Chapter 20
T he Los Angeles Flower Market opened at five in the morning, which meant Ivy’s alarm went off before three.
Momentarily stunned, she lay in the dark for about thirty seconds before remembering what day it was.
She quickly dragged herself out of bed and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt emblazoned with the town’s slogan, Life is Better in Summer Beach .
Bennett rolled over. “What time is it?”
“Too early for your beach run.” She kissed his cheek. “Go back to sleep.”
She brewed coffee in the kitchen and filled an insulated cup for the drive.
Shelly was already in the car court with the Jeep running, its headlights cutting through the foggy marine layer. Imani pulled up a minute later in her SUV, window down, her braids tucked under a silk headwrap.
“If I don’t get the blush peonies Carol Reston wants, someone is going to have a bad morning,” Imani announced.
“Then drive faster,” Shelly said. “I’ll follow you.”
“You’ll pass me,” Imani said. “You always do.”
“Only because you drive like a grandmother.”
Imani laughed and shifted into gear. “My grandmother drove a Cadillac at forty miles an hour and used a white handkerchief to signal a turn. I am nothing like her. As for the grandmother part, I’m looking forward to that day.”
Ivy cut in. “Okay, you two. Stop bickering, and let’s get on the road.”
They caravanned up the I-5 highway, headlights slicing through the dark. Ivy rode with Shelly, who treated the drive like a qualifying lap. The Jeep rattled over every patch of uneven pavement, the dashboard vibrating as they hugged the ocean for a while.
“Do you have your list?” Ivy asked, gripping the door handle.
Shelly tapped her temple. “It’s all up here.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I walked into the Met Gala with nothing but a sketch on a napkin and thousands of dollars’ worth of orchids in a refrigerated van. I think I can handle a flower market.”
“You sketched the plan on a napkin?”
“Back then, I didn’t like being overprepared.” Shelly grinned in the dashboard light. “It was the best work I’ve ever done at that time. Since then, I’ve learned the value of a good list from you.”
“So you do listen to me.”
Shelly poked her in the side. “Occasionally.”
They parked under a row of humming streetlights and trekked toward the market, the air damp and cool against Ivy’s cheeks.
Inside, the market hit her like a wave. Fluorescent lights blazed over the space packed with vendors, their stalls overflowing with buckets of every flower Ivy could name and dozens she couldn’t.
The air was thick with scent. Voices bounced off the rafters in a jumble of languages as buyers elbowed for space.
Shelly moved through the market like a woman on a mission, which she was. She bypassed the first rose vendors without a glance, heading straight for a stall at the far end run by an older woman who greeted her by name.
“These are the ones,” Shelly said, lifting a coral rose from a bucket and holding it to the light. She turned it slowly, examining the petal structure. “Gorgeous color. Were you able to get what I asked for?”
“Two hundred stems,” the woman replied. “You want them all?”
“Every last one.”
While Shelly negotiated, Ivy wandered the adjacent stalls, staying out of her way.
She located the ranunculus Shelly had described and flagged them.
She located sunflowers and loaded some onto a flat.
She carried so many armloads of eucalyptus back to the Jeep that she started to smell like she’d spent the morning at a spa.
Imani worked her own circuit, targeting the growers she’d cultivated relationships with over the years. She found her peony grower and emerged from that negotiation with bunches of the blush ruffled beauties she’d been coveting, plus a promise of first pick next season.
“She adores me,” Imani said, loading her SUV.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true. I pamper my favorite vendors with little gifts throughout the year.”
By seven, both cars were stuffed to the roof.
Roses, lilies, peonies, dahlias, ranunculus, and more crowded the back seats.
Bundles of eucalyptus, ferns, and curly willow were wedged in wherever there was space.
Imani’s passenger seat held a five-gallon bucket full of sunflowers with the seatbelt fastened around it as if it were a child.
They drove back to Summer Beach against the traffic that was streaming into L.A. Ivy dozed a little, lulled by the hum of tires. Shelly drove with one hand and ate a breakfast burrito she’d grabbed from a street vendor outside the market with the other.
“How much did we spend?” Ivy asked, half asleep.
“Less than you’d think.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting until after the arrangements are done. Trust me. We’re going to get so much exposure out of this. I bet we’ll be booked solid for weddings when people see this. I called the wedding and travel editors I worked with in New York to get coverage.”
