“Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Stop helping.”
“Whatever,” Max said. He slapped Nate on the back. The impact was enough to make Nate stagger forward into a puddle. It soaked through his sneakers and wet the sole of his foot. “Let me know if you need anything. I mean, you could ask your current elderly friend—”
“He’s only five years older than—”
Max talked over Nate’s attempt to interrupt. “—to help. But what does he know about weddings, organizing, or anything that matters to your tightly wound soul?”
“Asshole,” Nate muttered under his breath, but Max was already gone, so he didn’t hear.
Right. Nate looked around, took in the devastation of the half-built wedding, and gave himself a minute to mentally throw up his hands. There was no way to rejuvenate an entire wedding basically from scratch—the wedding dress and food were the only things not in the room—repair the flood damage, or order up a batch of hand-calligraphed fancies to thank the guests.
That only took fifty-six seconds. He used the remaining four to curse out the fucking old plumbing that had sprung a leak. That felt good. But it was time to actually fix the mess.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Some part of his brain that apparently felt it wasn’t an “all hands on board” situation noted that Flynn hadn’t called yet. Still hadn’t called yet. He ignored the invitation to fret over that and dialed Canon Paisley.
The phone rang twice, and the canon’s secretary picked it up. It would have felt more official if Nate hadn’t known that Friday and Saturdays were Mavis’s turn to man the desk.
“Mrs. Jenkins,” he said as he headed out of the room. “This is Nathan from the Granshire. That’s right. Ally’s son.”
He stretched a long leg over the puddle at the door, his left foot squelched as it hit the ground, and he pulled the door shut behind him.
“Mum’s doing well.” He bit his tongue on the frustrated need to hurry her up. Alienating one of the canon’s church ladies wouldn’t do him any favors in the future. “She liked the cake you sent around.”
She hadn’t, but needs must.
He traded niceties about his mother’s health and Mavis’s ailments on his way through the hotel. The latest manager—a sharp-voweled Londoner who had replaced a sharp-natured Frenchman—waved him down in the reception area to check he had the news.
“Just a minute, Mrs. Jenkins,” Nate said and tucked the phone flat across his shoulder. “Thanks, Fiona. I’m sorting it out now. Could you make sure the plumbers get out as soon as possible?”
She pulled an apologetic, perfectly made-up face. “Sorry, Nathan. I’ve made the calls, but I can’t follow up. I have an interview in Cornwall on Monday. So I’m catching the afternoon ferry over today.”
It hadn’t been quite a year since Fiona had moved to the island. That wasn’t a record—life on an insular, unfriendly hunk of pretty rock wasn’t for everyone—but if she got that job, it would be close.
The search for a replacement would be fun. Teddy was a fan of nepotism. If he had the choice, he’d appoint one of his relatives or close friends. Unfortunately none of them had the skills for the job… but he couldn’t worry about it right then.
“Can’t be helped,” he said. “I’ll get Max to chase it up. Good luck in Cornwall.”
She smiled and then tucked the corner of her mouth down regretfully. “I know I haven’t been here long, but….”
Nate could guess what the rest of the sentence would have been. Ceremony wasn’t an easy place for a blow-in. “It happens.” He lifted the phone off his shoulder and pointed at it apologetically. “I have to go.”
She waved him off, and he apologized to Mavis on his way out the door.
“Can you tell the canon that there’s going to be a change in venue?” he said. “I can’t just yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can. I know, I know. It is asking a lot, but it honestly can’t be helped. Yes. Yes, I know. You’re an angel, Mrs. Jenkins.”
He hung up and strode across the last stretch of concrete to his car. The sole of his sneaker squelched underfoot as he walked. He could have just called, but when you were asking for favors, it was better to do it in person. Made it harder to say no.
“WHAT THEhell? Ijustdelivered your arrangements to the hotel,” Mahdi said. He snipped through the stem of a bird-of-paradise and pointed the secateurs at Nate. “If some porter has nicked them to take to his mother, don’t try and lay it on me.”
The sun beat through the dusty glass of the greenhouse windows and heated the damp air until it was muggy. Flowers bloomed in perfectly lined-up rows of pots, where crimson roses graduated into pink carnations and then white daisies.
Those were only the basics. The special-order stuff Mahdi nurtured in the smaller hothouse behind his house. Madhouse Flowers supplied all of Granshire’s floristry needs and additionally shipped rare roses and orchids across the British Isles.
Surprisingly enough, Mahdi could be charming when there was money on the table—less so when it was a favor.
