Save the Date (46 page)

“Yes, he’s quite the entrepreneur,” Cara said. “I wonder if he makes it a habit to steal heirloom silver from any of those brides?”

“Updegraffs,” Bert muttered. “Updegraff?”

“Keep looking,” Cara said. “If the house belonged to Marie’s mother’s family, maybe that’s the Updegraff connection.”

“Okay … yeah. Here we go. There’s a story about Brooke’s debut from a few years ago. Daughter of Gordon and Marie, stepdaughter of Patricia, granddaughter of so and so Von Moneybags the Third, and great-granddaughter of the late Dr. and Mrs. Warner Updegraff of Sea Island, Georgia.”

“Bingo.” Cara found a bottle of bug spray and threw it into the bag. “So, the question is, how far is Loblolly from the ferry dock, and if there are no cars, how do I get there once I’m on the island?”

“Checking. This says Loblolly is five miles from the dock. That’s a pretty good hike in June. But it does say you can rent a bike.” Bert looked up at her. “Did I mention there are no motels? Just primitive tent camping. And the Greyfield Inn, where rooms without a private bath start at around five hundred dollars a night.”

“I’m not planning to need a room,” Cara said. She hoisted the backpack to her shoulder to test its weight. “If I do have to hike, this shouldn’t be too heavy.”

“Ugh,” Bert grimaced. “I wouldn’t mind hiking and camping, if it weren’t for the fact that you have to do it outside, in nature. They have boo-koodles of nature over on Cumberland. All these bugs buzzing around, and random animals. I mean, in addition to your garden-variety raccoons and possums and deer they have herds of wild horses pooping everywhere, not to mention alligators.” He glanced down at the Park Service website. “Just listen to this: ‘Venomous snakes present on the island include diamondback rattlesnakes, timber rattlesnakes and cottonmouth moccasins.’”

“I’ll be sure to watch where I walk,” Cara promised, They went back out to the living room, and Cara gathered up her cell phone and charger.

“What needs doing in the shop while you’re gone?” Bert asked. “What do we have coming up?”

“The usual baby shower, retirement, and hospital stuff,” Cara said. “Check the inbox on my desk. We’ve also got the Loudermilk wedding next Saturday, but it’s a second marriage for both of them, very small, simple ceremony in the best friend’s town house on Charlton Street. The couple are very sweet, very low maintenance. We’re doing a bouquet for BeBe, one for Weezie, her maid-of-honor, boutonnieres for Harry and the best man, and a couple of arrangements for the mantel and the buffet table. But that’s not until Saturday, and hopefully, I’ll be back here tomorrow afternoon.”

“Hopefully,” Bert said.

“You’ll stay here and take care of Poppy?” she asked. Her face darkened at the memory of the last, temporary assistant she’d hired, with such disastrous results. “And walk her and make sure she gets plenty of water?”

“When have I not done those things?” Bert asked. “You know I’ll take care of everything around here.” He grabbed her hand. “Hey. You trust me, right? I mean, I know I messed up, with Cullen. But that’s history. This is the new Bert. Reliable, responsible Bert.”

“Okay. Yeah, that’s the Bert I need,” Cara said. She hugged him tightly. “That’s the one I missed. I was really starting to panic about doing these next three weddings without you.”

“Three? Who do we have besides the Loudermilk wedding, and then Brooke’s?”

“The week before Brooke and Harris we’ve got the Schroeders.”

“Ohh. Wait. Is that the beach wedding?”

“Afraid so.”

“Who gets married at the beach on Tybee in late June?”

“Somebody who’s never been there in June,” Cara said. “She’s from out of town. The whole wedding party is from out of town.”

*   *   *

Cara was raiding the shop’s petty-cash drawer when she heard the sound of a car door slamming on the street outside. She looked up in time to see Jack Finnerty heading toward the shop door. She considered running out the back door to evade yet another confrontation with him, but it was already too late. He’d spotted her, and Poppy had spotted Jack, and she was barking and pawing at the door, eager to see her old friend.

As soon as he stepped in the door, Poppy pounced, slapping her front paws on his chest, and slathering his neck with her big pink tongue.

“Hey, girl!” he said, ruffling the fur on Poppy’s neck. “Have you missed me?” He looked up at Cara, and it was obvious he was addressing them both.

Jack had obviously come directly from the job site. His work boots were covered in mud and sawdust, and his T-shirt and jeans were grimy.

