Save the Date (22 page)

“And you explained that to him?”

“I tried. But the Colonel is the Colonel. He hears what he wants. And what he wants to hear is that I give up. He wants me to admit defeat, move back home, and be a dutiful daughter.”

Cara felt her fists clench and unclench. “But I can’t. I just can’t!”

“Then don’t,” he said lightly. “Look, I know starting a new business is hard. Especially in a new town, where, as you say, you don’t really know anybody. Ryan and I have been here all our lives, and it’s been an uphill battle for us.”

“Really?” It was hard to imagine anything was difficult for this charming Irishman, who’d apparently never met a stranger.

“Hell yeah,” Jack said. “For one thing, our timing sucked. I quit my job, put all my savings into buying tools, equipment, all of it, everything it takes to start a new business. Our plan was to do high-end historic-restoration projects. And it would have been a good plan, except the economy was still stalled. People who’d bought an old house in the historic district had paid top-of-the-market prices and now, planning to renovate, they find out they’re already underwater on their mortgages. That hundred-thousand-dollar kitchen we were supposed to build for them? Forget about it. New master suite? Not in the master plan anymore. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if it had just been me. But I’d talked Ryan into coming in with me. And we had guys. Masons, carpenters, electricians. We had to let everybody go. Everybody who was expecting a paycheck, counting on us, we had to let go.”

She leaned closer across the table. “How’d you survive?”

“We lived lean. Took whatever crappy jobs we could get. Our family’s friends felt sorry for us, so they’d hire us to hang some Sheetrock, build a garage, replace a deck. I sold my condo downtown and bought the place over on Macon Street. It was a foreclosure. Ryan, he’s actually got a teaching degree. He did some substitute teaching, hired on as an after-school soccer coach at the Y. And we just kept at it.”

“And you’re okay now.”

“Finally. People are feeling better about the economy. The people we did those little jobs for, they were happy with the work. They’re calling us back for bigger projects. And they’ve told their friends.”

“So, a happy ending. You’ve got a good business, friends, a house, a dog.”

“But in the meantime, Zoey left me. She got tired of hanging around, waiting for me to come home from work, to make her my number-one priority.”

“You’ve still got the dog,” Cara said, looking away.

“And I’ve got high hopes for everything else,” Jack said. “There’s this girl I keep running into at weddings…” And then he did it. He actually winked at her.

“You make me actually feel like I’m not a hopeless cause,” Cara said, sitting back in her chair, feeling herself actually relax.

“You’re a work in progress, darlin’,” Jack said. “Same as me.”

26

It was nearly 10 a.m. when Bert finally walked through the front door at Bloom. He dropped the morning newspaper on the worktable and headed straight to the coffeepot, ignoring Cara’s pointed stares.

When he sat down at the worktable, he sipped from his mug and began leafing through the morning’s phone orders. His hair was mussed, his beard unshaven, and it looked as though he’d slept in his clothes—either that, or he’d been rolled by a mugger.

He caught her watching him. “What?”

“Late night last night?”

“Maybe,” he said, running his hands through his hair, which only made it worse. He stared her down. “And no. I haven’t been drinking. Because I know that’s what you’re thinking. But I haven’t.”

He had her there. She had wondered. He’d worked so hard for his sobriety. She knew too well how it was with an alcoholic, though. They were always just one drink away from a fall.

“Would have been nice if you’d called to let me know you’d be in late.” She kept her voice deliberately mild. It was unlike Bert to be late, or to fail to let her know he’d be late.

“Sorry,” he said, looking contrite. “It won’t happen again.”

He mopped his forehead with one of the pink message slips. “Jesus, it’s hot in here. What’s going on with the air-conditioning?”

“It’s been out since Friday night. I had to sleep with all the windows open over the weekend. I’ve left half a dozen voicemails for the Bradleys, but they haven’t bothered to return any of them. I’m thinking of running over to their house. In fact, I was waiting for you to get here so I could go.”

“Oh,” Bert said. “Oh, crap. I forget you don’t get the paper. Um, there’s actually a pretty good reason you haven’t heard back from Bernice.”

“Such as?”

Bert flipped the
Savannah Morning News
open to the obituary page, and trailed a bony finger down the listings until he came to a block of type.

