Save the Date (19 page)

Cara reached in her bag for her keys, and he moved closer beside her, with his hand on her arm, and she realized, with a start, that he was probably going to kiss her. A little frizzle of electricity shot up her spine, as she realized she hoped he would.

She found the key and fit it in the lock. His hand touched her cheek, lightly, and he leaned down.

“
Hey, asshole!”
A man’s voice echoed in the lane. They heard glass splintering against concrete, and more voices.

“Drunks,” Jack said, shrugging.

“What the fuck? Man, that’s not cool!”

Jack jerked his head around to see what was happening.

More glass shattering. Shouts.

A door opened from a town house at the entrance to the lane, spilling light into the lane. They could see four men, clumped together, and a fifth man, sprawled on his back on the broken asphalt.

A shrill woman’s voice called from the back of the house. “Whoever’s out there I’m calling the cops. I mean it, I’m calling them right now!”

“Fuck you, bitch.”
Coarse laughter. But the men slunk off into the darkness, like so many feral cats. All but the one, who was still on the ground, clutching his black fedora, curled up now in a fetal position. Even from where they stood, they could hear his groans of pain.

Jack sighed. “I better see if he’s all right.”

*   *   *

“Tommy?” Jack crouched over the fallen man. “You okay?”

Dumb question. Tommy Hart was definitely not okay. His nose was already a bloody, swollen pulp, and his left eye was closed, a ring of purple already blooming.

He helped the younger man to a sitting position.

Tommy held both hands to his face. “I’m fuuuuucked up.”

“I see that,” Jack said. “Did they hit you anywhere else?”

“No maan. Just my faaace.” The words were slurred. “I think my nose is broke.”

They heard the loud wail of a police siren.

“Will he be okay?”

Jack turned, and was surprised to see Cara, kneeling on the filthy, glass-strewn asphalt, at his side.

“His nose is probably broken,” Jack said succinctly.

Before he could say anything else, Tommy Hart, improbably, staggered to his feet. “I gotta go, man.” He swayed, and it looked, for a moment, that he might fall down again. Blood dripped down the front of his face, onto his white shirt.

“Whoa,” Jack said. He wrapped an arm around Tommy’s shoulder. “You need to get your nose looked at.”

“Yeah. Later.” Tommy tried to pull away, but Jack held his ground.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I got to go,” Tommy insisted. He glanced toward the end of the lane. “Cops. I don’t need to be messing with the po-po.” He tried again to free himself from Jack’s grasp. “Come on, Jack. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” Jack repeated. “You’re shitfaced. You can’t drive like this.”

The sirens were growing closer.

Tommy moaned. “I can’t get another MIP. They’ll pull my driver’s license. I’ll lose my freakin’ job. My old man will kill me.”

“Come on, then,” Jack said. “Let’s walk.” With his arm around Tommy’s shoulder, he force-marched him in the direction of the K of C hall.

Cara followed, unsure of her next move. She hesitated, then picked up the battered black felt fedora she found lying on the ground.

Jack banged hard on the K of C’s kitchen door, and a frightened-looking Hispanic man yanked the door open a few inches.

“Incoming,” Jack said. Silently, the porter held the door open wide enough for them to pass.

Jack shoved Tommy onto a rickety kitchen stool, went to the commercial ice machine, and scooped up a handful of ice, which he wrapped in a white terry dishcloth.

“Jesus!” Tommy yelped, as Jack held the cloth to his battered nose.

“How’d you get here tonight?” Jack asked.

“Huh?”

“Do you have a car here?”

“Yeah. Of course. I’m parked on the square.” Tommy looked up at him through his good eye. “I can drive.”

“Nuh-uh,” Jack said. “You can’t hardly walk. No way I’m letting you get behind the wheel of a car. You still living at your mom’s place? On Wilmington Island?”

“I ain’t saying.”

“Fine,” Jack said. “I’ll just drop you off at the ER at Memorial. Let them deal with you.”

“No! Okay. We’re still in the same rathole in Spinnaker Cove.”

“That’s better. You ready to roll?”

Tommy shot Jack a hopeful look. “I could use a drink. For pain.”

“You could use a kick to the head,” Jack said. “You’re underage, probably got, what, a couple minor-in-possession citations already? And you think I’m gonna pour you another beer?” He pulled the boy to his feet. “Let’s go.”

