Tiger Lillie (4 page)

He looks through my office door to the conference room and the wall-sized whiteboard that organizes Extreme Weddings and The Odd Occasion. “Three days until the Winslow wedding. I’m just figuring up the number of stems I’ll need before placing the final order this afternoon. You got everything ready on your end?”

“You know it. The hill behind their house now looks like a pyramid, and you should see the job Pleasance did with the attendants’ clothes. They’re in the storeroom. A sample napkin came from the rental company. Wanna see?”

“Yepper. I may want to rethink the astilbe in the table arrangements if the dye lot of the fabric is off a bit.”

Hard to believe someone who played a sport every season, read all of Francis Schaeffer’s writings by the time she graduated from high school, and composed more useless papers on literary themes and comparative analyses of poems and essays in her undergrad program because she couldn’t write a lick on her own and didn’t dare enter the most orange of all the English programs, creative writing, now spends her days talking about hors d’oeuvres, fabric, flowers, and music. See? Throw that MBA in there and, yep, it isn’t any wonder I tang with confusion.

So, here’s what I think about God: I think sometimes He gives us innate obstacles directly related to our gifts in order to make us work harder, to rely on Him for improvement, to hone us to a finer, sharper point. Just look at a pencil sharpener if you want to really know what I mean. Those grinding metal rods with lines dug into them. I mean, who hasn’t wondered what it would be like, your pinky being small enough, of course, to put your finger in one of those and give it a quick turn?

As expected, Cristoff takes one look at the napkin and runs to his small office at the back of our unit screeching, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, this astilbe will
never
do now!”

There went my aspirin. At times like this, when his gayness flames more orange than an oil well fire, I feel singed and in some ways a failure.

Man, this outfit is hurting my head! And why did I put my hair into this tight braid? How stupid can I be?

Maybe Pleasance will deliver some painkiller.

It isn’t hard to find her. The Amazonian-sized fashion designer paces the floor of the conference/lunch/workroom like some moxie feminine superhero, the cool morning light from the Palladian windows softening her intense brown features. Imagine an elegant, whittled ebony walking stick in goldenrod chiffon, strappy shoes, and an eight-stranded pearl choker and you’ve got Pleasance Stanley, clothing designer by day, “Stealth Jaguar Woman” by night.

Together, with Cristoff’s red hair, we compose a sunset.

The portable phone appears ready to heave its innards out of the antenna, her large hand clutches it so tightly.

“Of course it’s fine!” Her airy voice, high, pleasant, and tamed by vocal nodules, contrasts directly with her forceful boxy movements. “No, no. We have people change the fabric all the time, Jaime. Just glad you didn’t wait one more week, Jaime.”

I roll my eyes at Pleasance as I realize that Jaime Pickerson haunts the other end of that line. Her wedding is scheduled for the beginning of November, only two months away. Romance-book theme. Guess the word
extreme
means different things to different people.

“So you’re sure you want to change from Victorian to Regency?” Pleasance Stanley points a finger at me with two quick jabs that say, “You’re not off the hook either, girlfriend!”

I pull out one of the mismatched wooden chairs Cristoff had lacquered a bright red and lean my elbows on the old library table he’d marbleized in a shiny, luminous plum. My brain swells as I listen. Cheez Whiz. All that work swirling right down the toilet. And then I remind myself we opened up shop less than a year ago, that red ink threatens to drown us. We must make these changes with smiles on our faces because Jaime Pickerson’s father owns eight appliance superstores and two Jaguar dealerships, by gosh by golly.

Pleasance now towers over me on top of the conference table, her high, goldenrod platform sandals shocking the center of the wooden plane via lopsided jumping jacks. I swear the woman could beat Evander Holyfield if he had the guts to fight her. “Well, of course you’ll have to speak to Lillian about that. With the mansion already reserved…oh sure, she’s right here, honey!”

Talk about light on the feet.

Pleasance literally throws the phone in my direction. Line-drive Frisbee shot toward the gut.

I catch it with one hand.

So there.

“Jaime! Hi! What’s this I hear?” Fake voice alert!

And then she rambles on and on. And on.

