“I understand completely that you want everything to be perfect, but try to relax. I promise the lilies will be open by eleven. Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you, Beth,” she spit. “Get it done, or I’m not paying you a dime. And don’t think you can make me. Do you know who my father is?”
Of course I knew. Joey “The Worm” DiNardo — so named for his propensity to (allegedly) bury his victims while they were still alive. He was a legend in Rhode Island, the state with the highest number of Mafiosa per capita than any in our wonderful country.
“Well, what’s your plan, Beth? If those freaking lilies aren’t open by the ceremony, I may as well call the whole goddamn thing off.”
Wondering (A) if God might do us all a favor and strike down young Lorraine for swearing in His house and (B) if there were indeed a strain of lilies so named freaking, I raised the hair dryer I brought for the singular purpose of wooing the testy flowers open, a classic trick in my business. “I’ll just blow a little warm air on them, see? And they’ll open. It happens all the time. If they’d been open last night, they’d look awful by the time of the ceremony.”
“Whatever! Just make it right.” With that, she hiked up the skirt of her $25,000 gown and stalked back to the little room in the back of St. Anthony’s to be soothed by her eight bridesmaids.
One had to wonder just whom Joey the Worm had paid off to marry sweet little Lorraine. Of course, I’d had my fair share of bridezillas — I’d been in the business a while — but Lorraine took the cake. Took several cakes, actually. According to the wedding planner, who was over by the baptismal taking a pull from her flask, Lorraine had terrorized the entire wedding industry of Rhode Island, from me to the dress designer to the bakery supplying her ten-tiered monstrosity.
I plugged in the dryer and got to work. Many of the lilies on the end of the pews were already opening, as I knew they would. The actual ceremony wouldn’t start for another two hours — the bridal party had arrived early for photos. The bride’s side of the bridal party, that is, who were all now thundering out St. Anthony’s front doors. Lorraine had chosen eight women who all weighed in at more than two hundred pounds. She was one of those. Stand her next to some of those cousins, and she looked more like a cover model and less like the vicious pitbull she actually was.
“I don’t freaking care!” came a shriek from out front. “Daddy, can’t you do anything? I don’t want rain on my wedding day!”
Idly wondering how Joey the Worm would stop the rain from falling, I moved up and down the aisle, coaxing open the recalcitrant lilies. As a florist, weddings were obviously my bread and butter, but a wedding like Lorraine DiNardo’s kind of took the wind out of the old sails. Despite the fact that I’d make a hefty profit on this gig, despite the fact that this wedding showcased some of my best work, it was hard to wish for a happily ever after for a woman like that. Even over the whine of the hair dryer, I could hear her screeching over yet another imperfection.
A few tuxedo-clad men drifted into the church, exchanging insults and rubbing bleary, hungover eyes. Were I not just the help, I might’ve taken a better look. Ever since George Clooney had appeared in one in Ocean’s Eleven, I’d been a sucker for a man in a tux. But the glances I did steal told me that they were young…and at 38, I wasn’t appealing to men under, oh, seventy, I guess. At least, that what experience had shown in the past few years. Men in their thirties seemed to go for women — and I used the term loosely — in their early twenties. Ah, well. I had work to do.
By the time everything was perfect, the first guests were just starting to pull up. I did a quick sweep for anything out of place, then hurried to the little room. I knocked, then opened the door to see the eight large and rather frightened-looking bridesmaids and one diminutive, sour-faced bride.
“Just wanted to let you know everything’s perfect, Lorraine. The lilies are open and gorgeous.”
“Like I have time to worry over that. Whatever.”
“Well. Best wishes.”
She didn’t deign to say goodbye.
I took a few minutes to tidy up my van…put away my shears, the green florist tape I used, a few extra flowers in case any had been damaged en route to the church. I took a pull from the cup of coffee that had been hot about five hours ago, wincing. Better than nothing.
It was the middle of May, a gorgeous time of year. All around the church, lilacs bloomed, filling the air with their incredible scent. Crabapple, dogwood and cheery trees were bursting with blossoms, and Joey the Worm had somehow dissipated the clouds. I couldn’t help thinking that Lorraine DeNardo didn’t deserve such a perfect day.
“Excuse me, are you headed into town?”
I turned to see one of the tuxedoed men standing next to the van, his boutonnière identifying him as a member of the wedding party. Brown eyes, wavy black hair, tall, irritatingly attractive. I stood up a little straighter. Granted, I was wearing stained jeans and a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt, but a woman had to try.
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“Mind if I catch a ride? I forgot something.”
I paused. He was a stranger, after all. A stranger with ties to a Mob family. “Um…what did you forget?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess I forgot that marrying Lorraine DeNardo would be roughly equivalent to smearing myself with honey and lying naked on a bed of fire ants.”
Holy. Crap. “Um…you’re the groom?”
“Yeah.” He glanced back at the church. “So. Can I have a ride or not?”
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