“But roses and daisies don’t go well together.”
“I can include daisies in the bride’s bouquet,” the florist says.
“I don’t need a bouquet,” Lia says, causing The Beave to snap her head in her direction.
“What do you mean you don’t need a bouquet? What on earth would you possibly walk down the aisle with?”
“I made a bunch of knitted flowers with my mom and grandma. I’ve saved them so I could make a bouquet out of them one day.”
The Beave is silent, and then slowly, she starts to chuckle.
The chuckle grows.
And grows.
It’s probably the most offensive thing I’ve seen. This woman thinks she has class, but she actually has none.
“Knitted flowers? For a wedding? You can’t be serious.” The Beave waves her hand in front of her, dismissing the whole notion.
“I’m pretty sure she’s serious, or else she wouldn’t bring it up,” I say, losing my cool.
Lia gently places her hand on my arm, letting me know she has this. “Mrs. Beaver, I appreciate your need to make this a beautiful wedding, but you need to remember that you’re around to see your son get married, and my parents aren’t, so incorporating them into the ceremony and reception is important to me.”
“And it should be important to you as well,” I say, backing her up.
Sensing the tone, The Beave straightens. Her expression morphs into one of understanding, and she quickly slips back into the prim and proper woman she attempts to portray herself as. She turns to the florist and says, “Well, if we could find a suitable way to incorporate daisies without looking tacky, we would appreciate it.”
The florist glances between us, looking entirely too frightened. “I believe we can.”
“What a nice compromise,” I say as a bee buzzes near my head. I swat it away. “I think daisies and roses will go well together.”
“Especially white roses,” Lia says.
“Oh, come now, you can’t be serious,” The Beave says. “White roses? You might not be getting married in a church, but for heaven’s sake, white roses? We’re not lying to our guests.” I watch a bee float around The Beave’s head, but either she doesn’t care or has no sense for nature because she doesn’t move.
“Why would we be lying to the guests?” Lia asks.
The Beave folds her hands together and says, “Ophelia, I have turned a blind eye to your nighttime activities with my son, but not everyone is as forgiving. White roses symbolize purity, and I’m afraid you’re anything but pure.”
I watch as Lia’s cheeks grow red with embarrassment. “I don’t think that matters.”
“Oh, it matters,” The Beave says.
“Okay, then maybe pink,” Lia suggests. “Doesn’t that have to do with grace or something?”
“Grace and sweetness,” the florist adds.
“That would be good then,” Lia says just as the bee flies near her head, and I wince, knowing she’s going to freak out. “Oh my God,” she squeals as she shifts up against me, ducking.
“What on earth are you doing?” The Beave asks.
“It was a bee.” It buzzes near her head again, and Lia squeals once again while jumping toward the left. “Don’t sting me,” she calls out.
“For heaven’s sake, it’s just a bee. If you can’t handle that, how are you going to get married in the gardens at the club?”
“As long as they don’t—booooother-her-her me,” Lia says, hopping around again when the bee goes for her ear. “It’s dive-bombing me. It knows I’m weak.”
“Ophelia, you’re making a fool of yourself.”
