Dearly Depotted (3 page)

“Are you sure I’m the
only
one Grandma trusts?”

“The
only
one. ‘That Abby Knight is one sharp cookie,’ she always says. ‘Pryce, you were an ass to let her get away.’ She likes you way more than she does Pryce or Claymore.”

Two points in Grandma’s favor. Truthfully, once the flowers were in place I wouldn’t have all that much to do, and besides, I liked Pryce’s grandmother. She wouldn’t take guff from anyone, and she wasn’t impressed by her children’s expensive clothing, fancy cars, or country club memberships. The first time I met her, at one of the Osborne family dinners, she whispered in my ear, “Don’t let their snobbish ways intimidate you. Pryce’s greatgrandfather made his living catching rats, and Pryce’s father’s nickname at school was Boogers. You figure out why.”

“So are we good to go?” Jillian asked.

“Fine. I’ll watch Grandma Osborne, but it had better be for a very short time, and even then, you’ll owe me big-time.”

Jillian gave me another hug, but this time I dodged the coin. “Thanks, Ab. I
wub
you.”

I hated it when she started the baby talk. “I’ll let you know how I feel about you after the reception.”

I glanced at Lottie, who was trying not to laugh.

“
That
was the last fire,” I told her after Jillian had gone.

Lottie’s lips twitched as she stripped the thorns from a tall red rose with one smooth glide of her knife.

“You’re right. Who am I kidding?” I said. “I should just walk down that wedding aisle carrying a hose and wearing a hard hat.”

 

 

 

 

“I
went through my entire phone book, and I can’t find anyone who’ll be a substitute groomsman,” I complained as Lottie and I carried deep boxes filled with pots of flowers for Trudee’s party to the alley, where a rental van was parked. Since Lottie’s old station wagon wasn’t big enough to carry everything, and I wasn’t yet able to afford a company van, it was either rent one or make multiple trips. So we rented. “What is it with men and weddings?”

“What about Marco?” Lottie asked, sliding a box into the van.

“You’ve seen my dress. Would you want Marco to witness you in that getup?”

“Sweetie, with Marco, I wouldn’t care if I’d been dunked in butter and coated with breadcrumbs. Call him, for heaven’s sake.”

Marco Salvare was the handsome hunk who owned the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill two doors north of my shop. He’d bought it around the same time I bought Bloomers, and we’d hit it off right away. He was a former Army Ranger who’d tried life as a cop before finally settling in as a bar owner and part-time investigator. He was intelligent and forthright and didn’t always play by the rules—all reasons we got along. Also, he excelled at untangling the messes into which I seemed to habitually entangle myself, and today was starting to look like one of those messes.

“Fine. I’ll call.”

Lottie went back inside the shop while I arranged the boxes to keep them from shifting. I heard a wolf whistle behind me, and, knowing the particular wolf it belonged to, I turned with a smile. “Hey,” I said to Marco as he strode toward me, “your name just came up.”

“I get nervous when you say that. Let me give you a hand.”

I stepped back to give him room—actually to ogle him—as he hoisted the remaining carton onto his shoulder and deposited it in the van. Marco was in his usual outfit—a pair of scuffed black boots, formfitting blue jeans, and a T-shirt. I’d never seen him in a suit, let alone a tux, but I could certainly picture him in one. He was solid male sinew in a trim body topped off with a pair of shoulders that wouldn’t quit. He had olive skin, dark hair, bedroom eyes, and a smile that would melt your mascara. He also had lightning-fast reflexes honed during his stint with the Rangers. I’d learned the hard way never to tap him on the shoulder without first letting him know I was there.

“How is your cousin holding up?” he asked. “Or should I ask,
where
is your cousin
holing
up?” Marco was well acquainted with Jillian’s history.

“She gave me a moment of panic earlier, but she’s okay now.” I pointed toward the open back door of the shop. “Would you mind helping me load that palm tree?”

Marco glanced inside the door. “I don’t see a palm tree.”

“You’re looking right at it.”

What he was looking at was one of my mother’s sculptures, a tall green tree with branches shaped to resemble bark-covered human arms. At the end of the arms were palms—the kind found on hands, not on trees—on which to hang coats. It was typical of the pieces she made, which ranged from the slightly eccentric to the extremely bizarre and had been known to send senior citizens into dead faints. She’d brought this one to the shop more than two weeks ago, and so far there had been no buyers, only a lot of chucklers and a few gaspers.

“You’re kidding,” Marco said, eyeing it guardedly.

“Sadly, no. My client wanted a tropical eye-catcher for her party today, and when she saw this tree she thought it would be perfect.”

Marco fought his way through the branches to get his hands around the trunk without a finger jabbing him in the face. “If this doesn’t catch people’s eyes,” he grumbled, “or blind them, nothing will.” He shoved it all the way to the front of the van and shut the gate, leaving the top of the tree resting on the dashboard like a headless human holding on for dear life.

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. “Now I have just one more favor to ask.”

“I hope it’s a quick one. The bar is going to be hopping today.”

“How hopping?”

He came over to where I was leaning against the driver’s door and tilted my chin up, his touch sending a tingle down my spine. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to ask me to do something I won’t like?”

“Depends on your definition of
like
. Would you
like
to take a short walk with me this evening?”

He gave me a wary look. “Depends on your definition of
short
.”

“Touché. How about from here to the garbage bin over there?”