Jaime Pickerson is the only person I know who can draw in on a cigarette without a break in her speech flow. A bechimnied Tower of Babble, Jaime hosts a conservative political talk show on Radio 680 called “Let’s Kick Butt.” I catch it when my schedule allows. Only the most intrepid of callers hang onto the other end of the phone line.

She’s my kind of gal.

So I let her simmer on for a bit to buy myself some time, begging Pleasance to go get my Coke off my desk, mouthing, “Aspirin… please,” as clearly as I can. She returns a full five minutes later with both, and I swear I uttered less than a dozen words in all that time.

And I thought my headache was bad before this.

I promise myself a trip to the shooting range after work. And I’ll look at that target and think, “Jaime Pickerson and every bride in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area!” and I’ll squeeze off five rounds. And I’ll feel better for a full twenty minutes.

Jaime had picked up a Barbara Cartland book about the Regency era, and realized her fiancé Brian looked like a modern Beau Brummel. Cravats explode sexiness if worn by the right man, and doesn’t Brian have that timeless appeal, that down-through-the-ages sort of face you see all the time in old portraits but rarely on the street?

Oh, my aching head. I swallow the capsules.

Cristoff, obviously briefed on the news, runs in and plops down at the other end of the table. Drumming his chlorophyll-stained fingertips as he listens, horror widens his winsome hazel eyes. “That girl cannot be serious,” he says much too loudly.

I hold a finger up to my lips and emit a glare. I really love to emit a good glare. Emanates self-assurance like a nice long yawn. In two minutes Horace “Peach” Hagerty, catering genius and retired navy man, will glide his pillowy body in, softly demanding to know the menu changes right here and now. I lean back and close the conference room door so he won’t hear the ruckus.

Finally, Jaime stops to take a real live breath.

I pounce. “I have to tell you, though, Jaime, that it will be almost impossible to find a different venue for the reception so late in the game, and the balloon rides may be out of the question if you want to keep it authentic.”

“You think?” Jaime’s raspy baritone voice drops another half an octave.

Pleasance sits down next to me, banging a tome about costuming through the ages onto the table. “Regency, Regency,” she mutters.

“Hey, watch it, girlfriend!” Cristoff says. “It took me three days to refinish this table.”

“You
watch it, girlfriend.” Pleasance flips pages with her long fingers. “I’m doing a crisis right now.”

“Well, aren’t we just all?”

Glad he didn’t see her doing those jumping jacks!

I hold my hand over the bottom of the phone. “Will you two be quiet?!” I hiss. Yes, hiss. “Good grief!”

I banish their voices from my ears, while, I’m sure, they both roll their eyes. We seem to do a lot of that around here. It’s amazing all our eyes aren’t hanging out by their optic nerves. Brides.

Brides, brides, brides.

“I’ll have to research the balloon rides, Jaime. You did say months ago that authenticity was your priority, didn’t you?”

“Well, what about this.” Resignation already shades her voice. Good. “If authentic balloon rides are a no-go, we’ll stick with Victorian.”

“Okay. You want me to go ahead and research it, then?”

Please, say yes. Get Jaime in the library and who knows what theme she’ll end up with? Dark Ages? Phoenician? The plays of Arthur Miller? Or more to the point, Vigilante Nuptials.

Jaime sighs. “My schedule is crammed right now. You understand?”

“No problem. I’ll do it. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.” And I hang up with a quick good-bye before she can change her mind about anything else, or get started on Janet Reno and Waco.

Now Jaime is
too
orange.

Pleasance looks up from her book and runs a hand over the short fuzz of black hair that covers her oblong, aerodynamic skull. “You going to research it? Really? I think balloons have been around for a long time, Lil.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. But hopefully the kind they had then just aren’t around anymore or are illegal or something. I’ll really play up the authenticity thing with that.”

“Don’t feel too much pressure, sweetie.” Cristoff stands to his feet and kisses my cheek. “But we’re counting on you. Gotta run.” He shuffles his Top-Siders back to his workroom. It still weirds me out the way he’s always dressed so preppy and wears it so well.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet, Pleasance?”

She shakes her head.

“Wanna go down to David and Dad’s? I’ll treat.”

“I’ll go almost anywhere for free.”

