A few minutes later we were sitting at one of the black iron tables with the glass top, and Father Rob was putting his pickle spear on my plate. “So, I’m coming to your party,” he said between bites of the roast-beef-filled Bell Tower. I was having a particularly torrid affair with the grilled pimento cheese that might as well have been handmade crème fraîche for as decadent as it tasted after two days of near starvation.
“That’s so nice!” I said, swapping sandwich halves with him and licking my finger. “But you hate parties.”
He nodded. “I do. But I think you’re going to need moral support. Anyone on the edge of anorexia over an ex-girlfriend needs a shoulder to lean on.”
I nodded. “Maybe you could make up some stuff within her earshot about how gorgeous and brilliant and talented I am?”
“I could,” Rob said, taking a sip of his sweet tea. He grinned. “But I wouldn’t be making it up.”
•••
You have to take care of yourself or you won’t be able to take care of anyone else. And, that day, I needed some downtime, preferably a day of glamour-inducing pampering. But I was forced to realize that I made a commitment and I must honor it.
So far, things weren’t going too well. The flower arrangements were too short, the van that was supposed to deliver the tables and chairs had broken down, and the band, waiting to board a delayed flight on the other side of the country,hopedthey would make it on time.
So I did what I did best in a crisis: I called Ben.
In direct contrast to the “Sure, TL, I’ll run pick up those tables and chairs in my dad’s truck,” I received a “Sorry you’re in a pinch, babe, but there’s no way I could possibly leave work right now.”
Ben’s constant care and attention was a little like water running down the drain. When it suddenly backed up, it took a few minutes for the reality to set in. I ended the call, threw my hands up in the air and said, “So what the hell am I going to do now?” to no one in particular.
A familiar voice from behind said, “The devil got you down, Ann? Or is it the deviled eggs?”
I laughed and turned to see my boss, looking scarcely older than a high school kid in a T-shirt and shorts.
I shook my head. “Someone has to go pick up all the tables and chairs because the rental company can’t get them here.”
Before I had finished my sentence, Father Rob was dialing the phone. “Hey, Junie. What’s up?”
I smiled, thinking of Junie on the other line, rolling her eyes at her young boss asking her what was up. He nodded and said, “Could you round up a bunch of our youth group in need of service hours? And make sure you get some big guys with trucks.”
He hung up and looked around. Before I could even say thank you, he said, “Mrs. Taylor is going to have a conniption when she sees those stubby flowers.”
I sighed. “I know. And the best part is that this will somehow all be my fault.”
“Wait. Where is the hallowed Laura Anne?”
I smiled pertly. “Where is she ever?”
Rob said, “Well, I guess when it comes to fixing the flowers, I’m the best you’ve got right now.” He looked around the room, surveying every element like it was a member of his flock in desperate need of saving. And then we got to work.
We had fixed the first arrangement in a very long line, when I heard a voice I knew as well as my own say, “Oh my God. It’s worse than I thought.”
“Cameron!” I squealed.
In her cutoff jean shorts and white T-shirt, she was ready for work. Cameron had grown up in her mom’s flower shop, and, though she didn’t want to do that for a living, she had true, raw creative ability.
“Cameron, this is Rob. Rob, this is Cameron,” I said as they shook hands.
Cameron raised her eyebrows.
“He’s the priest I work for.”
Her face fell.
“Oh, good,” Rob said, looking toward the driveway. He grinned at me. “I’ll go help the boys unload. Seems like that’s more in my skill set than fluffing flowers.”
Cameron and I both laughed. “All that talent,” she said. “Totally wasted.”