Cara felt her heart pounding in her chest. Damn Jack Finnerty. He was the only man she’d ever known who looked as good dirty as he did clean. Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember another man who made her palms sweat and her pulse race the way Jack did. Too bad he’d turned out to be such a world-class jerk.

“I’ve started packing, if you’ve come to check up on your investment,” she said coolly. “I move over to Hall Street next week.” She gestured around the small room. “And just in case Sylvia Bradley didn’t mention it, all the shelving and fixtures are mine. And I intend to take them with me.”

Jack’s face flushed under his sunburn. “You know that’s not why I came here. Look. Maybe I didn’t express myself too well the last time. I was pumped, you know? So let me be clear. I bought this building for you. Not to give to you, or hold over your head so I’d have demonical power over you. It’s a great building, and I thought it deserved something better. And you deserve something better, too.”

“I see.”

“Okay, so yeah, maybe I also bought it because I’m a typical competitive male and I wanted to keep that creep Cullen Kane from getting his hands on it. So yeah, my execution was pretty clumsy. But don’t I at least get credit for…”

“What? Having a pure heart?”

“Yeah, that,” he said belligerently.

She felt her spine weaken a little. Damn, she really was such a jellyfish. But his face was so damn earnest, and yes, deep down inside, she did have a sneaking suspicion that his heart was pure.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were thinking of buying the building, instead of all this sneaking around? What is it with you men? Why do you all have to be so…”

“Devious?”

“Exactly! I’m just so sick of all the plotting and power plays and the secrets and the subterfuge. Can’t you just communicate?”

Jack stood with his hands on his hips. “Fine. This is me communicating. Even if you and I are through, I’d really rather not have to find a new tenant. If you feel so strongly about not taking any favors, we can talk about escalating your rent, eventually. What do you say?”

She had to stick to her guns. This was a matter of principle, not a matter of the heart.

“Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve signed a lease for Hall Street. It’s a bigger space, and when I get it fixed up, Poppy will have more room. Plus, I’ve already started packing.”

He shook his head, then shrugged. “Have it your own way, then.” He was on his way out the door when he noticed her backpack. “What’s up? You’ve taken up hiking?”

She debated whether or not to tell him the truth. But why not?

“I’ll tell you where I’m going, but this is strictly on the low-down, okay? Brooke has disappeared.”

“That explains a lot. Ryan and I were going to get some stuff done at Cabin Creek today, because we’re starting to get down to the wire with the wedding, but Libba just waved us off, which was kind of weird. She’s been out there every day we’ve been working, taking pictures and coming up with things she wants done. So, wow. Brooke—what? Just vanished?”

“She and Harris had a fight Friday, and then sometime Saturday, while he was still in Atlanta for his bachelor’s party, she took off. Skipped her own bachelorette party.”

He whistled softly. “That sucks for Harris. And Libba too, of course. Does this mean the wedding is off?”

“Not if I can help it,” Cara said fiercely.

That took him by surprise. “What? You’re going after her? Cara Kryzik, finder of lost brides?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m the only one who knows where she’s gone.”

“Cool. Tell Harris. Let him deal with it.”

“Negative. I promised Brooke I wouldn’t tell. Anyway, I don’t want to hurt Harris. He’s a sweet guy. If he went after Brooke this whole wedding thing could blow up in our faces.”

“And why is that?

“I don’t think Brooke is by herself. I think maybe she’s with another guy.”

Jack shook his head. “Oh shit. Another guy. That’s a deal-breaker. What do you hope to accomplish by going after her?”

“Brooke is emotionally overwrought right now. Lots of brides get like that. Most of them, in fact, freak out in some form or fashion. I’ll explain that to her, calm her down, and bring her home to get married.”

“And what about this other guy? The one you said she might be with?”

“He’s just somebody from her past, an excuse she’s probably clinging to for why she should run away.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know that. How could you?”

“I met him. By accident. He’s totally wrong for Brooke. He’s a park ranger. Can you imagine Brooke Trapnell living on some wilderness island somewhere?”

“Why are you so dead-set on meddling in this thing, Cara? Why don’t you just let Harris and Brooke sort things out for themselves?”

Instead of answering, Cara picked up her backpack and her car keys. “I don’t have time for this, Jack. I’ve got to go.”