I poke my head inside the door of Cristoff’s workroom. The filtered morning light of the city gilds the plain white room, a shaft of light highlighting at a slant the only adornment to the walls—a plain wooden cross. Flowers congest the large cooler we were finally able to lease last month, and the white worktable shines beneath heavy-duty fluorescent lighting. Neat as a pin. For now.

Once he starts building centerpieces, bouquets, and altar pieces, the room will look as though the Wars of the Roses have been fought. And the wars of the lilies, the stephanotis, the ivy, and the coneflowers. Corny but true. I love watching Cristoff’s hands when he works. They move with such deft yet gentle purpose, each bloom precious. It’s too bad Cristoff and I can’t love each other, man and woman. It would make life so much easier for the both of us.

I wipe my brow with the back of my hand. The headache finally begins to subside. “Everything under control now with the table arrangements, honey?”

“Larkspur.” He roots around in the refrigerator. “I’ve decided larkspur will be absolutely perfect.”

“Good. David and Dad’s?”

“Just bring me back a tomato juice.”

He forgets about me that quickly. I turn and leave the room. A tomato juice. Goofy, you know? I mean, who orders tomato juice for their sip-as-you-work beverage?

Pleasance waits by the stairs, a bag the size of an emirate hanging from her collarbone. Naturally it coordinates with her goldenrod platform shoes. Attach wheels and a sail and we could zip right down the center of Charles Street with room for a third person. “I don’t feel like waiting for the elevator.”

“Me either.”

We clop our way down the staircase carpeted in some ancient medallion-littered design and soon cross busy Charles Street. I adore this area of town. My mother used to tell me stories about window-shopping along Charles Street as a teenager fresh from Hungary. The area plummeted to the status of “remember when” for a while, but it’s coming back now and this comforts me.

The bells of the basilica ring and a warm breeze glides over Pleasance’s head. It makes me think about changing my hair, anything other than the stupid braid I’ve been wearing since first grade. But all of the Strong Hungarian Women in my family have braided their hair in some form. Our family photo album looks like Medusa and her sisters after a day at the beauty parlor, and I’m not sure whether Hungarians in general or Grandma Erzsèbet in particular favored braids.

Maybe I’ll beef up my blond with some more highlights.

Oh, hair, hair, hair. Why do we women waste so much time thinking about our hair? Why don’t we revolt, every last one of us, march on Wal-Mart, buy razors, and declare once and for all that bald truly is beautiful?

“You want to go running with me tonight?” I ask Pleasance a while later as we research hot-air balloons up at the Enoch Pratt Free Library a block away from the office.

She shakes her head. “I’m working late on designing a couple of Regency options for Jaime. If you don’t mind, LeJeune is coming by after school. He doesn’t have football practice today. Stefan is spending the night at my sister’s house.”

LeJeune is Pleasance’s oldest child. Sixteen years old and built like a pro ball player, he speaks so softly I have to bend my neck out of joint to hear him. What an incredible defensive lineman. Ravens material someday, and I’d bet money on that.

“I think Peach is working late tonight too. He’d probably be glad to have Juney hanging around to help him in the kitchen. If he wants to, that is. He’s experimenting with beef main courses.”

Pleasance pulls down her reading glasses. “Why wouldn’t Juney want to?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t know if that kind of work is what you had in mind for him.”

She screws up her face. “Lillie, you are one weird lady.”

“Thanks.”

“No, really. You, of all people, with your heritage of paprika and sour cream and, well, other Hungarian ingredients, should know that food preparation is noble”—she sets down her glasses—“
essential.
Like designing masterpieces that sustain and strengthen and give life.”

Except she says
life
just like a Baptist preacher. Liiiiiiii-yef.

“You done with your sermon, Bishop Stanley?”

“Oh, you want a sermon?”

“No! No!” Get Pleasance going and she’ll pontificate straight into tomorrow.

“I’ll tell Peach to expect him,” she says.

“Okay. I’m glad Juney’s coming over. I like having him around.”

“Yeah, well, the boy likes you, that’s for sure. Too bad you’re so old.”

I wave that comment away. A nice, good-looking teenager like Juney Stanley? What could he possibly find winsome in a chubby, garish old gal like me? Then again, African American men are taught from the womb the virtues of a womanly figure. I’d make a great black woman with my bright clothes, curvy bottom, and penchant for jewelry.