Page 31 of Holiday Wedding
“We also need coordinating flowers to place at the end of each aisle. I want each of you to go and get flowers that match this list. If you find them, take a photo and text it to me with the location of the flowers. If you see any additional flowers, ribbons, or other accents that you think will work, send those to me as well.”
She holds up her phone and points to the text message icon on her screen. “At the end, I’ll go through everything and put in the order. The process will go much faster with us all working together. Remember that the wedding colors are white, red, and gold. I want to keep this classy. Gwen said nothing over the top.” Her mouth twists slightly, like she’s disappointed she can’t go all out. I picture her dressing Wayne up in a Santa’s outfit to officiate and bite back a laugh.
Across the circle, Dean raises a brow at me as if he can hear my thoughts.
“Let’s spread out and see what we find,” Marjorie says, looking at each of us. “Remember, we’re keeping the date and location of the wedding a secret from the public, so make sure no one else sees these notes or texts.”
We disperse. Melinda and Marjorie go off together, chatting excitedly about the wedding. I watch as they move farther away from me. Melinda waves her hands around, and Marjorie laughs loudly at something she says. It’s nice seeing them united. No mama drama for this wedding. Eddie’s going to be so disappointed.
The rest of us go our separate ways. Soon I’m alone, heading deeper into the market. Since it’s the holiday season, there are red poinsettias everywhere. Boughs and wreaths of fresh pine hang from the walls, releasing their warm fragrance, which merges with the enticing scent of freshly cut flowers. I stop by a bucket of delicate white tea roses, their petals lightly scalloped, and lower my nose to sniff them.
When I glance up, Dean’s there, so close that I startle and take a step back,knocking into a large potted fern on a pedestal behind me. It wobbles from the impact. Dean leans around me, his shoulder brushing mine, to steady it. I jolt from the contact. My skin is instantly warmed from where we touched.
“Oh hey, how’s it going?” I ask uncertainly, not sure why he sought me out.
“Fine.” His expression is unreadable.
“Okay,” I draw out, waiting for more, but the man just stands there. Inscrutable. I give a small shrug, deciding not to waste my brain cells wondering what’s going on in that thick skull of his. I take a quick picture of the roses and send it to Marjorie. Then I turn and walk down a row of hydrangeas in colors pink, blue and white.
Dean follows.
Ignoring him, I head over to a bunch of baby’s breath and then onto a basket of berries, thinking they would match the wedding’s holiday theme. I capture the shiny red balls with my camera and text it to Caleb’s mom. After that, I go up one aisle and down another. Dean trails along behind me, occasionally reaching out to run his fingers over a velvety leaf or to readjust a stem about to fall out of its bucket. It’s unnerving having him close, so I resort to my default for all socially awkward situations.
I babble.
Anything and everything I can think of flows from my brain and out of my mouth. I talk about the weather, the wedding, the way the stargazer lilies always make me sneeze.
Dean grunts and nods, almost like he’s listening.
Maybe he’s following me to make sure I don’t mess up? Like accidentally set the flower shop on fire?
We’re in the potted plants section when I suddenly remember what I want to talk to him about. My voice low, I tell him, “I was thinking about the stalker, you know, the one after Caleb. We should check out Janice.”
“Janice?” Dean echoes with a quirk of his eyebrow. “She’s in her late sixties and has been Caleb’s assistant since he was a teenager.”
“So?” I challenge. “You think just because she’s older than Caleb, she can’t have romantic feelings toward a younger man?” I purse my lips with judgment. “That’s rather ageist of you.”
I turn the corner and start down the next aisle. “If you don’t believe it’s Janice, I came up with this list of possibilities.” I reach deep into my pocket and pull out a crumpled piece of paper, covered in my messy scribble. “People he works with, friends, potential enemies.”
Dean takes his phone from his jacket. “I have a list, too.” He turns it on and holds it up for me to see. A spreadsheet with over 800 entries is displayed. “I have all his known acquaintances here. I’ve cross-referenced their criminal records, if they have any. I rated them on a scale of one to ten on how likely I think that they’re the suspect, based on their age, gender, disposition, occupation, and economic status.” He continues talking, listing statistics, half of which go over my head.
Stealthily, so he doesn’t see, I shove my paper back into my pocket. My cheeks warm with embarrassment as I realize my list looks like rudimentary child’s play compared to the one he’s come up with.
“Honestly,” Dean says, “this is probably all for nothing. The most likely scenario is that it’s a fan who Caleb’s never met. A stranger.”
What he says makes sense. Caleb has millions of admirers. The stalker could be any one of them, but something deep in my gut says he’s wrong. I’m not sure why, but I believe it’s somebody Caleb knows. A person close to him.
“Can you send me that?” I ask, pointing at his phone. “To give to Ron and Bradly.” I lie, not liking that I’m hiding the truth, but a plan is forming in my mind. A far-fetched one, but a plan nonetheless. It relies on my computer skills and intuition.
Dean clicks a few buttons and sends me the information.
We fall quiet again as we enter the next room full of flowers. A rose bush as tall as my hip has vibrant blossoms that draw my attention. The soft petals shatter apart when I touch them, gently raining down on my feet. I catch a couple in my palm before they tumble to the ground. Dean and I both stare at them. They’re beautiful, with variegated shades of peach and a faint blush of red at the base.
“Remember the flowers in Central Park, at the zoo?” says Dean, breaking the silence.
My eyes fly up to his. His voice sounds unnaturally loud after so many minutes of not speaking. “What?” I ask, not comprehending.
“Central Park,” he repeats with an intense stare.
