Page 82 of Songs of Summer

“I don’t think you understand. The florist is from the mainland. We have no flowers. There is nothing to arrange,” he said as Veronica descended the stairs.

“But we have gardens!” Veronica proclaimed, hands in the air, descending the stairs like a bony version of Auntie Mame.

“Can you ask your mother how many tables there are and how many bouquets she needs?”

“I know the bouquets—it’s Renee, Dylan, Maisie, and Juno, and two buccaneers.”

“Boutonnieres,” Veronica laughed, until her next realization doused it.

“The chuppah! That’s gonna be tough.”

“The chuppah is all set. Jake made it himself out of driftwood and seashells.”

“So beautiful, great, OK. Tell her we’re on this and come right back—with Dylan,” Veronica barked, her face lit with purpose.

“Do you need anything else?”

“We have baskets, white spray paint. Daddy, do you still have those boxes of mason jars in the attic, from Mom’s blueberry jam phase?”

There was a time when wild blueberry bushes were prolific on the island. Moms would send their offspring out to collect them in the mornings before it got too hot, and they’d return with full pails and purple-stained lips. They’d all but vanished over the years, along with little bunnies that were once as common a sight as the deer. Matt had no idea why.

During one particularly prolific blueberry summer, after baking muffins and pies and crumbles, Caroline had tried her hand at preserves.

“They’re probably in the attic,” Shep informed his daughters, referring to their neighbors’ house across the street.

They all looked at him suspiciously.

“What?”

“It’s been over ten years now; it’s not our house anymore. This is our house now,” Veronica preached.

Shep smiled again.

“You have no idea how long I have been waiting for you to say that.”

Track 38

Into the Mystic

Ben

“Daddy, Daddy,” Maisiecried, “please fix my bow like that one.”

Little Maisie Morse pointed to a small sculpture of a pair of flower girls dressed in dresses that matched her own, their entirety made from clay except for two pale yellow satin bows tied behind them, not unlike a Degas ballerina. Ben’s wife, Addison, was a sculptor. A critically acclaimed one, actually. She had created clay replicas of the flower girls as a wedding gift.

Ben did his darndest to tie the satin bow on the back of Maisie’s precious flower girl dress in the same fashion as the sculpture. He did a pretty good job except for the fact that he tied his finger into it as well.

“I guess I have to walk down the aisle with you!” he joked, before carefully wiggling it out.

“No way, Daddy!” Maisie objected, taking a step forward when freed and proudly twirling around in circles as if it were her job.

The two little girls collected their baskets of petals. Justone piece of the lovely floral creations that Veronica had managed to throw together in a few hours’ time.

The family of four, his family of four, traveled up the block, where Maisie and Juno stopped to ooh and aah over the bride. Renee looked ethereal in an ivory satin sheath, holding a bouquet of local wildflowers tied in the same color ribbon as the one on the dresses of the girls. It was remarkable how a last-minute cry out to the community for flowers had produced such perfection.

“You guys know what to do?” Addison asked her daughters confidently. Of course they did. Since learning they would be flower girls, they had treated every corridor, path, and hallway as an aisle.

Maisie nodded her head, yes, but her sister’s hand went right to her mouth, chomping on her nail like it was lunch. Her dad gently placed it back at her side, but once she got a hold of his, she wouldn’t let it go.

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