The Wedding Florist – Part 2: The Reception

The wedding was a triumph.

The garden glowed in the Saturday sun. The arch of delphinium shimmered over the aisle, deep blue against the pale sky. Tables drifted with hydrangea and cornflower. The bride, in white, stopped dead at the entrance and burst into tears. The guests gasped.

Zara stood at the back of the marquee in a plain black dress, watching, her heart in her mouth. Luca appeared at her side with a glass of champagne.

"Well?"

"They like it."

"They love it."

"The bride cried."

"She cried happy."

They stayed until the end, handing out vases, hauling urns, soothing a flower girl with a lost shoe. At eleven, the last guest left. The marquee emptied. The lanterns swayed softly in the dark. Petals drifted across the floor like blue snow.

They sat on two white chairs in the middle of the empty tent, shoes off, with the last bottle of champagne.

"We did it," said Zara.

"We did it."

"I've never worked with a planner who brought me coffee."

"I've never worked with a florist who made me feel calm."

She laughed, then went quiet. He turned the glass in his hands. Behind them, the arch still stood, glowing faintly in the lantern-light.

"Can I ask you something?" said Luca.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Zara? I've never kissed a florist."

"Yes," she said. "And if I say stop, you must plan my wedding."

"Is that a proposal?"

"It's a punishment."

He kissed her, warm and a little unsteady, a hand rising to her cheek and brushing a petal from her hair. She kissed him back, slow and sure, her fingers curling in his collar. Champagne bubbles and the scent of hydrangea hung in the air.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Zara. "Very green."

They keep a pressed delphinium in a frame above the till. Underneath, in Luca's careful hand: Something blue.

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