Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (3 page)

The truth is, Grady is as myopic as he is good-natured and easy-going. And he only likes his own computer with all its bells and whistles. No matter that his is networked to Jessie’s, it’s just not the same.

When my brothers left home, it was understood that Grady and I would supply the hustle and muscle Fantascapes needed to compete with the big boys in the field of extra-special Special Events. But since my cousin’s strengths lie in spread sheets and hacking, guess who was left to provide the hustle and muscle. But, hey, Grady is likable, in a nerdish sort of way. On Saturday mornings when he mans the front desk, Candy makes him tie back the frizzy brown curls that usually halo his square face, sort of like Sponge Bob crossed with Albert Einstein. His eyes are a nice rich brown, but he hides them behind black-rimmed lenses so thick they’re almost impenetrable. Take my word for it, Grady cultivates the geek look. I’d like to think he’s pulling a Clark Kent, but every family has to have its black sheep, right? In our case Grady may be the only normal one we’ve got.

As I wandered back toward the front desk, sipping coffee with nearly every step—a-a-ah!—I examined my cousin with a still bleary, but professional eye. Fantascapes makes its money from high-end clients. No jeans and T-shirts at the front desk. This morning Grady was wearing a charcoal tweed suit, a pastel pink and white striped shirt and a black silk tie I’d given him for Christmas (ninety bucks, on sale). His fingernails, which tend to look chewed, were trimmed and buffed. I couldn’t see his shoes and socks, but I knew the former were shined to perfection and the socks matched, because Grady, like me, is a product of his environment, and perfection is the name of the game.

The rest of the week Grady could hide in his second-floor office, wearing anything he pleased, but he hadn’t spent twenty-four years as Candy Spangler’s son without knowing what put food on the table. With the sign at our black wrought iron gates promising to fulfill people’s dreams, we all had to look like genies who could handle anything that came our way. Not like roadkill left behind on our scramble to the top. Mom liked to say Fantascapes offered quality, even if we didn’t do the volume the big outfits managed.

“
I take it the bride didn’t break her neck?” Grady ventured, turning to the Saturday comics in the local newspaper.

“
The Sheriff is still wiping sweat from his brow, but Fantascapes triumphed again. Not a hitch.”

“
Except for Jake and Marybeth.”

“
Huh?” With only a few swallows of coffee, I was slow this morning.
Hitched
. Jake and Marybeth. Inwardly, I groaned—more at my own slow uptake than at the lameness of Grady’s joke.

“
Did you go to the reception?”

“
Mm-m.” I plopped down into one of the soft palm- and hibiscus-covered chairs in the reception area. “It was nice.” And I meant it, trite or not. I’d arranged for use of the rec hall owned by a proudly middle class civic association, the ones who maintained a ferry to take members across the Intracoastal to the beach. Maintaining a ferry is expensive. The ladies of the association were always glad to make extra money by putting on a wedding reception.

“
I hear Cloud Ten played.”

“
Four of them.” The pared-down version of the wedding band that provided music for most of Fantascapes’ Gulf Coast events was my present to the bride and groom.

“
Cool.”

Truth was, the reception had been so downhome there were moments when my teeth ached. Except for the clusters of silk orange blossoms on each table, it was so far from the waterfront mansions and posh country clubs where most of our receptions were held that it was positively surreal. (I suppose I should mention we try to incorporate orange blossoms into all our weddings. Not only is it traditional, but they are the state flower of Florida. Unfortunately for this wedding, the bloom season was just past, and, besides, we hesitated to beg from the local groves, where every pristine white flower was supposed to grow into a fat, lucrative orange. So we kept a small mountain of white silk blossoms in our warehouse, even though they lacked the incredible fragrance of the real thing.)

Real blossoms or not, I never got attacked by
wistful
or
wishful
at high-end weddings. They were just business. Marybeth’s and Jake’s wedding was
real
. And when Flint Ramsay raised his head above the half dozen drooling females around him, including Ms. Red Mini, and looked at me across the length of the hall, the world went out of focus. Fantascapes. Responsibility. Laine Halliday, Troubleshooter.
Everything
went into meltdown. Which is a pretty strange thing to do when caught in the gaze of guy named Flint. I mean, what were his parents thinking?

