When did she come back here and run up more debt? How did things get this bad?
Why do I have this nagging feeling in my head?
Penelope is being open and honest with me. I really need to give her the benefit of the doubt, right?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath as Penelope pulls out her credit card with a shaking hand. Mercy runs it, and I'm holding my breath, because if this gets declined, everything falls apart.
The machine beeps. The card goes through. Relief floods through me.
"There," Penelope says quietly. "I hope we can start fresh."
"We can," Mercy says, something gentler in her voice now. "And congratulations on the wedding. I hear you're marrying one of the Burnsides."
Mercy is speaking nicely, but I can tell her tone isn’t the same as when Jessica and I come in here.
"I am," Penelope says, sounding sad even though it's supposed to be happy news. "And I need to order a cake. Something elegant but not too fancy. Something that tastes good because that matters more than looks."
We order a three-tier vanilla cake with chocolate filling and simple white frosting. Mercy promises to deliver it on Christmas Eve. As we're leaving, Penelope is quiet.
"That was harder than I expected," she says outside. "Facing her. Apologizing. Trying to make things right."
"It gets easier," I say, and I mean it. I've had to apologize to plenty of people for things that weren't entirely my fault. It does get easier with practice.
The florist is a woman named Rosalind who runs a shop called Petal Pusher, which is objectively hilarious. She's in her seventies with hands perpetually stained with soil and flower dyes. She's wearing an apron with approximately seven different flowers printed on it, and she has the kind of energy that suggests she's been doing this job forever with zero patience for people who don't know what they want.
"What can I do for you two?" Rosalind asks, her eyes flicking over us like she's determining if we're serious customers or time-wasters.
"We need flowers for a wedding," I say, stepping forward because Penelope is about to panic. "Christmas Eve. Small, intimate, elegant. The bride wants peonies, roses, and interesting greenery."
"Peonies in December?" Rosalind sounds like I've just told her to create flowers from thin air. "Do you have any idea how expensive peonies are in December? I'd have to special order them."
"How much?" Penelope asks, her voice getting small and scared.
"For quality peonies in December, you're looking at three hundred dollars minimum for a full bouquet and arrangements. If you want the really good ones, it could be more."
Penelope's face goes pale. Her scent spikes with panic. I can practically see her brain working through numbers that don't add up.
"What if we did garden roses instead?" I suggest quickly, jumping in before she completely loses it. "Garden roses arebeautiful in December and significantly less expensive. We could do cream-colored garden roses with burgundy mixed in. Elegant and festive without trying too hard."
"Garden roses are much more reasonable," Rosalind agrees, nodding like she's impressed I offered an alternative that didn't make her want to murder me. "You're looking at maybe a hundred and fifty for good quality ones. I can do the arrangements, the bouquet, some centerpieces for that price."
"That works," Penelope says, her voice shaking slightly. "That definitely works."
As Rosalind writes down the details, she looks at Penelope curiously. "You're marrying Ben Burnside, right?"
"I am," Penelope says, sadness clear in her voice.
"He owes me money too," Rosalind says conversationally. "About a hundred dollars for flowers he ordered for some event six months ago. Just thought you should know."
Penelope's scent spikes again, but this time it's resignation. "I'll settle that debt too. Add it to my flower bill."
As we leave Petal Pusher with confirmed orders for garden roses and burgundy accents, I'm thinking about how this entire situation is a complete mess. Ben's a cheater and a fraud who doesn't pay his debts. Penelope is desperately trying to do the right thing but still mired in this toxic relationship. And I'm the idiot who decided to help plan their wedding instead of just letting it fall apart naturally.
"Thank you for being here," Penelope says as we walk toward the next vendor. "Thank you for not abandoning me. I know I don't deserve your help."
"You don't," I agree, honest if not particularly kind. I try to think of something else to say, but I struggle.
“Don’t worry. I’m grateful for all that you’re doing,” Penelope says.
