Floral Depravity Read online

  I pulled it closer to me, almost like a blanket. The air seemed chilly in the shady woods. “What do you mean? First you say it’s period-correct, but then you tell me I can’t wear it?”

  Kathleen looked at Andrea, who glanced at Nick, who blushed and looked back at Kathleen. But before anyone could speak, shouts of greeting came from just across the market. Shelby and Darnell, our two regular part-time employees, ran to greet us. I knew they’d be here, of course. They’d asked for time off to attend the re-creation, since their attendance gave them points in a popular history elective they were taking at nearby Nathaniel Bacon University (good old Bacon U). They were joined by Melanie and Opie, two of our occasional interns. The floral design students helped out when we were swamped with work.

  Shelby and Darnell were dressed not too differently from Nick, in tights and tunics, although they also wore scabbards that held swords. Melanie had dressed in an outfit a little like mine—but with a much more modest neckline. I suspected she was portraying some sort of servant or peasant.

  Opie (short for Opal), our resident goth, looked splendid in an elaborate black and purple corseted dress that somehow managed to cover most of her anachronistic tattoos. The girls were joined by another young lady I didn’t recognize, who, like Melanie, wore the plainer clothing of a servant.

  “Wicked togs!” Opie said. “Love the cloak.”

  “Oh, my,” Melanie said. “It’s like the picture in the history book. Audrey, you can’t wear that.”

  Opie rolled her eyes. “They don’t like mine, either.”

  “But that’s because you were supposed to be dressed as a servant,” Melanie said, studying my outfit.

  “Okay, I’ve had enough. This was the only thing the costume shop had. I’ve already been told it’s period-correct.” I turned to Melanie. “You said it’s just like a picture in the history book. So what gives? Why can’t I wear it?”

  Again, the little crowd around me grew silent, until Opie nudged the one young woman I didn’t know. “Let’s let the history major explain it. Carol?”

  Carol cleared her throat. “The neckline is a little too low for a servant,” she said hesitantly. “So one might conclude that you’re a tavern wench.”

  Not exactly the look I was going for, but not exactly scandalous, either. “So? Weren’t there tavern wenches back then?”

  “Oh, yes,” Kathleen said. “That’s why it’s period-authentic. Only the tavern wenches often . . . moonlighted.”

  “Moonlighted?” I repeated.

  “In an older occupation,” Andrea said.

  “Often referred to as the oldest occupation,” Carol added. “If you get my meaning.”

  I pulled the cloak closer to me instinctively.

  “But I’m afraid the cloak cinches it,” Carol added. “In many areas prostitutes were required to wear yellow.”

  I shrugged the cloak off and it fell to the ground.

  Andrea picked it up and shook the dust from it. “This is, however, a very good cloak. Look”—she pointed to a seam—“hand-stitched. Maybe hand-dyed and woven, too.”

  “Let me see,” Kathleen said. She leaned forward and sniffed at the fabric.

  “What’s she doing?” I asked Carol. She seemed knowledgeable, and so far she’d given me the most answers.

  “Authentically dyed yellow cloth,” she said. “Well, in the Middle Ages, most yellow dye was made from . . . well . . . urine.”

  Now I began to itch all over. The whole “no running water” thing suddenly became a big deal. “You mean like cow urine and sheep urine.”

  “Actually, they collected men’s urine,” Kathleen said, now apparently in her element (history, not urine). “Not sure why, but some specifically thought that stale human male urine made the best dye. Of course, others insisted the urine had to come from prepubescent boys. A few years ago we set up pots to collect it, but they never really caught on.” She sniffed the garment again. “But maybe they got enough to do this one.” She handed it back to me. Or rather, she tried to offer it back to me.

  “I can’t wear that,” I said, rubbing my arms against the cold.

  “Maybe I have something,” Nick said. “You’d have to dress as a man, but you might be more comfortable than . . .”

