Save the Date (26 page)

“There’s a big galvanized trash can just outside the back door. The charcoal’s inside it and the lighter fluid should be sitting right beside it.”

When he got out of the shower, Jack wrapped the towel around his waist and wandered into her living room. The room was like her, he decided, and he approved. Lots of books. Novels. She had eclectic taste, from classics to recent best-sellers, heavy on mystery with some girly-looking romance novels mixed in. There were three whole shelves of gardening and interior-design books. And one devoted to nonfiction. Some history, some pop culture.

He’d never seen Zoey read anything heavier than
Us
magazine.

There were also half a dozen self-help books with dreary, depressing-sounding titles on Cara’s bookshelves. These, he decided, would be classified as “relationship books.”
When Love Dies
.
Divorce: Getting Over It, Getting Through It.

And then there was his favorite:
Putting Back the Pieces: Post-Divorce Recovery.

He pulled it from the shelves and leafed through it, noting several pages that she’d dog-eared. The author photo of this little gem showed a grim-faced Slavic-looking woman, who, according to her bio, had a thriving marital therapy practice in New York. The author, a Dr. Jankovic, reminded him of Frau Blücher from
Young Frankenstein.

For a moment, he felt a spasm of guilt, for invading Cara’s privacy. But that didn’t stop him from skimming down one of the pages, and when he saw a passage heavily underlined in ink, he read it aloud.

Over and over again in my thirty years of practice, I find a recurring pattern among patients whose marriages have failed. After careful examination, we discover that all too many of them have been attracted to a partner, in part because something in that spouse’s family life supplies that which was lacking in a person’s own life. Children of failed marriages often choose a partner from an intact home, in the mistaken belief that marital happiness can be genetically transferable.

What was that about? All Jack knew about Cara’s parents was that her father was a strict, controlling military type and her mother was dead. And of the ex, Leo, he knew even less, except that the guy was a shit.

And he also knew that no matter what she said, the divorce had left Cara emotionally fragile.

He found the stacked washer-dryer unit in a closet just off the kitchen, and transferred his clothes into the dryer. Then he padded outside, with the towel wrapped loosely around his hips, to get the grill started.

As soon as he opened the back door, Poppy and Shaz bounded over to greet him, tails wagging. He winced when he saw the havoc they’d wrought in Cara’s garden. Flowerpots were upended, plants matted down, and yes, it looked like one or both of the dogs had been digging up the beds. He’d have to make good on the peony IOU.

He dumped charcoal in the grill, added lighter fluid, and looked around for matches. Finding none, Jack went inside, found his truck keys on a small table in the hall, and went through the garden gate, into the lane where his truck was parked.

Stepping carefully to avoid broken glass and worse on the lane’s crumbling asphalt paving, he unlocked the truck and reached under the front seat, pulling out the rolled-up jeans and clean T-shirt he kept there. He stretched across the seat, opened the glove box, and scrabbled around until he found a box of kitchen matches.

He was just locking the truck again when a shiny black Lexus rolled slowly down the lane. The car’s windshield was tinted, so he couldn’t see the driver, until he stopped right beside Jack and the electric window slid down.

The driver was a white guy, late thirties, with blond hair and a deeply tanned face. Despite the tinted windows, he wore a pair of Ray-Bans.

Jack didn’t know the guy. He tucked the clean clothes under his arm and started back toward the gate.

“Hey man,” the stranger called out.

Jack turned around, but said nothing.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Jack shrugged, and the towel settled lower on his hips. He retucked it. “Not much.” He turned to go again.

“Some kinda party goin’ on in there?” The blond jerked his chin in the direction of the courtyard and the town house beyond and smirked.

“Nope.” Was the guy trying to proposition him? The historic district had a vibrant gay community, and it was well known that people sometimes trolled the quieter lanes and parks looking for a casual hookup. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been approached. And after all, Jack was standing in the lane, barefoot and dressed only in a towel.

“See ya,” Jack said, and he motored back inside, being careful to lock and padlock the gate behind him. The Lexus rolled on down the lane, and he went inside to get dressed.

While he was grilling the steaks, Cara put the potatoes in the oven and threw together a salad, slicing fat, ripe red tomatoes she’d bought at the Saturday farmers’ market in Forsyth Park, and crumbling locally made goat cheese into a vinaigrette dressing. She went out to the garden to snip some dill and chives from her herb patch, and handed Jack a cold Moon River.

He gave her an appreciative kiss, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You smell nice,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.

“So do you. Hey—did you use my shampoo and conditioner?”

“Sure. If that’s a problem, next time, I’ll bring my own.”

“What makes you think there’s gonna be a next time?” She stifled a giggle.

He ran his hands up under her T-shirt. “There will be. You can’t get enough of me, right? You’re insatiable, right?”

Cara pushed him away lightly. “Don’t burn my steak, wise guy.”

The mosquitoes and gnats swarmed the garden right at dusk, so they ate at the dining-room table, moving the box fans from the bedroom into the living area.

Jack sipped the last of the wine she’d poured him, and pushed back from the table.

“That was great,” he said. “I guess I could cook if I took the trouble, but living alone, hell, most of the time when I get home from work, I have a microwave burrito or something like that. Having a real steak, and salad, all of it, that’s a treat.” He turned and flipped a bit of steak to Shaz, who had spent the past hour crouched by his feet, hoping for a treat.

“The books say you shouldn’t give dogs table scraps,” Cara said. She looked down at Poppy, who’d also been hanging around, hoping for a handout.

“You always go by what the books say?”

“No. But Poppy’s breeder said the same thing.”

He grunted something noncommittal, then sighed. “I’ll get these dishes cleaned up, then I better get on down the road. Early day out at Cabin Creek tomorrow.”