Marco’s lips twitched. “I’ll probably regret this, but I’m going to say yes.”

“Super. Next question. Would you like to eat, drink, and be merry with me? While wearing a tuxedo?”

His dark eyebrows came down to form a solid line of scowl. He was getting the idea.

“The thing is,” I hastened to say, “one of the groomsmen—my escort, in fact—sprained his ankle, and I really,
really
don’t want to be the only bridesmaid without an escort. Please do this for me, Marco. I’ll be forever in your debt.”

He folded his arms and gave me a stern look. “I hate tuxes.”

“Trust me, you’ll look great. It’s top of the line. The women will drool over you.” At least this one would.

“I don’t like ceremonies either.”

That wasn’t good news. He and I had walked down the aisle many times in my dreams. “You’ll like this one, I promise. It’ll have fireworks in it.”

“Is there a reception? I’m not fond of receptions.” He was starting to soften.

“Think of it this way, you’ll get to eat a gourmet meal, hear a live band, and have the privilege of dancing with me. Does it get any better than that? Besides, you’ve got capable staff at the bar. They can handle things for a couple of hours.” I lowered my eyelids and tried to look irresistible. “What do you say? Will you help me out?”

He rubbed his jaw, as though calculating something. “How much will you be in my debt?”

I paused. Last time we had a wager he’d wanted roses for each one of his tables for a week. Luckily, he’d lost and had to provide me with a home-cooked dinner instead. “How about those roses for your tables?”

There was a devilish twinkle in his eye that told me he had something else in mind. “How about I let you know?”

Hey, whatever it took. “Sure thing. Now, about that tux. Jillian will have it here before noon, and I’ll bring it to the bar so you can try it on. I think you and Greg are about the same size.”

“Greg Morgan? That little runt? I’m at least four inches taller than he is.”

More like one inch, but I wasn’t in a position to burst his male ego. “I’ll call the tuxedo shop and ask if they can send longer pants.”

“You’d better hope they can. There’s no way in hell I’d show up in one of those monkey suits with my socks exposed.”

I wondered how he’d feel about showing up with a girl in a clown suit.

 

The Independence Day parade was in full swing as I pulled out of the alley with the fully loaded van, but all I caught was a glimpse of the high school marching band’s blue uniforms and sweaty faces. When I got to Trudee’s house I found three of the quads sprawled in lounge chairs on her back deck, icy colas at their sides.

“Okay, guys, let’s get the van unloaded,” I called, clapping my hands to snap them out of their daydreams. “Who’s missing?”

“Karl,” Johnny volunteered. “He’s inside.”

I peered through the sliding glass door and spotted the missing quad sitting at the kitchen counter having a conversation with Trudee. Her seventeen-year-old daughter, Heather, was in the adjacent family room, flipping through a magazine, ignoring both of them.

I’d encountered Heather several times before, and none of those meetings had been pleasant. She was going through a rebellious phase in which she despised her mother’s lifestyle, hairstyle, cooking, friends, TV shows, and every word she uttered. Heather had dyed her short hair shocking pink and wore beer-cap dangle earrings, purple lipstick, and shiny black eyeshadow, a look that Trudee, as a former makeup artist and hair stylist, could barely tolerate—which was the whole point. Watching her, I silently muttered a prayer of forgiveness for putting my own mother through a similar hell.

“So, like, what’s your favorite rock song?” Karl was asking Trudee when I walked in.

I took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the door. “Get moving. Time is money.”

Once the van had been unloaded, I held open the front door and guided the boys as they brought the palm tree coatrack into Trudee’s enormous foyer. In any other home the coatrack would have looked ridiculous, but since this entranceway already contained a waterfall with accompanying jungle sounds, and wallpaper covered with giant parrots, lizards, and other flora and fauna of the tropics, the palm tree had no trouble fitting in.

While the boys were busy setting pots of flowers along the paths and on the back deck, I decorated the foyer, where I arranged bushy ferns and half a dozen white orchids around the waterfall pool.

“What’s that?” Heather called, leaning over the banister at the top of the curving staircase and pointing to my mother’s palm tree.

“A coatrack.”

“It’s gross. Where did you find it?” she asked, coming down the steps. “The junkyard?”

“Yes,” I said dryly as I stepped back to study the orchid arrangement. “I found it at the junkyard and brought it to your house.”

“Shut
up.
Why are those creeps all over the backyard?”

“They’re my helpers.”

“You know they’re, like, total losers, right? I mean, who else takes the bus to school? And look where they work. Burger King. What’s that about?”

At that moment the front door opened and one of the so-called losers—who, it turned out, was Karl—stuck his head in. He saw Heather and smiled. Rolling her eyes, she marched back upstairs looking very put out.

“All done?” I asked Karl.

“Um, well, about that,” he said, scratching his neck. “We ran into a minor problem.”

“Karl, unless this is a
major
problem, I don’t have time for it.”

He thought for a moment, then said, “It’s a major problem.”

I pushed him outside so Trudee wouldn’t hear. “Okay, spill it.”

“There was this gigantic hornets’ nest under the deck, see, and—”

“Bottom line, Karl,” I said, checking the time, “who got stung?”

“My brothers.”

“
All
of them? Where are they?”

“In the van. They’re not feeling well. Yeah, you might want to stop by the hospital on your way back to the shop.”

I glanced back at the house to see Heather in the doorway holding her hand to her forehead to form a big letter L.