Track 37 Wildflowers
Track 37
Wildflowers
Matt
On the morning of the wedding, Matt woke Dylan up the same way he had on hundreds of occasions growing up. When they were kids, he was always up before her and would let himself into the back door of her house, slip into her room, and jump on her bed, to the tune of her begging him to stop—no matter that he was now six foot one and had to shield his bent head with his arms to avoid a concussion.
Today was no different.
“Stop it, Matty, I’ll drown you in the Great South Bay, I swear.”
He stopped and pulled a wishing weed from behind his back, presenting it to her. Half the petals had flown off during the storming of the bed, but she smiled just the same.
“Aw, thank you. I’m glad to see you’ve matured over the years.”
“Maybe,” he said with a smirk, lying down next to her on the queen-size bed.
“You know we’re both walking down the aisle tonight. Should we practice?”
“I think we can handle it—where’s Maggie?”
“She slept in town last night with Jason.”
“Do you miss her?”
“No, I don’t miss her.”
“I call BS, Matthew Tucker.”
Matt wet his finger and stuck it in Dylan’s ear, shouting “Wet willy” as he did so.
“I guess my analysis was premature—or immature. Get out, I have to get dressed.”
Matt headed for the kitchen, where he found his mother standing by the counter with her head in her hands.
“What’s wrong?” he joked. “Cold feet?”
“The florist has Covid.”
Jake rubbed her back. “Who needs flowers?”
Wrong answer.
“I need flowers,” the bride cried.
The groom looked at Matt in desperate need of assistance.
“Maybe I should go fetch the matron of honor.”
“Yes, reinforcements!” Jake nodded and put his hands to prayer. He wasn’t a praying man.
Matt could tell that as much as this poor guy wanted to please his mother, he was truly in over his head. He and Dylan never even used place mats on their table, let alone floral centerpieces.
“I’m on it,” Matt said, grabbing a fistful of Lucky Charms from the open box on the counter and heading across the street for help, where, of course, the door was unlocked.
“Where’s Maggie?”
The fact that those were the first words out of Bea’s mouth when he entered gave him pause. But he had no time to think of the repercussions of their lies and the shock that this poor woman was in for, not to mention the betrayal. Bea and betrayal didn’t mix well. He wished he could just rip off the Band-Aid right there and then. “ Bea—Maggie is your daughter .” It was so obvious to him now; he was shocked that no one else could see it. He guessed it was because the idea was so out of left field, plus they would never have expected Matt to lie to them all.
Why was he lying to them all?
He pushed the unpleasant thoughts away.
“She’s in town with her brother. The florist has Covid. There are no flowers, and my mother is a mess.”
“We’ve got this,” Bea declared without hesitation before calling upstairs to her sister. “Veronica, I need you!”
“She needs her.” Shep peeked above his newspaper from the kitchen table, a prideful smile plastered across his face.
“Veronica is a master at flower arranging,” Bea assured Matt.
“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.”