“Oh damn,” Cara said. “That’s awful. I didn’t even know she was sick.”

Bradley, Bernice, 91, of Savannah. Joined the band of heavenly angels Friday, after a brief illness. Predeceased by husband Alvin P. Bradley. Survived by faithful daughter Sylvia Bradley, 73, of Savannah. Funeral services, Tuesday, at Fox & Weeks Hodgson funeral chapel.

“Now I feel just terrible. I’ve been cussing Bernice all weekend. The last message I left on their machine, I even threatened to buy a window unit and subtract it from next month’s rent.”

“You shouldn’t feel bad about that,” Bert said. “That old biddy was so cheap she squeaked when she walked. And her daughter’s just as bad. There’s a reason Sylvia’s a dried-up old maid. She’s just as mean and stingy as her mama. The two of them have been living in that big house on Forty-fourth Street in Ardsley Park for decades, and even though everybody knows they’re rolling in the dough, the place looks like it’s falling to pieces.”

“Still, it’s not nice to talk bad of the dead,” Cara insisted. She was still reading Bernice Bradley’s obituary, the details of her membership in the United Daughters of the Confederacy, the Eastern Star, her thirty-year employment with J. C. Penney’s.

“Bernice was my landlady, not a friend. I mean, I don’t even think she liked me,” Cara mused. “So I think it would be bad taste to show up at the service. We’ll send a nice arrangement instead. One of those old-timey ones on stands. Do we have any of those metal easel thingies left in the back, from Norma’s?”

Bert got up to check the stockroom, but then Cara read the last line of the funeral notice. Out loud.

“‘In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to charity.’”

“Hold it,” she said, grabbing Bert’s shirtsleeve as he passed. “That nasty old bat! In lieu of flowers, my ass!”

“She’s dead, and she’s still managing to give you the finger,” Bert laughed.

*   *   *

By late afternoon, Cara had Bloom’s front and back doors propped open and a large box fan positioned in the doorway, both as a ventilation aid and to keep Poppy from making another escape.

She printed out a photo she’d taken of Brooke’s wedding dress, and had it taped to the wall just above her computer, while she leafed through online catalogues and sketched out ideas for the bride’s bouquet and the other arrangements for the wedding and reception.

“That’s Brooke’s dress?”

“Yes. Thank God she finally went to Atlanta and bought one before her mother and stepmother took matters into their own hands.”

“Pretty plain,” Bert said, a note of disdain in his voice.

The gown, of heavy duchesse ivory satin,
was
simple. Sleeveless, with a deep V-neck, it was fitted close to the body, flaring out into soft folds just below the knees. Cara pointed a finger at the detail at the waist. “This is antique lace, reembroidered with seed pearls. No other lace, no sequins or flounces, or any of that. Brooke’s a natural beauty, with a great figure. She doesn’t need anything more than this. No veil either. I’m just going to make a hair ornament with flowers, and she’ll use that to pin her hair back behind one ear.”

The shop phone rang; she glanced over at the caller ID, and made a face before answering.

“Hi, Patricia.”

“Hi Cara. I just thought I’d touch base and make sure that you’ve got things well in hand for the wedding. Is the caterer a definite, because if not, I’ve got Carlos on notice to hold the date for me.”

“Yes,” Cara said. “Fete Accompli is a done deal. Layne’s signed the contract, and I’ll send it over to you and Gordon for your signature. And when that’s done, you’ll need to put down a deposit.”

“I understand,” Patricia said. “When can we schedule a tasting, for the menu for the reception? Cullen says he always suggests the bride’s family have a tasting at least a month before the wedding, so they can tweak anything they don’t like.”

Cara found herself grinding her back molars. Patricia Trapnell was determined to micromanage this wedding, whether Brooke wanted her to or not.

“Cara?” Patricia’s voice was sharp. “Are you still there?”

“I’ll talk to Layne about that, and get a couple possible dates, and we’ll set that up based on Brooke’s availability.”

“Brooke’s availability. That might be never,” Patricia huffed.

“I’ll ask her mother to let her know it’s a priority,” Cara said, unable to resist getting in a dig.

Which apparently went right over Patricia’s head.

“Libba Strayhorn tells me that they’re thinking of having the old barn redone to have the after-party out there,” Patricia said. “Is that a good idea? I mean, a barn? Where horses have been?”