I sure knew what I was thinking.

“
Laine? Hey, Lainie? Did you have a good time?” Grady’s question inspired more memories.

Oh, yeah, I’d had a good time
. When he saw me, Sergeant Flint Ramsay abandoned his admirers and headed straight for me. A power trip that still had me gliding on air, even as I ruthlessly tamped down the parts that wanted to jump up and down with glee in anticipation of our genuine date. Tonight.

“
Laine!” Grady groaned.

“
Sorry. Yes, I had a great time. A nice change of pace.”

“
Good morning,” Grady enunciated in an entirely different tone of voice. I unslouched fast as Grady came out from behind his desk, hand extended. “Welcome to Fantascapes. How may we help you?”

It was the Russian bear. “Good morning, Mr. Kirichenko,” I burbled, popping to my feet like a Jack-in-the-Box, teetering precariously on the four-inch heels I had elected to wear this morning. (No trouble guessing why, right?) “I’d like you to meet our company treasurer, Grady Spangler. Grady, this is Viktor Kirichenko, who has just provided us with our newest challenge.” I ushered the bear to the Florida print sofa. “Grady, I’d appreciate your opinion,” I added. “Mr. Kirichenko’s request needs a good analytical mind.

“
I’m glad you stopped by,” I told our newest client. “We were interrupted yesterday before I could pin down a few essential details. Like how tall is your bride, where is the wedding, and is there a door large enough to get the eggs through?” Viktor’s blank stare told me I’d left him behind somewhere around Grady’s introduction. “Sorry. Let’s start over.”

I leaned forward, speaking slowly. “How tall is your bride, Mr. Kirichenko?” He frowned, his eyebrows meeting in the center of his forehead. I stood up. “As tall as I am? Maybe shorter?” I pantomimed with my palm.

“
Nichevo
.” Viktor spread his ham-like hands, shrugged. “Two meters,” he said. “Not how tall bride, but need room to breathe, no?” He wanted the width oversize as well. Grady muttered something about the eggs being big enough to fit Santa Claus. Or hatch a Brontosaurus. I frowned at him and went on to Question Two.

The wedding would be at a “big club, Kirichenko told me. “Very big club.”

“
We’re talking a whale of an egg too,” Grady said. Viktor stared at him in polite inquiry.

“
Very big egg,” I said, spreading out my arms as far as they would go. “Heavy, hard to move. Is there a door at the club big enough—”

“
Ah!” Viktor’s dark eyes lit up. “
Da, da!
Big door.” He spread his arms as well. A lamp tilted . . . Grady grabbed it, set it back in place, gently patting the shade to upright perfection.

“
Now . . . how does it work?” I mused, trying to visualize the problem.

Silence. “Maybe a hole in the back?” Grady suggested. “The bride just walks in.”

Mr. Kirichenko said something that was definitely not the Russian equivalent of “Good idea.”

“
Sorry,” Grady muttered.

The whole mass—four layers and a bride—had to be moved into place under the fascinated gaze of the wedding guests or else the bride had to be in the egg way ahead of time. I mean, layered eggs big enough for an oversize human were prohibitively unwieldy. I pictured a forklift lumbering up the aisle.

And yet . . . Viktor’s dream was so romantic. I could see the ornate Fabergé-style egg sitting there beside the Eastern Orthodox priest in his colorful robes and miter. Viktor steps forward, swings open some kind of door. The wedding guests draw deep breaths, preparing to oo and ah . . . and discover an equally ornate egg in a different color underneath. Ragged sighs of disappointment, rapidly transforming to appreciation as the guests catch on.
Unique. Glorious. Wonderful!
And the great unfolding continues, the second egg opening to reveal the third; the third egg , to reveal the fourth. And the fourth—while the guests hold their collective breath—at last reveals the bride. Who steps out of the egg to take Viktor’s hand and be led under the wedding canopy. By now everyone is enraptured, caught up in the ultimate romantic gesture.

“
We’ll find a way,” I promised recklessly. “We’ll probably have to keep the guests out until the last minute, put the bride in the egg just before the wedding. What’s her name, Mr. Kirichenko? I don’t believe you’ve said.”

