A table had been placed in the gazebo, and Brad was draping it with a white satin cloth.
“Audrey, white cloth okay?” he said. “It won’t wash out any white flowers, will it? I know some people like black for photographing flowers, but Gary likes the white.”
“Perfect. The bouquets are carried by brides wearing white, generally.”
Was that a tic in his face? Was the bride not wearing white? What other color would a bride who loved bells wear? Silver? Silver bells? Would these bouquets look washed out against a flashy silver background? Maybe we could change the ribbon colors.
“Why don’t you get three of the bouquets from the car and the camera crew can take some initial shots and get the lighting right.”
I pulled Liv’s and my bouquets out first, and Brad carried Shelby’s more unusual one. He’d created an elaborate three-foot-long but narrow cascade of curled foliage, into which he’d wired foxglove. I’d never seen anything like it—or the elaborate netted tube of floral foam that formed the backbone of the bouquet and kept it from drying out. We joked that he was making green sausage. But the finished bouquet, although a bit heavy, looked stunning, and foxglove was certainly a bell-shaped flower. But the meaning niggled at the back of my mind. Then again, Gary had said that the language of flowers would only be part of the Victorian-styled bouquet.
Brad introduced me to the producer, Tristan, a rather ruggedly handsome type with a cleft chin and a gorgeous British accent. He was kind of James Bond-y, in a young Roger Moore sort of way.
“Glad to have you aboard, Miss Bloom.” He winked as he shook my hand.
I watched as the camera crew, all dressed in black, swarmed like ants over the first set of bouquets. Well, most of them swarmed, with the exception of the lone female on the crew, a young woman in short cutoff jeans and a tight black tank. She’d pulled a perky ponytail through the back of a baseball cap that said “Intern.” She seemed to major in striking provocative poses and fanning herself with a clipboard. Each crew member stopped to explain his process to her. Assuming he had a process. To me, it looked like they just poked, prodded, folded, spindled, and mutilated the bouquets before taking multiple moving and still shots of the flowers sitting on the table. Now I knew why they needed two sets. Then they took more shots of the bouquets stuffed into a white fabric box.
“It diffuses the light,” the cameraman mumbled to me.
Whatever that meant. But he turned to the intern to provide a more thorough explanation. He encouraged her to take the camera while he stood close behind her to point out the controls. But by the time they were done almost an hour later, the bouquets looked like they’d survived an encounter with a Tasmanian Devil—the cartoon version. And I’d seen enough of the intern and the rest of the crew fawning over her to feel as if I’d accidentally stumbled into a porno film when I had intended to see a revival of Bambi.
“Are those my bouquets?” A tan, almost orange-skinned young woman rushed up to take a look. She had highlighted hair that ranged from platinum blonde to brunette; almost every strand seemed like it was a different color. She wore a short, scooped-neck fuchsia dress that hugged her ample curves and those strappy sandals that wind halfway up your leg. I think Liv called them gladiator sandals when she’d flattered me into buying a pair. But I doubted any real gladiator ever wore them. He’d be lion food before he figured out how to keep the silly things up. Eventually Chester had found another use for mine.
I also noticed little pink calla lily bell earrings dangling from her earlobes. I found that encouraging since both Liv’s bouquet and mine contained calla lilies.
“Now, Suzy.” Brad tried to guide her away with a firm hand on her upper arm. “You know you’re not supposed to see the bouquets until you’re on camera.”
But she was having none of that. “Why are they so limp? I’m not going to have limp flowers, am I? Daddykins!” She hollered this last bit, and “Daddykins,” a brawny man with thinning hair but a shaggy gray overgrowth of moustache and beard, jogged over. Had he been in camouflage, I might have mistaken him for a regular on Duck Dynasty, not Fix My Wedding.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He put his hand around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. Indulgent fathers: the first ingredient in raising a bridezilla.
“Look at these flowers.” She flicked a finger against a loose campanula, and it came off into her hands.