“I toured the barn with Libba,” Cara said. “The horses haven’t been kept there in years. And Libba’s going to have it completely cleaned out and restored. We’ve done flowers for parties in barns and all kinds of unique settings in the past couple years. It’s actually not all that unusual an idea. And this will give Brooke and Harris an opportunity to relax and mingle with their friends in a much more casual atmosphere.”

“Couldn’t they just as well do that in the house? Where there’s air-conditioning and running water?”

Now it was Patricia’s turn to get in a dig. Which Cara, in turn, decided to ignore.

“Was there anything else, Patricia?”

“Hmm. Just going down my list. I assume you’ve gotten a firm commitment from the photographer? Cullen says she stays booked for months and months in advance. I know we’ll want to give her a list of shots we want taken, before and after the wedding. And Gordon is hoping to have Brooke sit for a portrait in her wedding gown.”

“Yes. Meredith has assured me she has us on her books for July sixth. I’ll let her know about your request for a portrait, but that’s something you’ll need to take up with Brooke, since I’m assuming it needs to be done well before the actual wedding day.”

“I’ll do that,” Patricia said. “Or rather, I’ll have Gordon do it. Brooke somehow doesn’t seem to receive any of my phone calls, emails, or texts.”

Big surprise,
Cara thought.

“All right then,” Cara said briskly. “I’ll just get back to my flowers. Thanks for calling, Patricia.”

After she’d disconnected from the call, Cara looked at the phone with distaste. This, she thought, was what she was in for, over the next five weeks. Weekly, if not daily, contact with Patricia Trapnell. When all was said and done, Cara was sure, she would have more than earned her wedding-planning fee for this event.

*   *   *

Cara went back to her catalogue and her sketches for the Trapnell wedding, and Bert worked efficiently through the phone orders, putting together hospital and birthday arrangements, answering the phone, and then going through their flower stock, to see what needed reordering.

The room grew warmer and warmer. They drank what seemed like gallons of water, and Cara silently checked online, pricing room-sized window air conditioners—one for the shop, and one for her apartment.

When the phone rang around three in the afternoon, Bert glanced over, crossed his eyes, and ignored it.

“Lillian Fanning,” he told Cara. “If she’s paid her bills, I don’t see why we have to talk to her again.”

“Maybe she wants us to do flowers for another event,” Cara said crisply, reaching for the phone. “Which is why I don’t want us screening calls. You never know…”

“I know that woman, and with her, it’s never pleasant,” he shot back.

“Lillian,” Cara said, her voice radiating warmth she didn’t actually feel. “So good to hear from you again. Are you all rested up from the wedding excitement yet?”

“Mostly. Bill and I just got back from two weeks in Bermuda. The weather was nice, but the service! I can’t think why anybody would go there a second time.…”

“Have the wedding proofs come back yet?” Cara asked. She really wasn’t in the mood to listen to one of Lillian’s rants this afternoon. “Please be sure to let me know when I can see them. I’d love to use some of them on my website. That photo of you and Torie, together on the dock, just at sunset, has to be great.”

“The proofs aren’t back, which is just so annoying,” Lillian started. “I can’t even get into that right now. Listen, Cara, I’m calling about the silver.”

“Silver?” Cara was hot and tired. And her mind was a blank.

“My silver. The things you used for the wedding. The candlesticks, the bud vases, the punch bowl, and the epergne. They were all supposed to be returned to me after the wedding.”

Cara noted that Lillian referred to the silver as things “
you
used.” They had, of course, used the Fanning family silver at the mother of the bride’s insistence.

She closed her eyes and tried to think back, to the night of Torie’s wedding, and the Sunday afterward. She remembered rounding up all the pieces and checking them off against the inventory she’d taken, as she always did, when they used a client’s own pieces for an event. She’d done it the morning after the wedding.

And she even remembered loading them into a large plastic bin lined with towels, to keep the pieces from being scratched. She could see the bin in the back of the van. But what she could not remember was taking the bin back to the Fannings’ home.

“Hang on a minute, Lillian, please,” she said. “Let me just check something.”

She put Lillian Fanning on hold and turned to Bert.

“I heard,” he said. “Her silver.”