10
Friday, December 13
11 days until the wedding
Jenny
The New York flower market has been around for over 0 years, with some shops passed down from generation to generation. It’s located on 28th Street, and only early risers get the best blooms since most stores close by late morning. That’s why at 7:00 a.m. I’m there with Caleb, Dean, and Marjorie.
Gwen’s mom, Melinda, joins us. She blinks sleepily, tired from having just flown in on a red eye from L.A. I give her my tightest hug, happy to see the woman who partially raised me, considering how many hours I spent at her house when I was young.
“How’s Gwen?” I ask her as we walk through a light sprinkle of snow into a large shop filled with shelves and bins of brightly colored flowers. I talked to my best friend last night, so I’m caught up on her activities, but I’m curious to hear her mother’s opinion. Sometimes Gwen holds things in, suppresses her emotions. She does it because she wants to be strong, to not burden the rest of us with her concerns. I think it’s partially from when her dad died, when she felt like she had to hold her family together. She doesn’t understand that all it does is create more stress. We would all rather she expressed her real feelings.
“Fine. Excited and nervous for her presentation at the conference.” A shadow flits over Melinda’s expression. Her mouth tightens, and I sense that there’s something more she wants to say. I wait patiently. As a reporter, I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to get someone to open up is not to ask questions, but to stay silent.
Finally, she says, “We had a bit of a spat. Gwen and I…”
I nod for her to go on.
Melinda shakes her head. “She thinks I put her in charge of Teddy too much. Made her the parent instead of me.”
I carefully hold my expression neutral, to mask my surprise. I’m well aware of Gwen’s thoughts on this subject. We’ve talked about it often enough, but I can’t believe she actually told her mom. For years she’s stayed quiet, not wanting to upset the delicate balance in her family. But Gwen has become bolder recently, especially after meeting Caleb. She’s found her voice, and I’ve loved it, watching her come into her own.
After a moment of internal debate on how best to handle this conversation, I say, “When Mr. Wright died, you had a lot to juggle. I remember the long hours that you worked—”
“Exactly!” she cries out, nodding vigorously.
“Now things are easier, and your kids are older, so you don’t need Gwen’s help.”
“I don’t ask her for much anymore, just to check on Teddy sometimes. He talks to her more than me. I wish it was different, that we had a better relationship, but I worry about him. I don’t know what to do.” She wrings her hands.
“I understand,” I say gently. I’ve seen Teddy recently. I worry about him too. He’s seemed a little unsteady, a little lost, ever since he dropped out of college in Michigan and came back to California. “But that disconnect between you and Teddy isn’t Gwen’s fault, and she gets overwhelmed feeling like she’s responsible for fixing it.”
Melinda hangs her head and sighs. “I don’t want that.”
I reach out to give her arm a light squeeze. “Talk to Teddy. Let him know you care. Let Gwen off the hook. She worries about him too. She’ll look after him whether you ask her to or not. That’s her nature.”
A sniffle and nod from Melinda. “I guess. I don’t want to put added pressure on her. She’s already got enough going on.”
Marjorie calls out, asking all of us to come over. She gathers us around her in a loose semicircle. With hands on her hips, she surveys us like a general looking over her troops. “Today we need to finalize the bridal bouquet and the groomsmen’s boutonnieres. Gwen sent photos of the ones she wants.” Marjorie passes out a printout showing a variety of flowers accented by winter berries and boughs of pine.
“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.
Something tickles in the back of my mind. A memory. “Wait— What—?”
“Jenny,” Caleb says as he walks over to us, breaking my train of thought. “Can you look at this? Could we use this for Gwen’s bouquet?” He holds out a wide, glittering, red satin ribbon.
“Just a minute,” I tell him, then swing my gaze to Dean, but he’s already retreating, muttering “Forget it” as he strides away with his back rigid and his shoulders stiff.
Caleb and I turn to watch him go.
“What’s up with Dean?” Caleb asks me.
“Heck if I know,” I answer. The memory that was forming disintegrates, tattered wisps of recollection that fade quickly. “What do you need help with?”
He gives me the ribbon. It sparkles prettily under the overhead lights. “Gwen will like this,” I say, handing it back.
“I think so too.” Caleb smiles wistfully, running the fabric through his hands. “I want this wedding to be perfect for Gwen. For it to be everything she’s ever dreamed of.”
“It will,” I tell him, sensing a sadness beneath his words.
“She’s giving up a lot to be with me.” There’s despair in how he says it, like it pains him.
“She’s getting a lot in return,” I remind him gently. “She gets to be with you. That’s all Gwen wants. She doesn’t care about the details. She doesn’t need everything to be flawless as long as she has you in the end.”
“I don’t want her to regret it, marrying me.” He doesn’t look up, but I see the droop of his shoulders.
“She won’t. I’ve never seen Gwen like she is with you. She’s light, happy. Less focused on making things okay for everyone else. She’s more herself.” I pause, emotional when I think back to the transformation my friend has undergone in the past few years. Sure, she still has things to work on, but don’t we all?
“I’d do anything to keep her from suffering because of who I am.” He shifts on his feet. “I wanted her to take the jet to her conference, so she could be safe. I don’t want her accosted by fans or the press.”
I sigh, understanding what he’s referring to. Gwen told me about it. “You can’t always protect her. Gwen will figure out how to deal with your fame, if you give her the chance. Hiding her away from the world won’t help you in the long run.”
“Sure, it will,” he argues stubbornly. “She can avoid all the people who love to criticize me and anyone involved with me.”
“No,” I counter, understanding his logic but also seeing the flaw in it. “She needs exposure, time to adjust. You haven’t given that to her.”
That makes him pause. His jaw tightens as he considers what I said. “Maybe,” Caleb says, but I don’t think he believes his own words.
His eyes slide to the aisle Dean just walked down. “What’s up with you and Dean?” he asks.
I notice the deliberate change of conversation, but I don’t call him on it.
“What?” My voice squeaks, high-pitched.
Now Caleb’s acting like the reporter. He rubs his chin and stares at me with narrowed eyes. “He talks to you.”
“So?” I give a nervous laugh.
Caleb tilts his head. “He’s not much of a talker.”
Interesting, since I sat in a car and talked to Dean for over two hours last night. “Oh, is that so?” I pretend to not care, but a strange thrill goes through my body. “I guess I’m easy to talk with.” I toss my hair and smile, to distract him from this conversation and also to lighten his mood.
It works. Caleb relaxes and grins back. “You are. I like talking to you, Jenny. Thanks for being a great friend to Gwen.” He grows bashful and looks away before saying, “And to me.”
Caleb lets out an “oomph” when I grab him and give him a quick hug, squeezing tight.
“Thanks for being a good friend to me, too,” I say, happy Gwen chose him, of all people, to fall in love with. “This wedding’s going to be amazing. Just wait and see.”