“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” he said.
“No, they’re all old and limp, and I hate them. And they have nothing to do with bells.”
“I warned you about this before you signed up,” he said. “If it weren’t for this show, you could pick whatever you want. There’s still time to back out, you know. We could pay the penalty.”
She folded her arms in front of her. I could have sworn the sun dimmed and a breeze picked up, as if a full tantrum were rolling in like a summer storm.
“I am not backing out, and you’ll make them fix the flowers.”
“But, Suzy, these aren’t . . .” Brad whined. “You’re not even supposed to see them until the big reveal.”
“These have been handled to death,” I said. By this time, we were all speaking at once.
“Quiet!” Gary said as he and Gigi forced their way into the circle.
Gigi signaled time-out. “Save the drama for when the cameras are rolling, people.”
“Now what seems to be the problem?” Gary stood looking around the recently quieted circle. Feet shuffled and gazes were diverted to the ground, and I felt like I was back in school, the principal asking who it was that plastic-wrapped his Volkswagen.
“Look at these!” Suzy pointed long, spiky nails at the flowers.
Gary put a hand on his hip and sighed, then stared at me through half-closed lids. “Is this the best you could do?”
“No, this is what’s left after your crew manhandled them for an hour.” I tempered the frustration out of my voice. “I have the fresh duplicates waiting in the SUV.”
“They’d better be nicer than these,” Suzy said, getting in one last dig. “Let me see them.”
“But she’s not supposed to—” Brad started.
“Quite right,” Gary said. “The flowers are supposed to be a surprise, and they will be, because they should look nothing like these.” He pointed to the limp foliage. “Right?” The last question was directed at me, punctuated by a commanding glare that made me want to salute.
“No, sir,” I said.
“Now, Max.” Gary spun on his feet to face Suzy’s father, the man formerly known as Daddykins. “Take your . . . daughter inside. The local baker sent in some lovely scones. And we’ll call for her when we’re ready.” He turned to Suzy. “This is part of the show you agreed to. No peeking, and you abide by my decision. There are plenty of other brides who want us to fix their weddings. Our show, our rules. Do you want to be on the show or not?”
Suzy bit her quivering lower lip and took another glance at the flowers, then nodded. “I want to be on the show,” she said softly, as if she wasn’t used to having anything less than her own way. And by the shocked look on her father’s face, that was probably the case.
Max took her by the arm and the two of them walked back down the flagstone path to the Ashbury.
“How did you do that?” Brad asked.
“It’s nothing Daddykins shouldn’t have done years ago.” Gary plucked a relatively undamaged foxglove bloom from Shelby’s bouquet and attached it to his lapel.
“But it helps that she really wants to be on the show,” Gigi said. “Not that we could stop production at this point.”
“But Suzy Weber doesn’t know that,” Gary added. “Over-the-top brides provide more drama. Which is fantastic for the viewers, don’t get me wrong. But they can make the whole process a pain in the tush for us.”
“Now that this drama is over, I need to
head into whatever there is of this little town.” Gigi blew kisses at us as she departed. “Ciao, bella.”
Gary offered me his arm. “Now, lead me to the other bouquets, and I do truly hope they’re better than these.”
I felt like Dorothy in Oz. These people couldn’t be real.
When the path narrowed, Gary walked behind me back to the CR-V, where the fresh bouquets were enjoying the frigid air being pumped from the AC. I’d make sure gas costs were folded into the show’s growing bill.
“You’re right. These are much better,” he said. “I only wish Suzy hadn’t seen the others. But these look so different, we should still get a good facial reaction from her.”
I let out a relieved sigh. “So brides like Suzy are typical for you?”
“Often, they’re worse. Always sneaking around trying to find out what we’re doing. That’s where all those secrecy clauses come in. You have to be on your toes to prevent their snooping. And most of them are terrible at faking surprise, so we know right away.”