  As he trailed off, I nodded and followed him to what turned out to be a colorfully striped tent. It was tall enough to stand in and remarkably spacious, despite the wooden crates of baking equipment scattered around.

  When I got inside, he lowered the tent flaps and drew me into his arms.

  “It was an unfortunate costume,” I said, “not an advertisement.”

  He kissed me heartily. Normally he smelled like his bakery, of vanilla and almond. Now, he smelled of woodsmoke and the open woods. And maybe a few pheromones thrown in, because I suddenly didn’t want to let go. Instead, I deepened the kiss.

  When he finally broke the kiss, he held me for a moment longer. In the dimness of the tent, the shadows added a new ruggedness to his face.

  “I suppose we should get you out of those clothes,” he said. Then he winced. “I did not just say that. I didn’t mean . . .”

  I laughed and pulled away from him. “I know you didn’t.” My relationship with Nick Maxwell had always been suitably chaste, by mutual consent. Grandma Mae would have adored Nick’s traditional values. “You said you might have something for me to wear?”

  “Yes.” He led me to a wooden trunk. “I wasn’t going to bring all of it this year, but now I’m glad I did.” He rummaged inside and handed me what looked like a pair of skinny jeans. “Basic hosen,” he said, then rummaged around some more before pulling out a long black shirt with elaborate embroidery. “A nice tunic.”

  I fingered the shirt, recalling what was said about participants making their own clothes. “Did you make this?”

  “A lifetime ago,” he said. Then he reached into the trunk again and pulled out a neatly folded bundle. “And you might as well wear this, since it’s cold tonight and I’m going as a baker.”

  “What is it?” I asked, unfolding the lovely blue fabric.

  “A surcoat. Part of a knight’s attire.”

  “I can’t—”

  “No, please. You’ll freeze to death without it, and I’d be happy to see you wearing my colors. I’ll, uh . . . wait outside while you change.”

  Changing into Nick’s handmade clothing in Nick’s tent with only Nick standing guard outside felt a little uncomfortable—a level of intimacy we hadn’t shared before. Still, I couldn’t help appreciating the care and attention he must have put into each of these hand-stitched garments. And fortunately, none of them were yellow.

  I didn’t have a mirror to check the final result, but I was glad to leave the harlot’s attire behind, even if I probably now looked more like Joan of Arc.

  Let’s just hope there were no stakes in my future.

  * * *

  Amber Lee pointed to an area in the clearing, walled in by a three-foot stone fence, but away from the thronging marketplace. “I guess the wedding is going to be held over there.”

  A few rickety-looking chairs and benches were set up, and those were mostly full. I pointed to the stone fence, and we hoisted ourselves up onto it. Melanie and Opie and their new friend Carol soon joined us.

  “Good thing this fence is here,” I said.

  “Actually, this is as far as we’ve gotten on the castle walls,” Carol explained. “The mortar should be set on this section, so I think we’re okay.”

  “Carol knows the Middle Ages inside and out,” Melanie said.

  Carol blushed. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know everything, but enough to get by teaching it.”

  “You’re a professor?” I said.

  “Oh, no, no!” she said. “Just a TA. The time period is a favorite of mine, though. But I’m in that awkward stage of studyi
ng what I love, and of course it’s something that’s not marketable in the least. But for this place? If they ever decide they need a paid historian, I’d be here in a heartbeat.”

  I nodded politely. For me the idea of studying history for the rest of my life was right up there with waterboarding and flossing. Still, I glanced around. With a little imagination, I could almost see a castle growing up from these stones. And as more guests arrived dressed in their medieval togs, I began to understand the fascination with this time period. It truly was like stepping back in time. Unfortunately, it smelled like it, too. As if to substantiate my thought, a horse tied up just outside the enclosure made a very uncivilized mess on the worn pathway.

  I shuddered. Of course there’d be horses here. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. There was no shame in being afraid. Everyone has their fears: snakes, spiders, heights, even clowns. Mine was horses. Nothing wrong with that. After all, this was more of a result of that unfortunate merry-go-round incident. Could happen to anyone.

