I looked down at the second bare stem in my hand and tossed it onto the worktable.
“Would you like to leave early?” Liv asked. “What time do you sign the papers?”
“Not until five,” I said. “You just don’t want me ruining all the stock.”
Liv snapped her fingers. “You saw right through me.”
I shook my head. “I have a bridal appointment in a few minutes, anyway.”
“Oh, new wedding? Who’s coming in?”
“Who do you think?” I rolled my eyes.
“Again?”
Amber Lee peeked her head in the back door. “Is it safe?”
“All better,” I said.
“Good.” She lugged in a large wrapped box and placed it in front of me. “This came for you a few minutes ago.”
“For me?” I looked at Liv and she shrugged. But a twinkle in her eye and a half smile tickling her lips told me she knew something about it. I pulled off the bow and ripped open the paper. Inside the box was a tool kit and a cordless drill. “I can’t say anyone has ever given me hardware before.”
“Consider them a housewarming gift from all of us at the shop. From what Eric told me about the place, you’re going to need them.”
“I suggested we add a good man to help you with the repairs,” Amber Lee said, “but we couldn’t quite fit him in the box.”
Liv sent her a look, which saved me the trouble. My love life was a bit complicated, since it involved friendly dates with Nick Maxwell, the local baker—who was unwilling to commit. And long phone conversations and regular texts with Brad Simmons, my ex-almost-fiancé—who seemed determined to erase the “ex” part.
“Oh,” Amber Lee said, “Kathleen Randolph and her daughter are here for their bridal consultation, take three.”
“Four,” I said, “but who’s counting?”
I propped a smile on my face as I mounted the steps to the wrought-iron gazebo we used as our consulting nook. Kathleen Randolph, owner of the Ashbury Inn and prominent—but often long-winded—local historian, had called to say she was bringing a few reference books along to this appointment to help finalize the flowers for her daughter Andrea’s wedding. Since the wedding, planned to be held at a local medieval encampment, was now just two weeks away, I hoped they didn’t have anything too exotic in mind. But it looked like they’d brought half their library. About fifty moldering tomes were piled in front of them.
I’d like to think my smile didn’t dim, but I’m not sure I’m that good.
“We brought more reference books,” Kathleen said brightly. “Found some great stuff on the Tudors.”
“Nice,” I said. I refrained from telling her the only things I know about the Tudors had to do with stucco and fake wood beams.
The next two hours were steeped in history, leaving me feeling much like a cold, wet teabag, but I managed to sketch out some flower suggestions amid their rapt discussion of the Middle Ages.
“And you must come to the ceremony,” Andrea said.
It wasn’t unusual for brides to invite me to their weddings. Ramble, Virginia, was such a small town that I was likely to know the bride, anyway. And it seemed to reassure them that their flowers would be there, look lovely, and if anything happened at the last minute I could fix it.
Kathleen pulled out a sheet of folded parchment and smoothed it on the table. “I drew you a map to the encampment.”
I looked at the page. It resembled a pirate’s map. All it was missing was the skull and crossbones, a sea monster, and a big X. I take that back. It had an X in a clearing surrounded by woods. “I can’t use my GPS?”
Kathleen and Andrea shared a snicker or two at my expense before Andrea took pity and explained. “The encampment is not accessible by roads. Having a parking lot right next to a Medieval encampment would make it look too much like a . . . a Renaissance fair.” I swore they both shuddered at the words.
Did I dare ask? I dared. “What’s the difference?”
“Renaissance fairs are for the . . . ” Kathleen trailed off, leaving me to wonder if she was going to say “unwashed masses.”
“For people who want to play with swords and speak in dreadfully awful cockney accents,” Andrea finished.
“Worse than Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins.” This time there was no mistaking it. They both shuddered.
I happened to adore Dick van Dyke, so it took great effort to hold my tongue.
“And eat turkey legs!” they both said in unison, with distasteful grimaces on their faces.
I quirked an eyebrow.
“Turkey is a new world bird,” Andrea said. “They wouldn’t have had it in the Middle Ages.”
