Save the Date (6 page)

“Well, yes, I was,” she said, a little taken aback by Torie’s sudden show of friendliness.

“But, you can’t,” Torie said. “I mean, of course, you don’t have to stay, but Ryan and I really, really wish you would stay. You’ve been such a big part of all the planning for the wedding, and it would really, really mean a lot to us if you would stay and help us celebrate.”

Huh?

“Well, uh,” she stammered.

A large hand clamped down on her shoulder. Cara looked up to see Ryan standing beside her, his freckled face beaming with happiness—and maybe just a little extra Knob Creek bonhomie.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Honey, tell Cara she needs to stay and celebrate with us,” Torie cooed.

“I was just fixin’ to tell her that,” Ryan said. He gestured around the tent. “You made everything so awesome for us—now you need to stay and enjoy it for a while.”

“Oh no, I really couldn’t,” Cara demurred. “You’re very sweet to invite me, but honestly, my job is done here. And I wouldn’t dream of imposing.…”

“It’s not imposing,” Ryan said. He pointed across the room. “Look. Layne’s gonna hang around and party.”

Layne Pelletier had shed her chef’s jacket and was bellied up to the bar with a long-necked bottle of Sweetwater in her right hand. She saw Cara looking, and raised it in a salute.

“But Layne has to stay and make sure the dessert service and after-dinner drinks and the cake cutting go off,” Cara protested. “That’s nothing to do with me.”

“That’s just it,” Torie admitted. “Mama and I would love it if you’d
at least
stay for the cake cutting. The photographer wants us all to have our flowers around the cake, just so … and nobody can make things look the way you can.…”

So … it wasn’t
really
about having her stay to enjoy the party, Cara realized. It was just one more task Torie had assigned her florist. Resistance, she knew, was futile.

“Okay,” she said wearily.

She fetched herself a glass of whie wine from the bar, then sank down into a vacant seat at a table near the back of the tent, and watched as the party swirled around her.

Torie and Ryan’s friends and family were a fun-loving bunch. They crowded the dance floor for every song, only thinning out long enough to allow Torie and Bill Fanning to have their traditional father-daughter spotlight dance to “The Way You Look Tonight.”

It was nearly nine o’clock when Cara’s rumbling stomach reminded her that she’d eaten nothing since breakfast. The orchestra had packed up and departed, and now a disc jockey was playing from the makeshift wooden bandstand. While the party went on, there was still a chance she could steal her dog back. Bert could just as easily style the flowers for the cake cutting. She worked her way around the perimeter of the tent and was headed for the spot where Bert stood when Ryan spotted her.

He grabbed her by the hand and started dragging her toward the dance floor. “C’mon, Cara. They’re playing our song.”

“Ryan, you’re sweet, but I’m the help. And the help doesn’t dance at weddings.”

“Sure they do,” he said—just as Layne Pelletier boogied past with one of her waiters.

“Their” song was apparently KC and the Sunshine Band’s “Shake Your Booty,” and the next thing she knew, Cara had joined the line dance snaking its way across the dance floor, sliding, popping, and locking with the whole sweaty ensemble.

Finally, the song wound down and she began edging her way back toward Bert, but Ryan caught her by the waist.

“One more dance,” he urged. The record was Harry Connick Jr.’s version of “It Had to Be You.” “How’re you not gonna dance to this?”

“Where’s Torie?” Cara asked. “This is a song for the two of you.”

“Nah. She’s sitting out the next few numbers.” Ryan looked around, then whispered, “She’s uh, kind of, uh…”

“Pregnant?” Cara whispered back.

His grin lit up his face. “Yeah. It’s pretty cool. She told you, huh?”

“She didn’t have to,” Cara said. “Congratulations.”

For a guy who was built like a linebacker, Ryan was a surprisingly smooth dancer. He hummed along with the first few bars of the music.

“I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for us,” he said, as they glided across the floor. “I know Torie’s been kind of wound up these past few days. So thanks for putting up with all of us.”

“All part of my job,” Cara assured him.

“You mind me asking what’s up with you and my brother?” Ryan asked. “He seemed pretty ticked off at you, back at the church.”

“He stole my dog earlier today,” Cara said.

“Yeah. You keep saying that. But that doesn’t sound like Jack.”

