breath. She’d had no idea the cameras were still going. Now that she did, she wouldn’t budge until Sheila finished this, one way or the other. With a snarl, Sheila grabbed a vase off her station and hurled the water in it at Daphne. It splashed her face and soaked her top. The white shirt did what always happened when wet, and turned see-through. Daphne clapped her hands to her chest. A low buzz of shock ran through the nearest audience members.
“There. I just gave you a leg up on round two. Mario won’t even bother to look at your flowers when he hands you the win.” Sheila stalked off.
Two techies rushed forward with towels. Daphne couldn’t do anything but laugh. Bad enough looking nearly naked on television. She didn’t need two burly union stagehands patting at her boobs like the start to a bad porn flick. “I’m okay, guys. Really.”
“Do you want me to ask if you can have an extra few minutes to change?” Mandi asked.
After that, the last thing she needed was any hint of special treatment. “Not necessary.” Hunching over, Daphne untied her apron from her waist. Ivy had convinced her to wear it folded halfway down. Something about reducing extra bulk in front of the cameras. Now, it was a quick and easy solution. Daphne shook it out to its full length and fastened it around her neck. She swiped a towel and patted herself down beneath the apron. “Good to go.”
Mandi nodded. Didn’t bother to hide her relief. “Two minutes, then.”
&
nbsp; Ivy rushed over. “Are you sure you don’t want to change into my shirt?”
“Nope.” Calm had descended upon her once more. “You’ve seen me spill entire buckets of water on myself in the course of a day. Flowers can be messy. So what? I won with a dry shirt, and I can damn well do the same in the next round with a wet shirt.”
Ivy glanced at the cameras. Didn’t bother to lower her voice. “Sheila’s smack talk didn’t mean anything.”
“I know.”
“Nice touch, trying to mend fences with her.”
“I thought Gib would approve.” Daphne squinted to see past the wall of spotlights. “Did he see it? What did he say?”
This time, Ivy did lower her voice to a whisper. “He’s not here.”
“Not yet?” Chicago traffic was legendary in its snarliness. She could understand anyone veering a few minutes off schedule. But they were more than half an hour into the competition. Way past the hope-he’s-just-gawking-at-a-fender-bender point, and deep into he-broke-up-with-you-and-wants-some-distance territory. It made sense. It also made the back of her throat burn with choked-back tears. “I kind of hoped he’d be, you know, a steadying presence. Unseen but felt.”
“Look at you.” Ivy lifted Daphne’s hands. “You’re rock steady. Gib trained you for this. For the actual bearing up under competition stuff. He’s already steadied you. Remember that.”
Daphne headed back to her station. This moment brought home what it would be like once he was back in England. Out of her life, for all intents and purposes. She didn’t like it one bit. So she’d win this competition, and march over to his place so he could share in her triumph. They’d find a way back to being friends whether he liked it or not.
The bell dinged. Mario straightened his chrysanthemum-covered red silk tie. “Round two is about speed. Whoever finishes first will receive an extra ten points. It will give an advantage, but you’ll still be judged on creativity, balance and overall beauty.”
Friends to Lovers (Aisle Bound) Page 28
