Save the Date (9 page)

“She’s just high-spirited, is all.” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Marie Trapnell. Vicki Cooper’s friend? And you’re Cara—how do I pronounce your last name?”

“‘Krizzik’—the ‘y’ is soft,” Cara said. “It’s always good to meet one of Vicki’s friends, Mrs. Trapnell. She seems to know everybody in Savannah, doesn’t she?”

“Please, call me Marie. Yes, Vicki does know an astonishing number of people. I don’t know how she juggles all her charitable and social commitments. I get exhausted just looking at one week of her calendar.”

Cara guided Marie Trapnell to the worktable, seated her, and poured two glasses of iced tea.

“So,” she said, once Marie seemed comfortable. “Vicki tells me your daughter just got engaged. What an exciting time for you.”

Marie’s face flushed softly with happiness. Now that she was sitting across the table from her, Cara realized the mother of the bride was probably much younger than she’d initially estimated. She was fair-complected, with intelligent brown eyes, a short, straight nose, and poker-straight shoulder-length graying brown hair pushed back from her high forehead with a tortoiseshell hair band. Her clothes were obviously expensive—a little nothing sleeveless cotton shift in a sedate pastel print, low-heeled pumps, and a Ferragamo handbag. She wore pearl stud earrings, but no other jewelry.

“Brooke wanted to come with me to meet you, but she had a client meeting she couldn’t get out of. She’s a second-year associate at Farrell Wynant Hanrahan,” Marie said.

“Have they set the wedding date?” Cara asked, opening her day planner.

“Oh yes,” Marie said. “And that’s what’s giving me heart palpitations. They’re getting married in less than eight weeks.”

“Oh my,” Cara said. “That doesn’t give us much time, does it?”

“It gives me
no
time,” Marie agreed. “I’ve tried and tried to get Brooke and Harris to move the date at least to October, but Harris is adamant. July sixth it is, and he refuses to discuss any other date.”

“Well…” Cara turned to the July page of her calendar. She had weddings every Saturday of the month, and several big debutante parties later that month. But a big black X had been drawn through the notes she’d scribbled there.

“Ahh, yes,” Cara said, tapping the X with a fingertip. “I did have a wedding scheduled on the sixth, but I’m afraid it’s been called off.”

“Oh.” Marie looked startled. “Oh, how sad.”

Marie would never know just how sad Cara was about that canceled wedding. Hannah Draper’s daddy had major bucks, and only one daughter. But just two weeks earlier, Hannah had come home from her senior year at Wellesley and announced a change of plans. Hannah, it seemed, had discovered her true sexual leanings, and was deliriously in love with her field-hockey coach.

Thank God, Cara was thinking, she’d been firm about that nonrefundable fifty percent deposit on the flowers. And thank God, again, that this new bride wanted the only open Saturday she had for July.

“Was your daughter able to book a church on such short notice?” Cara knew that all the big downtown churches, Christ Church, Independent Presbyterian, St. John’s Episcopal, Wesley Monumental, First Baptist, and the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, were all always booked up for summer weddings as far as two years in advance. She knew of at least one bride, Leigh-Anne Grady, whose mother had booked her wedding at Christ Church two months before dear Leigh-Anne had actually gotten engaged.

Marie fiddled with one of her pearl earrings. “The church isn’t the problem. We’re actually going to have the ceremony and the reception at Cabin Creek—the Strayhorns’ plantation in South Carolina.”

“Ahh,” Cara said, trying to contain her excitement. She’d seen photos of Cabin Creek in numerous magazines. It was a working rice plantation on twelve hundred acres, just across the river from Savannah. From the photographs it looked like the main house would make Tara look like a bait shack.

In her mind, Cara was already designing the flower arrangements for Cabin Creek’s high-ceilinged entrance hall. She’d have to meet the bride very soon, to discover her flower and color preferences. Was she a brunette like her mother?

“Um, Cara?”

“Oh, sorry. Marie, I’ve got so many questions. When do you think Brooke will be available to meet with me? And what about Harris? And his mother? Since it’s their home, will they want to be consulted?”

“Harris?” Marie looked blank. “Do you usually talk to the grooms? I guess it didn’t occur to me.…”

“It just depends on the couple. Some grooms like to be consulted on every detail of the event, while with others—and I will say this is the majority—all they care about is what kind of beer is served at the reception.”