“The Guardians of Chivalry Encampment is for serious-minded historians who want an authentic experience,” Kathleen said. “We camp a mile from the nearest road. No electricity. No running water. Authentic dress is required. We don’t just play at the Middle Ages. We live like we are in the Middle Ages.”
“We hunt and gather, butcher our own animals, learn the old crafts,” Andrea said.
“We have a sizeable village constructed,” Kathleen said. “When we first started, oh, maybe thirty years ago, it was nothing more than a caravan of tents. We try to put up a new structure every year. But now we’re working on a castle, so it’s going to take longer.”
“I see,” I said.
I’d heard of the encampment, of course, and had seen the visitors traveling through, stopping at the local restaurants on the way in and, much grubbier looking and more foul smelling, on the way out.
“We’ve decided to go with the hand-fasting,” Andrea said. “Although the ceremony was most usually an engagement, many historians say that if the marriage was consummated at that point, the couple were considered legally wed by the church.”
“Hand-fasting?”
“We tie our hands together while we give our consent to marry,” Andrea said. “Of course, to make it legal in Virginia, we’ll have an officiant. We have someone licensed coming as a friar this year.”
“A licensed friar?” I asked.
“No, not really a friar,” she said, “any more than the knights have been dubbed by a queen. But he’s licensed by the state and will be using the persona of a friar. It couldn’t be better.”
“So you can bring the flowers the day of the wedding,” Kathleen said. “And stay for the grand feast. Of course, it will be too dark to go back, so you’ll have to stay the night. And I suppose you might need help carrying everything.”
“I . . . I guess I will. We’ve never made a delivery to the middle of the woods before.”
“And you’ll need to come in costume.” Andrea gnawed at her cuticle. “I don’t suppose you have a medieval dress in the back of your closet.”
“She’ll just have to rent something,” Kathleen said. “I mean, it’s not truly authentic, but it does the job for someone coming for the first time.”
“Most of the regulars own their own medieval wardrobe?” I asked.
“Most of the regulars make their own wardrobe,” Kathleen said. “Stitched by hand. Some even spin their own fibers and weave and dye their own cloth.”
“That must take . . .”
“Some old-timers work on their clothing all year long,” Andrea said. “A few even sew extra to sell—a truly authentic garment can go for thousands. We’ve been working on the wedding dress for ages. Made the pattern based on an oil painting. A lovely blue.”
“That’s where we get our ‘something blue’ tradition,” Kathleen said. “And you’ll bring the bachelor’s buttons for the festivities later?”
“They’re going to be a riot,” Andrea said.
I nodded, but I could feel my cheeks turning peony pink. To the Victorians, the flower known as the bachelor’s button often symbolized celibacy or the blessing of being single. Apparentl
y in medieval time, “blessings” took on a whole new meaning as young women would hide the flowers in their clothing, and the bachelors would be tasked with finding them.
Although her order was simple—just her bouquet, a wreath for her hair, and the extra bachelor’s buttons—I decided this might just prove to be the most memorable wedding yet.
“There’s a nice shop that has some decent stuff,” Kathleen said. “But they sell out early.”
“Of course, you can add the costume charge to our bill,” Andrea said.
“Andrea,” Kathleen said, “I’m sure Audrey wouldn’t mind renting her own. After all, we just invited her to the wedding.”
Andrea shot her a look. “It’s only right, Mother. It’s part of the expense of getting the flowers to the venue.”
She jotted down a name onto a sheet of scrap paper and handed it to me. “Just remember, they sell out fast.”
* * *
I arrived at Grandma Mae’s cottage with only my suitcase and a smile. Okay, I also had a sleeping bag, food in a cooler, an old Coleman lantern, and a couple of flashlights, since the power wouldn’t be turned on until the morning. And carpal tunnel from signing all those documents.
Eric, as property manager for the Rawlings—the most recent owners and neglectors of my new home—had been by earlier to build some impromptu stairs, since the old ones had been torn off to ensure anyone foolish enough to try to climb them wouldn’t fall through, hurt themselves, and sue the Rawlings. Not that even the Jehovah’s Witnesses or the most ardent Avon lady had the dedication to climb those rickety steps.