He followed her out to her car, and before she could stop him, he’d slid into the front passenger seat. “I get it. If this wedding gets canceled, you’re out a crapload of money, right?”

Cara went perfectly still for a moment. If that’s what he thought of her, why let him know otherwise?

“Yes!” she cried. “That’s right. I finally figured out that the only way to win at this game is to play by the big boy’s rules. I’m going to find Brooke Trapnell and bring her home and by God, this wedding is going to come off and I am going to finally be out from under my father’s thumb. Okay? Happy now?”

“Yeah,” he said, his mouth twisting downward. “I’m just great.”

58

The motel room in St. Marys was tiny, but cheap. And most importantly, it had air-conditioning. Cara took a shower, brushed her teeth, and fell into bed. It was barely 9 p.m., but after the jarring encounter with Jack and the two-hour drive south from Savannah, she was exhausted.

In the morning, she had a convenience-store breakfast of coffee with a stale cheese Danish. As an extra precaution, she bought a bottle of water and two protein bars, which she tucked into her backpack.

By eight o’clock, she was in the ticket line at the ferry dock. A group of giggling Girl Scouts and their mothers were ahead of her in line, as were a pair of solidly built gray-haired ladies who were decked out for a day of bird-watching, with canvas rain hats, hiking boots, and cameras and binoculars strung around their necks.

After she bought her ticket for the early ferry, Cara took a brochure about the island from a display by the ticket window, found a seat in the shade, and watched with interest as cars and vans pulled up, disgorging campers and day-trippers loaded down with coolers, tents, beach chairs, and more.

It was an eclectic group, families with young children, gung ho hikers, and half a dozen college students, who stealthily swigged beer from brown paper sacks.

At 8:45, a voice came over the loudspeaker, and a couple of uniformed deckhands appeared, to direct them in loading onto the
Cumberland Queen
ferry.

With the sun beating down, Cara chose a seat on the lower deck and spent the forty-five-minute ride across the St. John’s River watching as seabirds wheeled in the sky above, and dolphins chased along in the boat’s wake.

She also studied the map in the Park Service brochure. The island’s major sightseeing spots were clearly marked. On the far north end was something called the Settlement. She found Plum Orchard, something called Yankee Paradise, Stafford Beach, Sea Camp, and Dungeness. Nowhere on the map was there a spot marked Loblolly.

But according to the internet, Loblolly had been built as a guest house/hunting lodge—adjacent to Plum Orchard. So. Find Plum Orchard, and Loblolly would be nearby. Wouldn’t it?

In her mind, she rehearsed what she would say when she found Brooke Trapnell. Occasionally, doubt crept in. What if she couldn’t find the bride-to-be? The brochure she clutched in her sweaty hands described Cumberland as nearly 17 miles long by 3.5 miles wide, with over 36,000 acres of beaches, marsh, mudflats, and wilderness areas.

And poisonous snakes, Cara thought, remembering Bert’s description. And alligators. But this wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t be hanging around Cumberland long enough to experience any reptile confrontations.

Planning a wedding or any event required organization, clear thinking, and flawless execution. By the time the
Cumberland Queen
was chugging toward the ferry dock on the island, Cara had worked out her game plan. Step 1. Get bike. Step 2. Find Loblolly. Step 3. Grab Brooke. Step 4. Take Brooke home. Step 5. Payday.

Bert had warned her about the primitive facilities on the island, so she hurried toward the ferry’s bathroom, and spotting the snack bar, bought another bottle of water.

*   *   *

The middle-aged woman at the bike-rental concession smiled as Cara stepped up to the counter. “Day rate or overnight?”

“Day,” Cara said firmly. She paid for the bike from her petty-cash stash, then held out the now-creased map of the island. “Could you please tell me where I can find Loblolly?”

“Loblolly? You mean, like the pine trees?”

Cara shrugged. “Loblolly, like the house. It’s supposed to be near Plum Orchard, I think.”

“Sorry, never heard of it. Just be sure you have the bike back here thirty minutes before the four-forty-five ferry this afternoon. Okay?” The woman looked over Cara’s shoulder. “Next?”

She’d been relieved to find that her bike was a fat-tired beach cruiser. Cara wheeled it away from the concession area, and looked around. Campers were loading gear into large beach carts and headed down the crushed-shell pathway, bikers were wheeling away, and the hikers were setting off down the road on foot. But which way should she be going?