“Well, uh, Harris probably falls into the latter group,” Marie said. “Anyway, he travels a good bit for business, and according to Brooke, all he cares about is that everything is tasteful. Libba Strayhorn, that’s Harris’s mother, has already said she’s happy for me to plan everything.” She gave Cara a dubious shrug. “Libba is very horsey. According to Harris, she’d live in the stables at Cabin Creek if she could.”

“I have to admit, it’s sort of overwhelming,” Marie went on. “I’ve never had to plan a wedding before. I eloped, you see. Anyway, I’d really hoped Brooke could join us this morning. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even know where to begin. I was just talking to Vicki about that last week—we’re both on the literacy-council board, and she insisted that you would be the perfect person to help us.”

“Vicki has been very kind to me,” Cara said. “I’ve done weddings for several of her friends in town.”

“That’s what she said. In fact, I was at Torie Fanning’s wedding Saturday night. I thought everything was absolutely beautiful.”

“I’m glad,” Cara said. “Maybe we could start there. Was there anything in particular at Torie’s wedding that you liked—or even disliked?”

“Well … I loved all those hydrangeas. So old-fashioned. But Brooke is a very modern girl. I’m not sure she’d share my opinion.”

Cara flipped open the cover of her photo album. “These are photos of some of my weddings over the past few years. Most of these are in my portfolio on my website, so hopefully, you and Brooke could look through it and see if there are any flowers or styles or colors that speak to you.”

Marie nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. All I have to do is manage to get Brooke to slow down for an hour or so to think about the wedding.”

“What about her gown?” Cara asked. “It would be helpful if I had a photo of it—and also of her bridesmaids’ gowns.”

“Her gown.” Marie said it like a sigh. “She hasn’t bought one yet.”

“Really?” Cara raised one eyebrow. “Is she aware that it can take as long as three months to order a gown, get it delivered and fitted?”

“How well I know,” Marie said. “This daughter of mine—she can be unbelievably stubborn. She’s looked in magazines, shopped in Atlanta, tried on dozens and dozens of gowns, but so far she says the dress—the magic dress, she calls it—hasn’t grabbed her. I want to grab
her
—around the throat,” she said apologetically.

“Can she wear a dress off the rack?” Cara asked, which was a tactful way of asking if the MIA bride was a standard size.

“She’s a size six, so I don’t think it will be too hard to fit her,” Marie said. “But I’d feel so much better if she could just choose something … anything.”

Cara scribbled a note to herself on her notepad, then looked back at Marie. “Bridesmaids? How many?”

“One. Just one maid of honor. Harris’s sister Holly.”

“Does Holly have a dress? Do we know what color?”

Marie rolled her eyes. “Brown. For a July wedding. It seems all wrong to me. Does a brown dress sound as awful to you as it does to me?”

“Wellll…” Cara flipped a couple of pages of the photo album. “It depends on how brown the brown dress is. For instance, the right shade can be flattering—and brown is a wonderful foil for pale pink flowers.” She tapped a fingertip on a photo of a wedding she’d done the previous October. “See?”

Marie opened the gold clasp of her pocketbook, pulled out a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses, and peered down at the photo. “Oh. Hmm. But this was a fall wedding, wasn’t it? And the girl—the bridesmaid—she was a blond. Holly is a strawberry blond.”

“You’ve got a point there,” Cara said. “But can you talk Brooke and Holly out of a brown dress for a July wedding?”

“Probably not.”

“Then we’ll figure out a way to make it work.”

Marie smiled and closed the book. “Vicki was right. I do like you.” She bit her lip and looked out the window of the shop.

“But?” Cara asked, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“It’s not up to me. Not completely.”

“Of course, I understand totally,” Cara said. “When do you think Brooke can make time to meet with me?”

“Not Brooke,” Marie said quietly. “Her father.”

10

Marie Trapnell was flipping the pages of the wedding photo album, avoiding Cara’s eyes.

“Gordon—my ex-husband—has been very clear that he wants to be completely involved in the planning of Brooke’s wedding.”

“That’s very … sweet,” Cara said, trying to tread carefully. “I guess he and Brooke must be very close?”

“At one time Brooke was an absolute daddy’s girl. Since the divorce, well, Brooke is conflicted. She feels loyalty to me, I think, and she’s still angry at her father. And her new stepmother.”