“We haven’t shared our plans with anyone, but then Suzy showed up—”
“Don’t let Suzy melt you down. Most of our brides get a little witchy, if you know what I mean. But we’re here to make their dreams come true, so they get with the program if they don’t want their contracts voided. They pay a hefty penalty if that happens and forfeit all the wedding paraphernalia. But you coordinate weddings. That can’t be new to you.”
“No, I’ve dealt with my share of bridezillas. Usually I just smile and nod and give them what they want until they go away.”
He laughed. “I like you. Audrey, was it? I can see why Brad recommends you so highly. But on this show, if the bride is pleased, it’s secondary. We try to please the viewers, and they want a little excitement, a little romance, a little glamour, and most of all, a lot of entertainment. I think you’ve captured them in these flowers. All strikingly different.”
“Thanks.” I smiled. “I have a good staff.” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. This was the sweet, reassuring Gary I’d seen on television. I only hoped nothing would happen that would push him over that edge again. His temper seemed to rest on a hair trigger. We chatted for a few minutes about the bouquets and flower choices, and then Gary and Tristan huddled, and soon things were under way.
We carried the fresh bouquets to the gazebo, and the crew carefully draped each of them with a white satin sheet so the bride would be surprised. Shelby’s took two sheets. Good thing they had extra. I took my position behind the table, reached into my purse to pull out the compact I’d shoved in there at the last minute, and dotted more powder on my nose, already shiny again due to the growing outside heat.
Suzy Weber came out, fanning herself. Her glare spoke volumes, like “You should be worrying about the flowers, not your own face.”
I put on my glad-to-serve-you smile and shoved my compact into my apron pocket.
After a few introductory commands and a click of whatever you call that thing they use to mark the start of a film take, Gary began. “Our guest florist today is Audrey Bloom, wedding coordinator from the Rose in Bloom shop in Ramble, Virginia. Audrey, what sets your shop apart and what do you have to show us today?”
Calm. Cool. Yeah, right. “Well, Gary,” I heard myself saying, about a half of an octave too high. “What makes us different is our fresh flowers, many from local growers.”
I thought I heard Suzy huff, but I wasn’t sure the camera or boom microphone hovering over my head picked it up, so I continued as Gary lifted the draping from the first bouquet.
“We have three unique looks for you,” I said, “each created by a different member of our staff. The first is a Victorian-inspired bouquet. Many of our brides like traditional elements. I based the design around these lovely campanulas, also called bellflowers because of their bell shape. The Victorians not only chose flowers based on their colors, shapes, and textures, but each flower had an associated meaning. A bellflower meant constancy, and the small white ones meant gratitude.”
Suzy’s eyebrows rose as she looked at the flower as if for the first time. It was a lovely variety, almost pure white with just a ring of pink around the outside.
“In keeping with the theme”—I pointed to the green flowers—“I also added some bells of Ireland, to wish the happy couple the best of luck. And calla lilies, which, when inverted, look a little like bells. And which I see in the bride’s earrings.”
“Oh,” Suzy gasped.
Gary leaned over and held her hair back while the camera zoomed in on her earring and then on the flower.
“Calla lilies mean magnificent beauty,” I added. “Instead of adding more traditional filler, I used lily of the valley, which also resemble small bells. Kate Middleton had them in her bouquet, and they carry a number of meanings. My favorite is happiness restored.”
“What else can they mean?” All challenge had drained out of Suzy’s voice. She was in wonder of her bell-shaped flowers and their meanings.
“Purity of heart, humility, and chastity.”
Suzy snorted. I suspected chastity wasn’t high on her list.
“Nice sentiments,” Gary said.
“And I’ve set them in a larger reproduction of an antique silver tussy mussy holder. Very Victorian, and you can see the little wedding bells embossed in the metal.” Suzy was enraptured, and I then showed how the bouquet could stand upright on its own or be removed from its stand for that walk down the aisle.
“Now the next bouquet is a little more modern in design?” Gary said.
