The birthday customer wanted the flowers moved after Bea had finished them.
Bea stood at the long garden table holding an empty jug. Lena saw her glance toward the gate, measuring how quickly she might escape without being noticed.
“I'll take that,” Lena said, reaching for the jug.
“Don't reward my bad thoughts.”
“I'm busy rewarding everyone's bad thoughts today.”
They moved two jars closer together. The customer inspected them, smiled and announced that now they were exactly right. Bea thanked her as though the previous arrangement had not been nearly identical.
When the woman went inside, Lena leaned close.
“Beautiful restraint.”
“I'm billing for it next time.”
Lena laughed. The morning had been easier than she'd feared. She'd come in early, done the plain work Jo asked for and not attempted to turn the garden into a place that had to respect her grief.
It was Saturday, one week before the cancelled wedding. The birthday table stood where her own would have stood, under the pear tree. Different flowers. Different cloth. Cake with a number written on it.
She could bear it while there were plates to move.
The guests arrived in little groups. Somebody had brought balloons too large to fit through the door without hitting the sign. A man in a smart jacket tried to help and burst one. The sound startled everybody, then made them laugh.
Lena laughed too. She hadn't had to decide whether it was allowed.
Jo took the main orders. Lena served drinks and handled the kitchen runs. They had brought in a worker for the busy stretch, but there were still too many small things happening at once: ice running low, a chair with a loose screw, a guest who needed shade rather than the sunny seat someone had carefully saved for her.
Lena moved the chair, fetched a cushion and checked with Jo before changing the tables. She could feel how much of her job she'd previously done by assuming she knew what her sister wanted.
One of the guests stopped her as she brought bread.
“You're getting married here next week, aren't you?”
The words were friendly. The woman had no reason to know otherwise.
Lena set the basket down.
“No. We've cancelled it.”
“Oh.” The woman's face changed. “I'm sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you—”
“Would you like another drink?”
The woman hesitated, then accepted the rescue Lena had offered them both.
“Some water, please.”
Lena brought it. Nobody else joined in. No audience formed. Her shame had expected a larger performance than ordinary people wanted to give it.
In the kitchen she stood at the sink for half a minute, hands under the water.
Jo passed behind her.
“Want me to take the next run?”
“No. I'm all right.”
“Want isn't need.”
Lena looked at her.
“Yes. Take that one.”
Jo nodded and picked up the tray. Lena dried her hands, ate half a roll and came back before the food had gone cold.
The birthday woman made a speech she hadn't meant to make. Somebody began telling a story about a holiday, lost the point halfway through and was rescued by three other people supplying incompatible endings. Lena stood by the door laughing with a stack of clean plates in her hands.
For a few minutes the garden belonged entirely to them. She was glad it did.
Then the cake came out. One of the candles leaned far enough toward a flower that Bea stepped forward and removed the flower without asking anyone. The woman blew them out in one breath. Her husband kissed her forehead. Lena looked away only briefly, then looked back.
Love was still happening in places she could see.
After the guests left, the sisters sat on the low wall while Bea collected her jars. Jo had taken her shoes off. Lena hadn't, because she doubted she could persuade her feet back into them.
“That went well,” Jo said.
Lena nodded.
“Thank you.”
“You don't have to thank me for doing my job.”
“I do when you do it well.”
Lena smiled. “Then you're welcome.”
Bea sat beside them holding three stems too bent to return to the shop. She offered one to each sister.
“Staff bouquet,” she said. “Very exclusive.”
Jo took hers. “It's half dead.”
“So am I.”
They laughed. Lena looked at the little flower in her hand. She could go home with it without having to make it a sign of recovery.
Bea told them about a woman who had ordered a plant as an apology and asked whether it could come with instructions for being less stubborn. Jo said the instructions should cost more than the plant.
Lena leaned back against the warm brick. She had not spent the afternoon being the bride. She had been tired, useful, briefly sad, genuinely amused. The hours had not solved her life. They had happened anyway.
Before leaving she took the garden chairs inside, one at a time, while Jo counted the till.
This time nobody arrived too late with a bag of buns.