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Agnes had come in from consoling Cerise with shrimp and called the florist, powering through some rabbit of an employee on sheer leftover rage from the flamingo-napper who’d taken Cerise from the loving wings of her flock. “Hello?” Maisie said.
“This is Agnes Crandall,” Agnes snarled. “You can’t cancel the Keyeses’ wedding flowers if you ever expect to sell flowers in Keyes again. Are you insane?”
“Oh,” Maisie said, her baby-doll voice even higher than usual. “Oh, I’m so sorry, but I can’t, I just can’t, they’ll kill me.”
“Who?” Agnes said. “And don’t you dare hang up on me or I’ll kill you. And don’t think I won’t, Maisie.”
“The Fortunatos,” Maisie whispered into the phone.
“Why would the Fortunatos kill you for doing the flowers for one of their weddings? They’re a lot more likely to kill you for canceling on them.”
“You don’t know them,” Maisie said.
“Yeah, I do. A hell of a lot better than you do, evidently.”
“Not better than Brenda,” Maisie said.
“Maisie, Brenda is trying to stop the wedding. She doesn’t care that she’s putting you in harm’s way. The Don is coming for this wedding, he’s giving Maria away. Don Fortunato. The Silicon Don. That’s much tougher than Teflon. If he gets here and there are no flowers, you think he’s going to be happy?” Agnes dredged up memories of any mob movies she’d seen. “He’s going to ask who disrespected his grandniece. And you know what everybody is going to tell him?”
“What?” Maisie said, her voice a little moan. “Maisie Shuttle.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Get those daisies out here by Saturday morning and you won’t be sleeping with the fishes, Maisie. He’ll never know the hell you put us through. But if you don’t, I will tell him everything. I’ll tell him where you live, Maisie. I’ll tell him about the Scottie dog on your mailbox, so help me God, I will.”
“Oh, no, all right, all right.” The words were almost inaudible.
“Do not fail me, Maisie,” Agnes said, putting steel in her voice. “Or the first thing the Don will put a bullet hole through will be the Scottie on your mailbox and the second thing will be you.”
“No, no, no.”
“The flowers, Maisie, the daisies will be out here Saturday morning, won’t they?”
“Yes, Agnes.”
“Thank you, Maisie. You won’t be sorry. And the Keyeses will be very, very grateful. Oh, and Maisie? Put in some little flamingo pink touches, will you? Little touches.”
Agnes hung up, trying to feel guilty for having beat up on a helpless Southern florist, but basically, Maisie should never have canceled on a wedding; any good florist should have known better. She looked for her To Do List to mark Maisie off so she could go take a shower and put on something that had less of a history of sex and violence attached to it—I may never wear this dress again—only to hear cars rumbling over the bridge just as the phone rang again. She waited until the rumbling stopped without an ensuing crash of timber and then picked up the phone.
“Agnes Crandall,’’ she said. “Our bridge doesn’t collapse.”
“Pardon,” the man on the other end said nervously.
“Humor,” Agnes said. “Har. What can I do for you?”
“This is Wesley Hedges, your photographer for the wedding this weekend.” His voice was so tight, it broke on weekend.
“Don’t even think about canceling, Wesley,” Agnes said, her voice level.
“I’m not,” he said. “I wouldn’t. But I can’t make it.”
“Let’s review,” Agnes said, her temper rising.
“But I’m sending my assistant,” Wesley said quickly. “She’s as good as I am. Some people say better. But they’re all men. She’s very attractive. I’m actually better, but...” Wesley sounded calmer now that he was being bitchy.
“Wesley, if you’re trying to make me happy about your assistant coming?—”
“No, she’s really good,” Wesley said, nervous again. “I mean, she’s new, but I’ve seen her portfolio. I wouldn’t send anybody bad. I have my pride. Even if they put a gun to my head, I would protect the sanctity of Wesley’s Wonderful Wedding Memories.”