“Well, he did. Poppy ran away from the shop today, and when I went looking for her, I caught him dragging her down Jones Street. Now he’s got Poppy, and he won’t give her back.”

“Why would Jack steal your dog? He’s got a dog.”

“He claims his dog ran away, and he spotted mine and so he stole her. But I know Poppy. There’s not another dog in this town who looks like her. And he won’t give her back.”

“If you gave him half a chance he’d probably give you Shaz too. He’s always complaining how much time she takes away from his work.”

“What’s your brother do for a living? Aside from stealing dogs?”

“Torie didn’t tell you? Jack works with me, restoring historic properties. We’re business partners.”

“I saw the
historic property
he lives in on Macon Street today,” Cara said, with a dismissive sniff. “No offense, but that place looks like a dump.”

Ryan frowned. “Yeah, well, he sort of lost his momentum when Zoey left. Anyway, we’ve been working night and day to get my new house in Ardsley Park finished before Torie movies in. Jack does all the carpentry work. He’s really a master craftsman.”

“Who’s Zoey? Not that I care.”

“His ex-girlfriend,” Ryan said. He was about to say more, but the song ended, and the DJ was moving through the crowd with a cordless mike.

“Torie Fanning Finnerty,” he boomed. “Calling Torie and her bridesmaids. And I need all the single ladies here tonight. Single ladies—to the dance floor!”

“Thanks for the dance, Ryan.” Cara managed a tight smile and began to head back to her table. But the groom grabbed her hand. “Not so fast. You heard the man. All the single ladies. That means you.”

“Noooo,” she wailed. “It’s really not appropriate.…”

But her protest fell on deaf ears. Torie and her bridesmaids, eight strong, and at least sixty other women poured onto the dance floor, sweeping Cara along with them.

“Come on, Cara,” Layne Pelletier coaxed, handing her an icy long-necked beer. “Time to cut loose!”

“What the hell,” Cara said, taking a long swig of the beer. It went down good. Really good. And so it was that that she found herself doing her best Beyoncé moves, chanting along at the top of her lungs, “Ya shoulda put a ring on it.…”

When that song was winding down, Bert found her and handed her a glass of white wine. A recovering alcoholic, Bert didn’t drink, but he’d apparently decided to join the fun, too, because he’d shed his staid blue blazer and tie, not to mention his shoes, and in just another minute she and Bert were breaking it down to “Brick House.”

At some point, maybe after one of the other groomsmen—his name was Matt, or at least she thought his name was Matt—slow-danced with her to Ben E. King’s “Stand By Me,” it dawned on Cara that she was just a tiny bit buzzed.

She didn’t hesitate when Ryan pulled her into the line dance for the Electric Slide. She slid and clapped and tapped and rocked and threw herself into the rhythm of the song. The dance was almost over. She was doing a pivot-turn when she came face-to-face with none other than Jack, the dognapper. She turned again, abruptly, and stumbled badly.

As luck would have it, the dance ended, and Ryan helped steady her.

“Having fun?” he asked.

Her face was flushed and her damp hair stuck to her forehead. “I am, but it still doesn’t feel right.…”

But Ryan nimbly swung her into the next dance. The lights in the tent dimmed, and she heard Louis Armstrong’s raspy version of “What a Wonderful World.”

“You’re a really good dancer,” he said.

“Thanks, I used to…”

Before she knew it, Ryan was handing her off to another partner. His brother Jack.

“You!” Cara said, starting to pull away.

“Yes, me,” Jack retorted. He clamped a hand around her waist, took her right hand in his, and pulled her close to his chest.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of breaking away. Right after this dance, she would sneak over to his place and liberate her puppy. For now, though, she floated along to the music. It was a nice song, after all, a nice sentiment, for a nice wedding. She closed her eyes and almost managed to forget her partner’s identity.

Almost. But she was all too aware of his proximity. His hand in hers was deeply callused. He was an even better dancer than his brother. One time, she raised her lashes just enough to see his face. When he wasn’t scowling at her, he was downright good-looking.

The song wound down, but he kept his hand on her waist. She looked up in surprise.

“My mother’s watching,” he murmured. “She says I’m antisocial. Do me a favor and pretend like you’re enjoying yourself, okay? For just another three minutes?”

Cara shrugged. Maybe, if she played nice, he’d relent and release her dog.

