“Daisies always seem so… optimistic.”
Grant chuckled. “Dad, they’re a flower.”
“Make fun all you want, but it’s true. Plus, they remind me of something….”
Not Mom…Grant almost mumbled. She was the furthest thing from a daisy. Maybe a bird-of-paradise or lobster claw, both sharp and angular but regal in their own unique way.
“That’s it!” Stan slapped his palm against the table. “The Daisy Hop is coming up soon, isn’t it?”
“I guess so. I’d forgotten all about it.”
Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. The Daisy Hop had always been one of his and Eliza’s favorite traditions. Millie Rogers, an eccentric salon owner and musical theater enthusiast, founded Poppy Creek’s first dance studio specializing in both ballroom and swing. Each year, the Dancing Daisies hosted an elaborate shindig and invited the entire town to join in the waltz and jitterbug. The Daisy Hop was the last time he and Eliza had danced together, save for the night in the bakery. And most notably, it was the one and only time they’d successfully executed the Charleston Flip.
“Are you and Mom going?”
“I doubt it. Your mother finds the dances in this town depressing. She says they can’t compare to the events she used to attend in New York.” Stan lifted his shoulders in a small resigned shrug before adding, “But you should go.”
“I might….” Grant trailed off, although he already knew he wouldn’t. Not without Eliza. And getting her to agree to a date with him seemed about as likely as getting his mother to attend.
Stan studied the painting again, his eyebrows pinched in thought. “How does the tradition go? When you want to ask a girl to the dance.”
Grant smiled, recalling the first time he’d invited Eliza their freshman year of high school. “You give her a daisy chain.”
“That’s right. I seem to remember you making a necklace for Eliza. I wonder if people still do that?” Stan rose from the wrought iron chair, set the painting on Grant’s keyboard, and strode to a nearby planter box.
“Probably. Traditions in Poppy Creek rarely die out. If anything, they get more extreme.”
“True.” Stan dipped his head in agreement, plucking a single white daisy from among its sage and lavender companions. “And you know what? Maybe I will ask your mother if she’d like to go. After all, stranger things have happened.”
“Maybe. But I think the daisy’s optimism might be rubbing off on you.”
Stan chuckled. “Well, I won’t know if I don’t ask, right?”
On that note, Stan tossed the daisy onto the table before grabbing his cooler and heading toward the house.
Grazing the soft petals with his fingertip, Grant stared at his father’s retreating back, watching him disappear through the screen door.
Had his dad just encouraged him to ask out Eliza?
* * *
The moment Cassie descended the sweeping staircase and stepped into the cottage’s cozy living room, Eliza forgot all about her disastrous evening with Grant. Her friend looked breathtaking in ivory lace that melded to her curves as effortlessly as buttercream frosting on a white chiffon cake. And the sight of five women who loved and adored her, all standing in her new home, seemed to leave Cassie speechless.
Eliza stole a glance at Maggie, who fought back tears at the resplendent vision of Cassie clothed in her hand-me-down gown.
“You look stunning,” Maggie murmured, dabbing her eyes with a leftover swatch of cappuccino-colored charmeuse.
“It’s the dress.” A modest blush dusted Cassie’s cheeks as she ran her palm along the delicate fabric.
“Luke doesn’t stand a chance,” Penny grinned. “He’s going to fall apart the second you walk down the aisle.”
“He’s just like his father,” Maggie mused with a soft, dreamy smile. “Leonard cried the first time he saw me in that dress. Then several more times throughout the ceremony.”
Eliza nearly cried herself as Maggie and Cassie embraced, knowing with complete certainty that her friend couldn’t have hoped for a more loving, accepting mother-in-law.
“The style has held up well,” Dolores pointed out, admiring the high lace collar and tight-fitting bodice.
“Vintage is the way to go,” Penny agreed. “Except when you need matching dresses. Then you can’t beat handmade.” She stretched her arms out to the side while Beverly measured her waist.
