Vanessa kept going, because people like Vanessa always do. She told the table how she’d “graciously” let me handle the flowers as a favor, since I “needed the exposure.” She didn’t know I’d refused payment as a gift to my brother. She also didn’t know who else was at that table.
At the far end sat a quiet woman named Diane, silver bob, navy blazer. Vanessa had been name-dropping her all night — Diane Caldwell, the incoming CEO of Marlow & Vance, the firm Vanessa was desperate to land as a client. Vanessa had introduced her earlier as “a dear family friend.” Diane had smiled politely and said nothing.
What Vanessa didn’t know was that Diane had been my customer for nine years. I did the flowers for her daughter’s wedding. For her mother’s funeral. For every anniversary since her husband’s heart attack. Diane sent me a Christmas card every December with a handwritten note.
Diane set down her fork.
“Vanessa,” she said, in a voice so even it cut clean through the room, “Emma made the arrangements for my daughter’s wedding. Three hundred guests. The Times covered it. She turned down two celebrity weddings that same weekend to honor our date.” She paused. “I was going to announce Monday that Marlow and Vance has signed an exclusive floral contract with her studio. Seven figures, three years.”
The silence was the loud kind. The kind that rings.
Vanessa’s champagne flute trembled. “I — I didn’t —”
“No,” Diane said gently. “You didn’t.” Then, to me: “Emma, dear, I think we’ll need to revisit the timeline. I’d rather not be associated with tonight’s tone.”
My brother finally looked up. Not at Vanessa. At me. And for the first time in years, I saw him remember who his sister actually was.
I picked up my water, took a slow sip, and said the only thing I’d been saving all night: “Daisies for dead people, Vanessa. You should be careful what you bury.”
