Snatching off the last petal, Mel said, “He loves me. Phew!”
Angie looked at her as if she thought Mel was drunk or crazy or drunk and crazy. Mel shrugged. Annabelle gave her a concerned look and took the stem out of her hands and threw it in the trash.
While Angie paid Annabelle for her flowers, Mel picked up the petals and then paced up by the front of the shop. She didn’t trust herself not to destroy any of the lovely arrangements and kept her hands in her pockets just in case.
With a wave, they left Annabelle and her flowers to head to the photographer’s studio. It was across Scottsdale Road, on a small side street, nestled in amongst the trendy restaurants and art galleries.
“Okay, what gives?” Angie asked as soon as the door shut behind them.
“What?” Mel asked.
Angie widened her eyes and said, “Come on, you know what. You started shredding flowers in there. What was that all about?”
“Nothing. I just had this random thought,” Mel said. “It was silly.”
“Good, then you won’t mind sharing.”
Mel pursed her lips. Angie was a badger. There was no way she was getting out of this.
“Fine, if you must know—”
“I must.”
They paused at the corner to wait for the crossing light.
“I just thought it was weird that my first instinct when Annabelle wasn’t readily available was that she’d been murdered. I mean that’s weird, right?”
Angie squinted at her. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
Mel blew out a breath. “Okay, it also occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, the fact that I am always looking for something bad to have happened is what makes it happen.”
The light turned and the walk signal lit up. Angie opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then took Mel’s arm and pulled her across the street.
Once they stepped onto the curb, she looked at Mel and said, “Now, that is nuts.”
“Is it?” Mel asked. “I mean, isn’t there a whole philosophy that says whatever you put out there comes back to you?”
“So, you think that by putting out thoughts of dead bodies or worst-case scenarios, that’s what makes them happen?”
“Yeah . . . maybe . . . no . . . I don’t know.”
“Listen, we’ve definitely had some crazy stuff happen to us since we opened the bakery, but don’t you think it’s because we work in a service industry with a whole lot of different people with all sorts of bad and good things happening in their lives?” Angie asked. “I mean, how many weddings, birthdays, retirement parties, etcetera, have we baked cupcakes for and nothing bad has happened? Quite the opposite, in fact—the person has had the greatest day ever.”
She began walking and Mel fell into step beside her.
“You’re right,” she said. “Maybe I just have a little post-traumatic stress going because the bad when it’s bad is so very bad.”
Angie nodded. “I’m sure that’s it, but since my wedding is coming up in a matter of days, why don’t we hedge our bets, and you just keep picturing happy things in that head of yours.”
“Like puppies and kittens?”
“Yeah, or go big with unicorns and glitter bombs,” Angie suggested.
Mel laughed. Angie was right. She needed to chillax. Probably, she was just nervous about the wedding. She was maid of honor, after all, which carried a lot of responsibility. Not that she thought Angie would pull a runner, but it was Mel’s job to get her to the church on time, dressed appropriately, and to be prepared to crack some skulls if anyone interfered with her best friend’s wedding.
“Okay, glittery unicorns it is,” Mel said.
“That’s my girl.” Angie paused in front of the photographer’s studio, pulling out her phone to check the time. Mel glanced over her shoulder and noted that they were right on schedule. Excellent.
Blaise Ione, the photographer, was a friend of Tate’s from his days in the high school marching band. After graduation, Blaise had gone to art school and lived in New York City for several years, but when his aging mother needed him, he’d come home to Scottsdale to be nearby.
Blaise was a hardcore hipster and wore his short hair bleached white and paired it with his large Andy Warhol glasses, striped skinny pants, and pointy-toed shoes. He was exuberant, enthusiastic, and always made Mel laugh. She knew the wedding was safe in Blaise’s hands.
Although it was a small space, Blaise made the most of it with huge portraits decorating the black walls, and mid-century modern furniture that made a statement as well as being a place to sit. Through the window, Mel studied one of the chairs, which looked to be molded out of cement. The statement she got was, This is uncomfortable, so move along, which, knowing Blaise, was exactly what he wanted it to say.
Angie pulled open the door and a gong sounded somewhere in the back of the space. Leave it to Blaise to have an unconventional door chime.
“Blaise? Hello?” Angie called out.
Mel moved towards the wall to study the portraits. Blaise had done Tate and Angie’s engagement pictures and they were spectacular, managing to capture the longtime friendship that had morphed into romantic love between the couple.
Mel’s favorite shot had been taken in black-and-white in an old movie theater. In it, Tate and Angie were sharing a bucket of popcorn, the red and white stripes on the bucket the only pop of color in the photo, as they gazed at each other with all the love in their hearts. It made Mel water up every time she saw it.
Oh, and here it was on the wall! Blaise had added it to his display. Mel felt her throat get tight.
“Hey, I didn’t know he was going to put that up,” Angie said as she joined her. “That’s my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Mel said. “Wow, it keeps hitting me that in a few days you’ll be married to Tate.”
“I know,