  Two men, one older and one younger and dressed in almost regal attire, walked into the enclosure. Someone with a history degree, or even a fondness for the subject, could have detailed their outfits and their entourage. Let’s just say they looked pretty snazzy and leave it at that.

  “That’s the groom,” Melanie said. “And his father.”

  “Megabucks?” Amber Lee asked.

  “At least around here,” Opie said. “Barry Brooks—that’s the father—owns some kind of pharmaceutical company. Apparently he’s been coming to this thing for years. He brings the horses and a lot of the livestock from his own stables.”

  “Audrey!” Brad ran up just behind us. “Oh, shoot!” He looked down before wiping the side of his athletic shoe in the grass. “Stupid horses. Someone should follow them around with a pooper scooper. Hey, can I borrow your girls?”

  “My girls?”

  He pointed to Melanie and Opie. “They work for you, right?”

  “Not at the moment. They’re here for school.”

  “Oh, good. You girls want to earn a little extra cash?”

  Melanie and Opie looked at each other, then at Carol.

  “We’re supposed to be observing for class,” Melanie said.

  Carol shook her head. “Oh, go ahead.”

  “Doing what?” Melanie asked Brad, but Opie had already hopped off the wall.

  “My crew’s still not here yet. Something about a roadblock on the other side of the county. And I’d hate to miss shooting the wedding. Do you think you guys could handle some basic camera equipment?”

  “We can try,” Melanie said. And soon the girls were following Brad over to his anachronistic tent. I recognized it right off from the time when we were dating and he tried to get me to go camping with him—not going to happen.

  Yet here I was, practically committed to doing just that. Only dressed a little fancier. Melanie and Opie had said there’d be room for Amber Lee and me in their rented cottage—one of the more permanent buildings in the encampment. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. But I still dreaded that first call of nature. I’d already checked out the alternatives, which included using one of the public and foul-smelling garderobes, which appeared to be basically medieval porta-potties, or a lone trek into the woods.

  That thought was interrupted by a buzz from my hidden cell phone. I tapped Amber Lee on the arm. “Save my place. I’m going . . .” And I pointed into the woods.

  After walking a safe distance, I pulled out my cell, which had just started buzzing again.

  “Audrey,” Liv said, “I can’t find that little black kitten. You don’t think it could have gotten out?” Liv had promised to check on the cats for me.

  “She just likes to hide. Especially when Chester is around.”

  “Chester is acting weird, too. I put his food out, but he’s not eating. He just keeps staring at that old hutch in the kitchen.”

  “Then I think you’ve found the little black kitten. Look underneath it.”

  “Oh, Audrey. I’m not getting on my hands and knees and crawling around on that old floor.”

  “Is Eric there?”

  “He’s patching a couple of shingles on your roof. They’re saying we might get some rain soon.”

  “About time.” The whole county was under a severe drought. We hadn’t had more than a few drops since spring. “When he’s done with that, ask if he could put Chester in my room. His litter box is already in there. I thought they were starting to get along, but—”

  “Oh, there it goes!” Liv cried. Then I heard nothing but a few screams and some crashing sounds. One of which I think was Liv’s phone hitting the floor. More yelling followed and then more crashing. I sure hoped Liv’s manner with cats didn’t translate into how she’d parent her children.

  A few minutes later, Liv came back, breathless. “Okay, Chester is now eating the food in the kitchen, and the little one is in your room. Will that work?”

  “It’s going to have to. I’ll be back tomorrow anyway.” I refrained from explaining about cats, territories, and litter boxes. If they didn’t adjust to the litter box switch, at least all the flooring needed to be replaced anyway.