Tommy stood, unsteadily.

“Keys?” Jack held out his hand.

“Fuuuuck.” Tommy dug them out of his pants pocket and handed them over.

Cara followed them to the front of the hall. It was nearly ten, but the party raged on. In the middle of the dance floor, Maya and Jared danced alone, bodies pressed close together, performing what Cara thought was a fairly credible tango.

On the sidewalk, Jack turned and gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. But this kid’s mom is an old family friend. Tommy’s not a bad guy, but he seems to attract trouble. I better get him loaded up. Want me to drive you around to your van?”

She looked over at Tommy, who’d draped himself over a parking meter, head resting on his chest. He seemed to be humming something.

“No need. Now that the bad guys are gone. What about you? You’re driving him all the way out to Wilmington Island? I could follow you out, give you a ride back.”

“Thanks, but no,” he said. “I’ll catch a ride back to town.”

“You’re sure?”

He touched her cheek lightly, his voice full of regret. “No. But that’s another story.”

Suddenly, with no warning, he pulled her close, his arms wrapped around her waist. He kissed her quickly. She’d had exactly two glasses of wine, but she felt dizzy, so she pulled him closer. His tongue slipped through her lips …

“Blllleeeechhh.”

Tommy was crouched on the curb, his head between his knees. “Bllleccchh.”

Jack released her, reluctantly. He shrugged. “Kids. Okay if I give you a call next week?”

She gave him another quick kiss. “You better.”

23

The South Carolina low country was a sea of green and gold, contrasted against a pure blue sky. Wildflowers bloomed in muddy ditches, and carpets of red clover paved the higher ground along the roadway.

As always, in her mind, Cara was composing arrangements. She could see a small jelly glass filled with those lowly ditch daisies, wild violets, and red clovers, with slender stalks of sweet grass spiking and spilling over the sides of the glass.

Brooke Trapnell had professed no real interest in flowers, but she did have definite color biases. With her dark hair and fair skin, tones of silvers, blues, pinks, and lavender might be nice. She’d nixed purple, but lavender wasn’t really purple. When she got back to the shop, Cara decided, she’d put some flowers together, snap a picture, and text it to Brooke. Texts, she’d already discovered, were the best way to communicate with this busy bride.

So much to get done for this wedding, in such a short time span. Thankfully, she’d already gotten commitments from Layne at Fete Accompli to cater, and found two of her favorite photography studios that had openings for July 6. She’d emailed links to both photographers’ websites to all parties, and as soon as Brooke, or more likely, Marie, got back to her, she’d get that nailed down.

Patricia Trapnell had already sent audio clips from the orchestra she was determined to hire, and since there was no obvious reason to veto them, Brooke had reluctantly agreed, so Cara had called the orchestra’s booking agent that morning, and their contract was sitting on her desk back at the shop.

It was a forty-five-minute drive from Savannah to Cabin Creek, and for the rest of the journey, Cara puzzled not over flowers or canapés, but the more interesting and confusing topic of Jack Finnerty and his behavior the night before.

She really didn’t know what to make of this man.

He could have left his sister’s old friend in that alley the previous night. Could have walked away with Cara, maybe sweet-talked his way into her apartment, and who knows, eventually her bed. Yes, she’d fantasized about that. He could have allowed the underage drunk to get picked up by the police. It would have saved a lot of time and trouble if he’d just walked away. But he hadn’t.

Leaving his own truck where it was, Jack had cleaned the kid up as best he could, loaded him into his beat-up Camry, and driven him all the way home. And then—he’d texted Cara to make sure
she’d
gotten home all right.

What kind of guy did something as kind and caring as that? Her brow furrowed. Was he really that sweet, or was he just trying to impress her?

*   *   *

Libba Strayhorn was standing in front of the magnificent plantation house, an incongruous figure in her faded ball cap, brown riding pants, blue work shirt, and scuffed leather riding boots. She had a black and white dog at her heels as she walked back and forth among the boxwood borders, leaning down to pull up weeds.

She waved as Cara drove around to the car park, and walked around to meet her.

“Hey there!” Libba greeted her. “I hear you’re the one who’s going to make this whole wedding happen. Congratulations!”