Marie’s eyes flickered with something resembling emotion. “We are
all
still angry at Gordon. Nevertheless, Gordon is adamant that if he is to pay for this wedding he has to have complete veto power.”

“I see.” Cara had done lots of weddings for brides and grooms with divorced parents. It was never particularly easy, but the upcoming Trapnell-Strayhorn nuptials were already sounding like a major pain in the posterior.

“Would your ex-husband like to meet with me? Or would he prefer to wait until we come up with some kind of a proposal and a budget?”

Marie was fidgeting with her other earring now. “I should warn you, Gordon is interviewing other florists. He seems to think that’s how you plan a wedding. Brooke has tried to reason with him, but, well, Gordon does things his own way.”

“I appreciate your letting me know that.” Cara closed the photo album. “To be honest, Marie, I have a pretty busy summer coming up. I appreciate your honesty, and your interest in working with me, but if your ex wants to hire somebody else, well, maybe I’m not the right person for you.”

“No!” Marie’s voice was sharp. “You’re the exact right florist for our wedding. Please don’t bow out. I’ve seen your photo album, I was at Torie’s wedding. I know you’ll give Brooke something lovely and memorable. I’ll have Brooke look at your website, but I know she’ll love your work. And then, maybe she can talk some sense into her daddy. If he’ll listen to anybody, he’ll listen to her.”

“Of course,” Cara said. “Talk it over with Brooke. Have her look at my portfolio. But do keep in mind that time is really running very short for a July wedding. If I’m going to do a good job, I’ll need some kind of a commitment from you—by the end of the week. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Very reasonable.” Marie stood and straightened the nonexistent wrinkles in her dress.

Cara nodded. “Just out of curiosity—do you happen to know what other florists your ex-husband is interviewing?”

Marie chewed her bottom lip. “It’s just one florist. Somebody Patricia met at a wedding in Charleston. I don’t actually know his name. Just that he’s very well known, and considered very chic. I believe he’s just opened a shop here in Savannah. I think he and Patricia have become bosom buddies.”

“And Patricia is?”

Marie’s brown eyes narrowed. “Gordon’s new wife.”

*   *   *

As soon as the would-be new client left, Bert popped his head out of the back room, where he’d been getting hospital orders ready for delivery. He rubbed his hands together in the manner of a cartoon villain. “Oooh. Drama.”

Cara laughed. “Which I don’t especially need in my life right now.”

Poppy edged over to Bert and rubbed up against his legs.

“Hello, Miss Thang,” Bert said, obligingly scratching the dog’s ears. “When did you come home?”

“Yesterday morning. It seems her captor discovered his own dog at his vet’s office. He showed up here at eight yesterday morning, looking pretty embarrassed.”

“Good for him,” Bert said. “Poppy doesn’t seem any worse for the wear, right?”

“Guess not,” she admitted. “I had to give her a bath just to get rid of the smell of sawdust. And I don’t ever want to go through a night like that again.”

“Tell me about our new client. Obviously, I was eavesdropping from the back room. But I came in late. Who is she, and where did she come from?”

“Another of Vicki Cooper’s friends. Her name is Marie Trapnell, and her daughter is marrying one of the Strayhorns.”

“Big money marrying big money. Me likey,” Bert said. “But the ex-husband has to approve you? And he’s interviewing another florist? What is up with that?”

“Sounds like another control freak. Which I would just as soon avoid. Marie seems like a very nice person, but I honestly won’t mind when they choose somebody else.”

“Wait just a second,” Bert protested. “Why wouldn’t they choose you?”

“You heard the woman, right? The daddy wants some hotshot florist from Charleston. I guess this guy just decided to expand into Savannah.”

Bert moved over to the laptop, and his long, tanned fingers began to fly over the keyboard. “Hang on, I’m Googling.”

A moment later he looked up. “Well, his name is Cullen Kane, and from the look of his website, he has quite the business. Big-ass shop on Tradd Street, and he’s had lots of events published—
Town and Country
,
Charleston Magazine
,
Garden and Gun
, and on and on. He just expanded to Savannah last month. Opened a little outpost on Habersham Street.”

Cara’s curiosity got the better of her. “Let me see that thing.” She peered over Bert’s shoulder at the website. The opening page was an extreme closeup of a mouthwateringly beautiful all-white bride’s bouquet, featuring velvety magnolia blossoms, crinum lilies, orange blossoms, and stephanotis.