She heard a few bars of music, took a couple of tentative steps. But Jack stopped abruptly. “What the hell? Jimmy Buffett? Whose idea of a joke is this?” His spine stiffened. He dropped her hand, shook his head. “Sorry.”

Without another word, he stalked off, leaving her alone, in the middle of the dance floor.

She stood in disbelief, watching him go.

6

Jack hurried out of the tent, hoping to avoid the ever-watchful eyes of Torie—and his mother. By the time he made it to his truck, he’d stripped off the tux jacket, unknotted the tie, and ditched the cummerbund. He unlocked the door, slung the clothes inside, then slid onto the seat and kicked off those gawdawful shiny black lace-up shoes.

Once he was on the Skidaway Road, headed back toward town, he opened the truck windows and cranked up the radio. What a night! He’d only had one beer, but his head was throbbing. Weddings.

Shit.

All day Ryan had walked around with that goofy-ass grin on his face. And why? He’d just promised to love and obey a girl who would run his butt ragged for the rest of his life. So okay, even he had to admit Torie Fanning was one hot chick. But Ryan had dated lots of women just as hot as Torie, hotter even. Why this one?

Jack didn’t get it. Never would. But then, his own history with the ladies wasn’t exactly stellar.

Exhibit A: Zoey Ackerman. They’d met at a wedding. Jack had been a groomsman, Zoey was the bride’s cousin. His face darkened at the memory of it. Nothing good ever happened at weddings. He’d been standing at the bar, waiting for a beer. A tall blonde sidled up, introduced herself. She was new in town, had just taken a job as a Pilates instructor at the Downtown Athletic Club, where Jack was a member at the time.

It had started as a little harmless flirtation. The next thing he knew, she’d moved into the Macon Street cottage with him. The one closet in the house was jammed with her stuff—not that Jack was exactly a snappy dresser, but it would have been good to have a hanger for his one decent pair of khakis and dress shirt.

In the beginning, it had all been good times. Zoey was great to look at, fun to be with, and yeah, the sex wasn’t bad either. She termed the Macon Street cottage “adorable.”

Two months in, though, everything began to change. Nothing pleased her. She hated his friends, his family, especially hated his job.

He’d come home late at night, covered in sawdust, his hair and face streaked with paint, and she’d make not-so-subtle cracks about manual labor. He had a college degree in business management, didn’t he? Why couldn’t he work at a nine-to-five desk job, with normal hours and sick days and profit sharing and vacation?

Nobody else had to work Saturdays or Sundays, or evenings—why did he?

He’d taken her to a job site—exactly once—to try to show her what it was he did for a living.

It had been one of those huge old Victorian mansions facing Forsyth Park. The place had been chopped up into ten apartments for college students in the 1980s, but the new owners, two retired doctors from Michigan, wanted it restored—to the standards that would qualify it for historic-preservation tax credits. He and Ryan spent six months totally rehabbing the place, gutting it down to the studs, installing all new, up-to-date plumbing, wiring, heat and air systems—then restoring the original horsehair-and-plaster walls, hardwood floors, everything.

Over the years, most of the original moldings and millwork had been destroyed, so Jack had spent hours and hours poring over photographs of houses from the same era, drawing up plans for the new moldings and woodwork, then painstakingly re-creating them. The crown moldings in the dining room, for example, included five different profiles.

Zoey had walked in with him that Saturday morning, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “Rat poop!”

She’d retreated to the truck and refused to ever set foot on one of his job sites again.

Maybe that’s when he should have seen the handwriting on the wall. Instead, they’d hung on together for nearly a year. He probably wasn’t the ideal boyfriend. He worked all the time, and when he wasn’t working, he wanted to just chill at home, or maybe out at the beach. Zoey, on the other hand, wanted to go clubbing, or out to dinner, or maybe up to Atlanta to visit friends. He hated Atlanta, and he wasn’t crazy about her friends, either. They’d nearly split up the night she brought home the dog.

It was January. He’d been busting his ass between two different job sites, including Ryan’s house. He’d come home near midnight, to find Zoey sitting up in bed cuddling with what looked to him like a Muppets version of a dog.

“What’s this?” he’d asked, eyeing the dog suspiciously.

“This is Princess Scheherazade of Betancourt,” she’d trilled. “She’s a purebred goldendoodle. Is she not the most precious thing you’ve ever seen?”