Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) Read Free

looked like she was going to forget her role and break into a broad grin at any moment.
    And who could blame her? For the groom, in spite of his stiff powder blue tux, was looking suitably heroic as he dangled on the end of the chopper’s rescue cable, swinging ever closer to the front of the open tower window. Noise and wind forgotten, we all gaped as Jake swiveled his hips, did something tricky with his feet and broad shoulders, and plucked his bride straight off the ledge, the only casualty one white satin slipper that landed with a soft thud in the dirt six stories below. A collective sigh of relief swept the wedding guests as the chopper swung away. Thank you, Lord . My ideas usually worked, but . . . let’s face it, losing clients isn’t good for business.
    Maybe now, while the guests are slogging across the uneven grass toward the wedding tent—a few teetering wildly on high heels—is a good time to explain how Fantascapes got started. You see, there’s a reason Weddings comes before Holidays on that sign at the office. It all began nearly twenty years ago back in Connecticut. My Aunt Candy, Mom’s sister—in spite of emerging from three failed marriages with nothing to show for it but a toddler— loved weddings, if not the reality that followed. That, plus the shadow of poverty—Aunt Candy’s third ex was as likely to send alimony as he was to win a jackpot in Vegas—made a strong incentive. In the blink of an eye Candy Spangler moved from giving friends advice, gratis, to being a startlingly successful wedding consultant. And after Dad came home from his last so-called business trip in a wheelchair and we had to give up our sprawling white 1830 Federal on the Connecticut shoreline for the great unknown of Florida’s Gulf Coast, Aunt Candy declared, “People get married in Florida, right?” and moved right along with us, sweeping my mother into the business before she knew what hit her.
    I’d been a freshman in high school at the time, still feeling my way through the cultural shock of falling into Bubbaland, not to mention our brand new handicap-accessible pink stucco fortress out back of beyond. I mean everybody else in Florida lives as close to water as they can—beach, bay, Intracoastal Waterway, or lake. All we had was a jungle river right out of Apocalypse Now , a sluggish tea-colored ribbon of water, chock-full of alligators and water moccasins. And even that was a far hike from the house. The Calusa River doesn’t just flood in tropical storms. By the end of every rainy season, homeowners along the river have to park a mile away and row home. Not a great place for a guy in a wheelchair, but I guess Dad still liked to live dangerously.
    Not too surprisingly, those first months in Florida Dad and I grumped around, feeling sorry for ourselves, empathizing without words about all we’d left behind, both of us utterly useless. My half-brother Doug—the son of Dad’s first wife who died when Doug was four—had finished college and disappeared into the same anonymous government alphabet soup that had disgorged my father in a wheelchair. Logan was a junior in college, and Jeff a senior in the local high school.
    That’s right, you got it. My mother must have wanted a girl real bad. Aunt Candy says that when I was born, there was a great sigh of relief. I was destined to be the little living doll the Blaine sisters and my grandmother had always wanted.
    Surprise! Or maybe not. With three older brothers my tea set never made it past my sixth birthday, and my Barby wore permanent camo—jungle and desert. I was mad for toy trains and Tonka trucks. I built forts, tanks, and helicopters with my Lego set. By the time I was twelve, Mom and Aunt Candy had pretty much given up, not-so-secretly hoping that an interest in boys as something more than sparring partners would one day miraculously transform me into the girl child of their dreams.
    Meanwhile, I was miserable. Since Dad’s accident—or whatever