“You did?” Ivy sat up straight at that news.
Shelly winked at her. “Surprise! I’m not just a crunchy granola beach mom. I’ve got your back, girl.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to make sure I could get through to them. ‘Summer Beach—the new destination wedding venue.’ How do you like that?”
Ivy rubbed her sister’s shoulder. “Forget what I said about the budget.”
They pulled into the car court at the inn with Imani right behind them.
The household was awake now. Bennett, Poppy, and Sunny helped unload both vehicles, carrying armloads of flowers, rolls of ribbon, and bags of floral foam through the kitchen and into the ballroom to stage the arrangements.
The expansive room had been cleared and cleaned the day before. Ivy opened the French doors to let in the fresh ocean breeze.
Shelly stood in the center of the room under the chandeliers and surveyed the space with a sharp, calculating gaze.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“What guests will see first in here and where will make the biggest impact.”
“The entry table gets a showpiece,” Shelly said, pointing toward the round table in the foyer. “First impressions count. I’ll create a towering arrangement. Coral roses, creamy ranunculus, trailing amaranth, eucalyptus. Lush but not stiff. It should feel as if it grew there.”
“How tall?” Imani asked.
“Taller than Ivy.”
“Everything is taller than me,” Ivy said, grinning.
Shelly didn’t miss a beat. “Mantel arrangements on the fireplaces, low and romantic. Long tables get runners of loose greenery with clusters of flowers tucked in at different intervals. Not lined up like soldiers. I want it to look like someone walked through a beautiful garden and dropped armfuls of flowers wherever the mood struck.”
Ivy liked her ideas. “Sounds like this will take us all day.”
“What else do you have to do?” Shelly asked.
“Hey, that wasn’t a complaint.”
“Sorry, I’m thinking way ahead right now.”
“I’m yours,” Imani said. “Jamir came home for spring break, so he’s managing Blossoms for me today.”
“How’s medical school going?” Ivy asked.
“It’s his dream, and he’s making me proud,” Imani replied.
They set up stations in the ballroom. Shelly claimed the center table, spreading out her arsenal of clippers, wire, floral tape, and a lineup of vintage vases she’d hunted down at Antique Times.
“Sunny, would you put on the playlist?” Shelly called toward the kitchen. “The one labeled Spring Fling Prep. It’s eclectic. I’ve got Taylor Swift, Pink, Andrea Bocelli, Euro pop, and more. And turn it up.”
They were alone today. Kiko was with Ken, and Gilda and Pixie were volunteering at Thrifty Threads, the secondhand shop in the village that supported animal rescue.
Poppy’s job was to fill in wherever they needed, provide lunch and a steady flow of coffee, and answer calls and emails about the event. Sunny had a full day of classes.
Moments later, an upbeat pop song piped through the sound system filled the ballroom. Belting out the tunes, Shelly began working.
Ivy had watched her sister arrange flowers since they were young, from Shelly’s first job at a neighborhood florist to the elaborate installations she’d created for society weddings in the Hamptons and charity galas in Manhattan.
She’d heard the stories: Her sister styling flowers for the Met Gala on short notice, building centerpieces for private parties on Martha’s Vineyard, and creating lush red-carpet backdrops for celebrities to pose in front of for photographers.
But watching Shelly work here, in their own house, for their own event, was something entirely different.
Shelly’s hands moved fast, but every cut was deliberate. She stripped a rose stem in one motion, snipped it at an angle, and placed it without hesitation. Another stem, a spray of greenery, a cascade of amaranth spilling over the vase—each piece found its place as if she could do this in her sleep.
“This red amaranth is called Love Lies Bleeding,” Shelly said, grinning. “Not to be dramatic or anything. Those wild Victorians liked sassy names.”
Under Shelly’s hands, the showpiece bloomed into a lush and playful creation, echoing the inn’s airy Spanish-Mediterranean arches.
“How does she do that?” Imani murmured, standing beside Ivy with a stripped peony in each hand. “I thought I knew design, but she’s at another level.”
“I’ve been watching her for years. She has a vision in mind.”
“Not unlike painting, is it? Two creatives, different mediums.”
Ivy smiled at that. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but now I understand.”
“It’s like she’s having a conversation with the flowers.”