“
Don’t know,” he told us cheerfully. “Family send nice girl from Odessa. Still looking.”

“
You’re doing this for some girl you don’t even know,” Grady blurted out. I shushed him.

“
For me,” Viktor said simply. “Is my wedding, no?”

Sure it was. Mentally, I hit myself upside the head for being a reverse chauvinist. Who said a guy couldn’t dream of a fantasy wedding? Even if he looked like a big brown bear.

There was one sure thing about four-inch heels, I decided as I wobbled back to the office with take-out from the café at the end of the hall. The blasted things made me feel weak and helpless. That might be the way Jeff and Flint Ramsay liked their women, but it wasn’t Laine Halliday. Too hard to get strappy little stilettos off fast enough to kick butt. Not that I’d had much need for all those martial arts lessons Dad sprang for, but they gave a girl confidence. Sure, we’ve had a few wedding receptions go downhill fast, but all I’d ever had to do was dial 911 and hustle the bride and groom into a getaway car as the crockery shattered around us. Then again, things tended to get more serious when I had to deal with the problems Dad’s clients encountered on their fantasy adventure vacations. Many were like yesterday’s frantic call from Peru, but sometimes it took a bit more than
Think fast, give orders with confidence, grit teeth . . . and
smile.

I had an odd premonition that Flint Ramsay wouldn’t approve of anything but the smile. Like Jake’s and Marybeth’s fantasy, girls were for rescuing. Screaming. Crying. And wouldn’t know an HK MP-5 if it knocked them over with the recoil.

In the end, for my date with Flint I wore slinky black slacks and a mandarin tunic I’d bought the last time I was in Hong Kong—royal blue silk embroidered in red. Too much? Well, hell, I like living on the edge. My shoes were wispy black sandals with two-inch heels. So there, Red Mini. I don’t need to be a clinging vine to captivate Sergeant Flint Ramsay.

At least I hoped not.

Have I mentioned that Flint’s a hunk? Quadruple A, certified hunk. Almost as tall as Viktor Kirichenko, but a good eighty-five pounds lighter. I mean, the man has a body so fit he looks like he could wrestle a gator with one hand tied behind his back. Blond hair cut military style, eyes the blue of Florida sky, a chin nearly as determined as mine, nose a trifle bent and lips a shade thin—necessary flaws or else he’d be movie-star handsome and far too pretty for serious law enforcement. If it hadn’t been Saturday night at the height of the Florida tourist season, I probably would have made the
faux pas
of sitting there, staring at him like a starved dog leashed inches short of a juicy bone.

As it was, the tables on the gulf-side deck of the restaurant Flint chose were full. As were all the bar stools around the grass-thatched Tiki bar. We grabbed our drinks—a beer for Flint and a frozen Margarita for me—and, armed with one of those buzzers that flashes red and vibrates rather ominously when your table is ready—headed out toward the peace and quiet of the long public fishing pier that stuck out into the gulf behind the bar.

We strolled down the twelve-foot-wide pier, which, in addition to numerous benches, offered fish-cleaning stations the size of baby-changing shelves in the ladies’ room at the local mall. I guess the pier was Golden Beach’s way of saying, “We’re special. We do things right.”

About half-way down the long pier, I opened my mouth for some inane small talk, standard first-date exploration, and found it hanging open in genuine awe. “Oh, wow!” I breathed, totally forgetting I was supposed to be a sophisticated executive, gainfully employed by an internationally renowned special events firm.

Flint’s blue eyes laughed at me over the top of his beer bottle. “How long did you say you’ve lived here?”

“
Since I was fourteen.”

“
And you’re still wowed by the sunset?”

What could I say? I knew cars lined up along the beach every evening to see the western sky put on its daily show. It’s just that . . . well, I was never one of them. Too many lessons, too many agitated clients, too many trips to far-away places . . .

I bit my lip as every imaginable color from magenta to lavender and gold—and a few for which I had no name—streaked in ever-changing swirls across the horizon. Inwardly, I squirmed. Twenty minutes into our date, and I was embarrassed. Trapped into playing newcomer to Flint Ramsay’s born-a-redneck bravado.