My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,4
I do it. It’s been my passion for as long as I can remember, starting with wadded up handfuls of dandelion weeds when I was a little girl. But that changed quickly when I’d snagged some kitchen scissors and absolutely butchered the rose bushes out back.
“Look at what you’ve done! Destroyed!” our estate gardener yells at me as I cower, the bouquet falling to my side though I don’t let it go.
Mom runs in to check out the racket. Once her quick eyes figure out that no one is hurt, she asks, “Abigail, why did you cut the roses?”
Not hearing anger, I hold the bundle up again, showing it off. “They were so pretty, I wanted to bring them inside. I arranged them to show their best sides and hide the dark spots on the petals.” And with thorn-pricked and scratched hands, I hand the bouquet to her. “For you.”
“Oh, Abi!” Tears glisten in her eyes as she takes the flowers and holds them to her nose, inhaling deeply. “Thank you.”
The gardener clears his throat and Mom looks up at the reminder. “Right, of course. Abi, Edward works very hard to grow these roses and you just chopped them down. You did a beautiful job with the arrangement, and it’s very sweet of you, but you need to ask next time, okay?”
I nod, mouthing an apology to Edward.
Back in the shop, I smile. Mom’s tearful happiness had been the spark that ignited my love of arrangements, of making people feel appreciated with a beautiful design with a sole purpose of being pretty. I also think back to Edward, who’d lovingly and patiently showed me how to grow and prune the gardens after that first run-in. I apologized many times over for butchering his roses once I learned exactly what it took to grow them.
And I’d promised to always treat the flowers I acquire with the proper respect and honor they deserve while showcasing their beauty for people to enjoy.
That’s why I started SweetPea Boutique, as a way to do just that. And I’m good. That’s not a humble brag because there’s no sense in being modest. I’m not a florist who throws together a dozen red roses in a plastic wrap and calls it a day. No, we create art here. We do the best weddings, the top company affairs, and serve people who want quirky, unique, custom designs.
My little shop, which is lime green with big, bold pink bubble letters and a black- and white-striped awning, is filled with lush earthen smells, flowers you can’t get anywhere else in the state, and handmade vases and ribbons of every size and color.
A lot of people don’t get it. I could get by quite easily on my last name alone. I could’ve gone into the family business and worked side-by-side with my dad and Courtney, wearing Prada power suits and sky-high Jimmy Choo heels to board meetings where we toss around ROI and billion-dollar profit margins like they’re no big deal.
But I’ve always been different, marched to the beat of my own drummer, or so I’ve been told. I wiggle my bare toes in my comfortable and sensibly waterproof Crocs, sure that’s probably the case.
But I am who I am, with no interest in changing anything.
Dad worried, of course. It’s who he is. He’d tried to talk me into following in his footsteps, and in a way, I had . . . by starting my own business from the ground up. Once he’d seen I had a business plan, including an accelerated payoff schedule for the loans I needed to take out, he’d understood and been proud of me.
The last few years have only solidified that. Especially when I paid those loans off.
SweetPea Boutique is mine now. All mine.
I can’t believe it, but it’s true. All because of floral arrangements like the one in my hand, but there’s no rest for the wicked, and I won’t sit around on my laurels. No, I always want to do better, be more.
Triumphant, I hold up the bouquet. “What do ya think?” I ask Janey, my right-hand woman. She’s been with me since day one and is an amazing floral designer in her own right, but thankfully, she has no desire to do the business side of the business. She’s happy to create and keep me from going insane with our workload.
From her workstation, a stainless-steel prep table where she has orchids and pink ginger lilies trimmed and ready to arrange, she turns a