“Absolutely. My business partner, Olivia Rose, made this one.” I pulled the cover from her bouquet. Too late I realized I’d used Liv’s maiden name, which she still used in business, so I hoped she’d be okay with that.
“Tell me about this one,” Suzy said.
I described the clean design of cascading white calla lilies, with just a little bit of eucalyptus for greenery, hand-tied in a white satin ribbon and secured with little bell-shaped pins.
“Now what does the eucalyptus mean?” Suzy asked. “It smells a little like cough drops.”
“It’s wishing you health, actually. Protection and healing.”
“And the white calla lilies mean happiness restored,” Gary said.
“No, actually they mean magnificent beauty,” I said, “but it’s easy to get them confused.”
“Cut!” Gary yelled. “Can we take it back?” He cleared his throat and waited until the red lights came on. Smooth as silk, he went on, “And the white calla lilies mean magnificent beauty.”
“That’s right. Good memory.” I got it. Don’t embarrass the host. I could play along.
“Very clean. Quite modern,” he said. “I can’t wait to see what else you brought.”
I lifted the covering for Shelby’s design.
Suzy gasped.
“We were going for something a little out of the box. This was constructed by one of our new young designers, Shelby Frazier. The construction is curled and wired lily grass, which he’s used to make an elaborate three-foot cascade. He then embellished that with gorgeous variegated foxglove, so that the flowers start out small at the top, and at the bottom, there’s a symphony of bell-shaped blooms. They really look like bells, don’t they?” I asked.
“Oh, they do!” This was clearly the bride’s pick.
“And a surprise.” I picked up the bouquet and shook it gently. The jingle bells Shelby had wired into some of the flowers made their signature chime.
The bride squealed and clapped her hands. “And what do those flowers mean?”
“I’m not sure lily grass has a meaning of its own, but lilies generally mean beauty and grass is a symbol of . . . submission. You know, the whole love, honor, and obey thing. Right?” I cemented my smile and hoped they’d drop it there. Gary had assured me we’d only talk about the language of
flowers for the Victorian bouquet, and yet he’d started carrying that forward into all of them. I hoped and sent up a quick, fervent prayer that they wouldn’t ask what the foxglove meant.
As if on cue, Gary and Suzy both said, “So what does the foxglove mean?”
So much for the power of prayer. “Well, of course this flower was chosen primarily for its shape.” I paused, hoping that would satisfy them.
They stared, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.
“Insincerity.”
Silence reigned on the set for about thirty seconds until the cameraman snorted.
“Cut!” Tristan yelled.
“No, keep it rolling,” Gary said.
Suzy became livid. “Why in the world would you put such a flower in a bridal bouquet? Insincerity? What are you trying to imply?”
“I . . . I was under the impression that we were only going to use the language of flowers for the Victorian-inspired bouquet. The others were constructed simply for their beauty and your bell theme.” I resisted the urge to say “corny bell theme.”
“What made you think we wouldn’t ask?” Gary asked in that voice sweet as molasses. Grandma Mae would have said “butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” but butter is oily just the same.
Two could play at that game. I put on my sweet voice. “Well, Gary, had you yourself not informed me that you didn’t ‘want to get bogged down with that jazz,’ as you put it, I would have been happy to make sure all the flowers had positive floriography—”
“So this is your fault?” Suzy turned on Gary. “I spent hours filling in those stupid questionnaires and then more hours with you drilling me about my whole life. You should know what I like by now.”
“Trust me, Suzy, it’s for your own good.” He took her shoulders in an attempt to soothe her.
She jerked away.
“Now look.” He turned to me. “I should fire you for what you did . . .”
“What I did? But you did say—”
Gary’s scowl stopped me dead in my tracks. This dude was seriously bipolar. Then Liv’s voice chimed in my ear: “The customer is always right.” Not that she was there, but it was as if she were sitting on my shoulder, like the good angels in the old cartoons. Or like Jiminy Cricket.
For Whom the Bluebell Tolls Page 4
