“But you wanted a cream palette,” Mika reminded her.
“Yes,” Imogen said. “Cream—not white, not ivory, cream.” She tossed the bouquet onto the table. “These are blindingly white flowers.”
“Maybe it’s the light,” Ivy said. “It’s a bit bright with all of these windows.”
“It’s going to be bright in the venue. I cannot have these flower so white. They need to be a slightly more rich shade of cream than my dress. Also, have you talked to Brea about my dress? I simply cannot be married in a garment that looks like tarnished yellow silk.”
“Your fitting is in a week. Let’s see how it is.”
“You better have another bouquet done by then,” Imogen said.
“Make it out of pinecones,” I said, “and spray-paint them. Then it will really be unique.”
Ivy glared at me, and I snickered.
“I know you girls are trying,” my stepmother interjected, “but we really need these flowers to pop.”
“Agreed. How do you feel about the centerpieces?” Ivy asked, trying to move the conversation along.
Imogen circled the table. “I don’t like the way they smell,” she said.
“I’m sure they can put perfume on the flowers,” I told Imogen.
“People are going to be eating, Evan. The flowers cannot smell. It will ruin the food. Can you make them not smell?”
“They’re flowers,” the florist said helplessly. “We can’t just take away their scent.”
“But you could put glue on the parts that make the smell,” I said.
Ivy kicked me as she walked past.
“Aside from the smell, how are we liking the height and arrangement of the centerpieces?”
“They look cheap,” Imogen complained.
“Should have gone with my LEGO idea,” I told Ivy.
“These are what we decided on,” Amy reminded her, pulling out sketches from the last meeting.
“I didn’t expect you to make it look like Jessica Simpson’s wedding,” she said. “I need classy and understated.”
“You wanted a four-foot-tall bouquet,” Amy said.
“Maybe you could do like a tiered centerpiece with a waterfall of flowers,” I suggested.
“That is so eighties,” Ivy muttered.
“You could use orchids,” I said. “Aren’t those the hanging flowers? Then have some crystals and little gold charms hanging off of them.” I dusted my hands. “Done. Make it happen.”
Mika rolled her eyes, but Imogen nodded. “Yes, let’s have huge orchid bouquets.”
“That is a lot of orchids. They will all have to be imported and will have a large budget impact.”
“Don’t say the word ‘budget,’” Imogen snapped, “Dad is paying for my flowers.”
“Oh, is he?” I asked sarcastically. “Because I could have sworn I was the one writing the checks. But sure, give my cheating father, who ruined my admittedly lackluster and nonexistent relationship, all the credit.”
“Stop being such a whiny little boy,” Imogen said. “People cheat; get over it. You’re never going to find as nice a girl as Camilla. She was under stress and made a bad mistake.”