She leaned in and stage-whispered. “Just between you and me and Rowdy here, I’m glad it’s you. That other fella was just a little too fancy for my tastes.”

“I’m glad you’re glad,” Cara said. “And thanks again for agreeing to let me come out today and walk through the house again. Are you sure you have time to do this with me?”

“Plenty of time,” Libba assured her. “The horses are exercised, and I’ve got the whole day free for this. Mitch is out of town on business, but as he likes to say, his only role in this wedding is to smile and nod and stay sober.”

They walked through the front door, into the high-ceilinged entry foyer, with its hand-painted Chinese-motif wallpaper and black-and-white-checkerboard marble floor. A spectacular antique gold-leafed Chippendale mirror took up most of one wall of the foyer, and Cara eyed it apprehensively.

“You know, Libba, the plan is to have cocktails and passed appetizers in here as the guests arrive. I think we’re expecting about two hundred and fifty people. It could be quite a crush. I know this mirror must be an old family piece, and I’m a little worried somebody could accidentally jostle and damage it. Do you think that’s something you might want to move to storage during the reception?”

“I don’t see why,” Libba said, giving the mirror a fond pat. “This thing’s been in this hall for at least a hundred and fifty years. It withstood Union forces, who camped out here during the war, and even worse, all those generations of rambunctious Strayhorn boys, including Mitch and Harris. Anyway, we couldn’t move it if we wanted to. It’s bolted to that wall.”

“Great,” Cara said. “It’s so stunning, I’d hate to lose it. I was thinking we could leave a big silver bowl on that console table for guests to drop cards and gifts.”

“Okay,” Libba said. “You’re the boss. What else do you want in here?”

“Nothing, really. We’ll bring in rented high-top tables and scatter them against the walls, so people will have a place to rest their drink glasses.”

She and Libba passed from the hallway into the double parlors, and discussed the placement of tables and chairs, and the bride and groom’s table.

They went into the kitchen, which was huge, but surprisingly modest for a house of Cabin Creek’s grandeur. The cabinets were vintage forties, metal, with tiny patches of rust beginning to show through at the edges, the countertops yellow formica, and the floors were worn yellow linoleum tile.

“Mitch is all het up about ripping this old stuff out and putting in a completely new kitchen with all the modern bells and whistles. He’s the cook in the family,” Libba confided. “He’s got his eye on an eight-burner restaurant range and one of those double-door glass-front fridges, marble countertops, the works.”

“Sounds like a dream,” said Cara enviously. “The kitchen in my tiny apartment downtown would fit inside your pantry.”

Libba shrugged. “Personally, I don’t see the point. Holly has her own apartment in Savannah, and Harris and Brooke have their own place there too. It’s just Mitch and me here most nights, and this old stuff has worked fine for the forty years we’ve lived here, but then again, someday, we hope, Harris and Brooke will be living here, with a passel of kids, and they’ll appreciate a kitchen like that.”

“You wouldn’t try to do the kitchen before the wedding, right?” Cara asked.

“Oh no,” Libba assured her. “Maybe in the fall, when things quiet down.”

“Good. You’ve got a lot of counter space, which is great, because our caterer is going to need every inch of it. Layne is going to want to run over here to take a look at the space too, but she’s already said she may want to bring in an extra fridge, and maybe even an extra cooktop, but I think there’d be room for that if we move out the table and chairs in your eating nook. Would that be okay?”

“Sure,” Libba said. “As long as we have a place to get a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal in the morning, Mitch and I are fine.”

As they moved through the house, Cara marveled to herself at the good nature and calm radiated by this mother of the groom. In less than five weeks, her home would be invaded by a huge, lavish wedding complete with 250 guests, but she seemed totally unfazed by any and all requests Cara made.

“Can we take another look at the ballroom?” Cara asked, as they neared the back of the house.

Libba nodded. “Hasn’t been used since Harris’s twenty-first-birthday party. I guess you’ve noticed Mitch and I aren’t really big on entertaining. We enjoy it when we do it, but mostly, we’re out here in the country, keeping to ourselves with the horses and dogs. Or, I am. Mitch is happy as long as he’s got his big-screen TV, twenty-four-hour cable sports, and an easy ride to the airport when he needs to travel, which he does a lot for his business.”