“She probably is. She talks to her plants. I’ve heard her.”
Imani laughed. “I talk to my cut flowers at Blossoms. I tell them to stay fresh and beautiful. I think they listen.”
Ivy stripped leaves, trimmed stems, and handed Shelly whatever she needed. No questions, no slowing down. When Shelly was in the zone, she didn’t want to talk. She needed music and momentum. Today, she had both, and the inn’s bare spots were vanishing under a tide of flowers.
By midmorning, the foyer showpiece, parlor, and staircase banisters were finished, and Shelly had moved to the mantels. Ivy and Imani kept pace, stripping, trimming, and sweeping up the growing pile of leafy debris on the floor.
By early afternoon, mantels were finished and the long tables draped in garlands of greenery, clusters of roses and peonies tucked between candles in mismatched vintage holders. It was exactly what Shelly had promised—beautiful abandon.
Ivy snipped long stalks of rosemary from the garden and plucked ripe lemons for display. Carrying the last bundle through the foyer, she stopped short.
The inn was transformed. The foyer showpiece opened the show with eye candy; mantel flowers framed the fireplaces; floral table garlands wound between candles and old glass like rivers in bloom.
Through the open French doors, the garden path beckoned toward the greenhouse.
Ivy nudged her sister. “Take a moment to look at what you’ve created.”
Shelly straightened the last arrangement and surveyed the room. “I’m happy with this, but the patio still needs attention.”
“We’ve been at this for hours,” Ivy said. “You need to go home to Daisy and Mitch and chill. We can do more early in the morning, but no one will miss it if we don’t.”
Imani put a hand on Shelly’s shoulder. “It’s done, girl. Look at it. It’s a masterpiece.”
“You’re right.” Shelly set down her clippers and peeled off her gloves. “That means it’s time for a celebration. Come with me.”
Ivy and Imani followed her to the kitchen, where Shelly brought out cranberry juice, fresh grapefruit juice, vodka, and vintage crystal glasses from the butler’s pantry.
“Sea Breezes for everyone,” Shelly announced. “Virgin or fully loaded?”
“I’ll have what you’re having,” Ivy said. She wasn’t driving anywhere, and with only Kiko and Gilda in residence, she could relax a little. She needed to before tomorrow.
“Virgin for me,” Imani said. “I have a date with the Chief of Police.”
“How is Clark?” Ivy asked. “I haven’t seen much of him since we were nearly arrested for our midnight dig on the library property.”
“He’s one of the good ones,” Imani said with a wink. “That’s why I’m keeping him around.”
Shelly handed a cocktail to Ivy, a mocktail to Imani, and raised her glass.
“To the Seabreeze Inn,” Shelly said. “And to the Spring Fling. And to my two ride-or-die besties who didn’t complain about getting up in the middle of the night. Much.”
“And to my sister, for making all this happen,” Ivy added.
Shelly took a sip and closed her eyes. “That is exactly what I needed.”
Ivy looked at her sister, who was leaning against the stainless-steel prep table with her drink. Her hair was slipping from its clip, and her clothes were streaked with pollen and dirt. She looked exhausted, yet triumphant, and completely in her element.
“You’re incredible, you know that?” Ivy said, admiring her talent and fortitude.
“Thanks, it’s nice to hear it.” Shelly took a long sip of her drink and tilted her head back, as if the day was finally catching up with her. “I’d better have Mitch pick up Daisy from Darla’s, then he can come get me.”
Ivy was relieved Shelly wasn’t driving, even a short distance. She needed a break.
Tomorrow, the Spring Fling would begin. The first guests would walk through that front door and see what Shelly had created, yet they would have no idea how many hours and hands it had taken.
That was the art of it. Making all the work disappear, leaving only the beauty behind.
Ivy sipped her drink. “So are we all ready for whatever comes tomorrow?”
“Your ‘whatever’ is a dangerous word around here,” Shelly said. “That could mean flaming cocktails that nearly burn the place down, or drunken guests who almost drown in the pool.”
“Don’t forget about the skinny-dipping sorority reunion,” Ivy added, chuckling.
“We’ll see what tomorrow brings,” Imani said, crossing her fingers.
Ivy mentally noted where the fire extinguishers and defibrillator were. At the inn, anything was possible.