  “Oh, good.” Liv sounded relieved. I pictured her sitting at my table in Grandma Mae’s old kitchen. “You’re going to have to come up with a name for that kitten. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”

  I swallowed. My vet hadn’t been all that keen on the little thing when I took her in. He seemed a bit pessimistic, not only about her survival—since she had lost her mother before she was weaned—but also her ability to adjust to being a house cat, let alone learning to socialize with another cat. Especially Chester. When he cautioned me about what kind of behavior I might find from taking in a feral cat, I had second thoughts about keeping her. Until she curled up and put her paws on my hand as I gave her the bottle of kitty formula. Then I knew I could never let her go.

  But naming her was another story. Giving a cat a name is like giving them a piece of your heart. What if she didn’t make it? Or if I couldn’t make it work with the two cats?

  “I’ll come up with something,” I said.

  “Hey, how’s the camp?”

  I quickly filled her in on the experience so far, leaving out the dress and cloak fiasco. She homed in on the fact that Brad was here.

  “I thought you were back to being steady with Nick.”

  “Well, dating Nick exclusively. But I’ve been talking and texting with Brad.”

  Silence.

  “Liv?”

  “What would Grandma Mae say about all this sneaking around?”

  “I’m not sneaking around,” I said, then lowered my voice. “If you recall, Nick was the one who suggested I see other people. And Brad knows I go out with Nick.”

  “I don’t understand how you’re all okay with that.”

  “Easy. Apparently none of us are ready to make a commitment. Nick, because he wants his business to be more secure first. Brad, because he’s pursuing his dream career.”

  “And Audrey because . . . ?”

  The blast of a trumpeted fanfare sounded from the clearing.

  “Look, I have to get back. I think they’re starting the ceremony. Thanks for checking on the cats. See you tomorrow.”

  As I made my way back to the castle-in-progress, I wondered what I’d tell Liv when she asked the question again. Because she would. Did I tell her that I didn’t think I was ready for a life-long commitment, either? That I feared getting in too deep? After all, Liv had grown up with both mother and father. They’d recently celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary and are still going strong. Maybe even a little bit frisky for a couple their age. It was all right for Liv to believe in happily-ever-afters. She’d grown up thinking that was normal.

  But that was not always the case, and as if to illust
rate my point, as I entered the clearing, Andrea was walking down the aisle with her mother.

  And my parents . . . my father had taken off without warning when I was nine. Just went to work one day and never came home. Granted, my mother wasn’t the easiest person to live with, but what kind of coward takes off like that? Sure, a divorce would have been rough on me, too, but nothing like not knowing. Or feeling like I didn’t matter to him. Like I didn’t matter at all . . .

  And here I was, practically getting ready to shed tears long dry, and on the happy occasion of Andrea’s wedding. I swallowed hard, trying to clear the emotion out of my throat and plastered on a smile before reentering the now full clearing.

  I regained my seat on the stone wall, just as the hire-a-friar began explaining the symbolism of the hand-fasting.

  That voice . . .

  I tried to convince myself that my imagination was running wild. I had just been thinking about my father, so surely the power of suggestion caused me to notice the similarities. But as I squinted at the older man in the simple brown robes, there was no mistaking it. He now had a circle of gray hair surrounding a mostly bald head, and more than a few crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, but the man now officiating the wedding was Jeffrey Bloom.

  My father was back.

  Chapter 3

  The light was beginning to fade, sending shadows from the forest across the wedding guests. Goose bumps erupted on my arms, but my face flamed hot as I glared at the man I’d once called Daddy. What was he doing? Did he know I was here?

  He had little to do with the ceremony but smile some silly beatific smile and nod pleasantly. The parents gave their consent, as did the bride and the groom as they wrapped a decorative cord around their wrists to join them forever in wedded bliss. At least, I thought, if my record held. No bride who’d ever carried one of my bouquets down the aisle had ever split up.

  I breathed in the cool evening air. I would not let my sour attitude toward my father ruin Andrea’s big day.

  But I couldn’t take my eyes off the man officiating the wedding.