Just getting to the stairs through the jungle of a front yard was difficult in the twilight. But I didn’t stop for the burrs that were clinging to the hem of my jeans as if I were dressed in Velcro. I’d waited so long. I pulled the key from my pocket—it wouldn’t go on my ring with my ordinary keys, at least not yet.
The lock turned hard. I was worried it would break the key, but finally it yielded—just another thing to have oiled. Eventually. Just like the hinges on the squeaky door that announced my arrival.
Home.
The walls seemed to squeal it. I closed my eyes—probably a good idea, because the place was truly in shambles; even my enthusiasm for the cottage couldn’t hide that fact. But I paused to breathe in the memories. Grandma Mae bustling at the old electric stove. Liv and I sitting at the table on a rainy day with a fresh box of sixty-four Crayolas between us. I could almost still smell them. We’d giggled until one of us had the hiccups and we slid from our chairs to the floor. Grandma chided us, but we could see she didn’t really mean it. The twinkle in her eye gave her away, and her shoulders shook in quiet laughter when she turned back to the stove.
The old stove was still there, and I had a sudden craving for a cup of instant coffee, only that wasn’t going to happen. Not until there was electricity. Along with water. Eric had promised to help with all of that. But not until the morning.
I lit the old lantern while I still had enough light to do so and cleared a spot in the middle of the living room floor for my sleeping bag. The air felt stale and foul, so despite the coolness of the evening, I pushed open the only window that wasn’t stuck or broken and boarded up.
So, with too much energy to sleep but too little light to do anything productive, I climbed into the sleeping bag and planned what I would do with the little cottage. I’d give the outside a new coat of white paint, and maybe an archway in the front dripping with wisteria: Welcome, fair stranger. Of course, it would take me weeks just to weed the old garden. Almost easier to start new. But preserving any of Grandma Mae’s plantings was well worth the extra effort.
Nick and a few others had promised to help me move in. I’d bring Chester over last, since I wouldn’t want him to run away from strange surroundings when the doors were open.
He hadn’t been out of that apartment much since I brought him home from the SPCA, except for an occasional excursion to hide under my neighbor’s truck—and the dreaded trip to the vet’s office. He’d whine the whole drive, then hop on the scale and refuse to budge. Yes, he was a bit pudgy. Maybe living in the country would be good for him—all those birds and rabbits to watch from the window.
I was still thinking about Chester, so when I heard the plaintive little meow, I thought I imagined it. Old houses have strange noises—I knew that ahead of time—but when I heard it again, I could tell this was definitely an animal sound. I scooted out of the sleeping bag and grabbed the flashlight.
The little cry sounded again, followed by what cat owners recognize instantly as the sound of claws on the screen.
I swung the flashlight beam to the open window, and there, crawling halfway up the battered screen was a tiny jet-black kitten. It mewed again.
“Where’s your mama?” I asked.
It answered me with the most pitiful series of mews, as if it were pouring out a tale of woe and sadness. My heart melted for the thing.
“I’d let you in, but you need your mother.” The kitten was so tiny and bright-eyed, but with fur matted in spots, that I doubted if it had been fully weaned. Still, I searched in my cooler for an appropriate bit of food and decided to try a smidgen of turkey salad from my sandwich. I grabbed two foam plates and a bottle of water and went outside, half expecting it to run away. But it didn’t.
I poured a bit of the water into one plate and put the turkey on another, setting both on the little temporary porch, then peeled the kitty away from the screen. I winced as the wires popped.
She trembled in my arms but didn’t fight me. I put her by the food and she sniffed it. Then a little pink tongue came out and tried the turkey. She licked it to death, leaving most of it on the plate and then sniffed at the water, but wasn’t even lapping it effectively.
“You’re not even weaned, yet, are you?”
I scanned the flashlight across the yard, looking for the reflection of eyes, hoping to find a mama cat for this little thing. Meanwhile, the kitten started weaving around my legs and purring. I picked her up and cradled her against my shoulders, and she let out a contented sigh.
“All right, kitty. If no one in the neighborhood claims you, you can stay here with me.” I mentally added buying a bottle and kitty formula to my burgeoning to-do list.
“I just hope Chester doesn’t have you for breakfast.”
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