She nodded, and helped carry their dishes into the kitchen. He ran soapy water in her sink, carefully washed and rinsed everything while she dried. When the kitchen was cleaned up, he whistled for Shaz.

“Let’s go girl,” he called. The dog stood slowly.

Cara followed them downstairs. “Oh. I almost forgot. Your clothes.” She moved toward the washer-dryer, but Jack caught her by the hand. “Why don’t I leave ’em here? You know, just in case?”

“You mean for next time? You’re not very subtle, you know.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“Subtle no. Smooth yes.” He kissed her deeply and sighed.

“Hmm?” Cara inhaled his scent, and halfway wished he’d stay.

“Today was fun,” Jack said. “I mean it. It wasn’t like work at all. We make a good team, you know. And then dinner was awesome—the only time I get a real Sunday dinner is if I drop by my mom’s house.”

Cara raised one amused eyebrow. “And before dinner?”

“I was pretty amazing, wasn’t I?”

She swatted his arm.

“Okay. You were amazing too.”

She grinned. “Wait’ll you get the bill.”

31

Monday morning hadn’t started well. It was hot. And sticky, and the box fans at Bloom did little more than circulate more hot, sticky air. At eight o’clock, Cara called Sylvia Bradley and left a message on her phone.

“Sylvia? This is Cara Kryzik calling again about the broken air-conditioning over here on Jones Street. I’m sorry about your mother, but I really, really need you to get somebody over here to see about replacing our unit. Please call me.”

At nine, she called again.

“Sylvia? Cara. It is eighty-eight degrees in my shop. Eighty-eight degrees! Upstairs it’s in the nineties. This is totally unacceptable. Please call and let me know when I can expect to have a new unit.”

Slamming the phone down, Cara got up and walked over to the fan, pulling her damp tank top away from her chest. She had a million things to do today, but the heat had already drained her of energy.

She was in the kitchenette, fetching another bottle of cold water, when she heard the shop bell tinkle.

“Cara?”

Crap. She knew that voice. Why today, of all days?

Forcing a smile, she walked into the front room. “Lillian! So nice to see you. And what a beautiful tan from Bermuda!”

Lillian Fanning did not return her smile. Actually, her narrow, carefully made-up face was more pink than tan, and Cara had a feeling it wasn’t just from the heat.

“What’s going on?” Lillian demanded, pointing at the dueling window fans. “It feels like a third-world country in here.”

“Our air-conditioning is broken. I’ve called our landlady but…”

“Appalling. Look, Cara,” Lillian interrupted. “This isn’t a social call. My epergne? Where is it?”

“Epergne?”

“Yes. My grandmother’s silver epergne that you used at Brooke’s reception.”

“Isn’t it with the rest of the silver? I mean, Bert delivered that silver to you Friday afternoon, didn’t he?”

“The rest of the silver, yes. It was in the kitchen when I got home late Friday. But not the epergne. The most valuable piece I own. Is it still here, Cara?”

Cara felt a familiar knot of fear and panic in the pit of her stomach. She tried to think, tried to remember if she’d actually seen the epergne in with the rest of the Fannings’ pieces.

“I … I don’t know, Lillian. I put the bin of silver in the back of the van Friday afternoon, and I guess I just assumed it was in there. You’re sure it’s not at your house?”

“Of course I’m sure! Sunday morning, I unpacked all of it. I wanted to polish everything before putting the pieces back in the tarnish-proof bags I keep them in. But the epergne wasn’t there.”

Cara’s mind raced. “Maybe it fell out of the bin. I can check in the back of the van.”

“You do that.” Lillian’s voice was steely. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll wait right here.”

“The thing is, I can’t. Bert, my assistant, is driving the van. He’s uh … out on a delivery.”

The truth of the matter was, her assistant was MIA again this morning. Along with the van, which he’d had over the weekend.

“Can you call him? Ask him to check to see if it’s there?”

“Of course.” Cara gestured toward the chair closest to the window and the fan. “Please sit. I’ll get you a bottle of water.…”

“I’m not thirsty.” She lifted her hair from the nape of her neck and exhaled noisily. “How do you stand this?”

“Be right back,” Cara said. She fled into the hallway with her cell phone and punched in Bert’s cell-phone number, which immediately went to voicemail.

“Bert! Where the hell are you? Lillian Fanning is standing in the shop with smoke coming out of her ears. Her epergne was missing from that bin of silver you dropped off Friday. I need you to check in the van to see if it fell out. Call me immediately, either way. Like right now!”

Cara reluctantly retraced her sheps to the front of the shop.

“Well?” Lillian Fanning hadn’t moved. “What did he say? Did he find it?”

Cara’s throat was so dry she thought she might spit cotton. “Um, actually I couldn’t reach him. He’s probably out on Wilmington Island. There’s a dead zone there, do you know the spot? Right on Johnny Mercer? My cell calls always get dropped there.”

“Did you leave him a message? Does he understand how important this is?”

“I did, and we both understand how important this is. I promise, Lillian, as soon as he calls me, I’ll call you. I feel sure the epergne probably just spilled out of the bin in the back of the van, and Bert didn’t notice it.”

“I hope that’s the case,” Lillian said huffily. “That epergne is a family heirloom. It was made by a Savannah silversmith in the eighteenth century, and of course, it’s a museum-quality piece, which means it’s irreplaceable.”

All she could do was nod and walk Lillian to the door.

“I’ll call,” Cara promised, yet again.

*   *   *

After Lillian’s departure, Cara called Torie’s wedding photographer.

“Billy? It’s Cara. Can you do me a huge favor? I know you haven’t delivered the proof book from the Fanning wedding yet, but I’ve got a problem. Can you look through your shots of the reception and see if you’ve got one of the table for gifts and cards? I’m looking for a shot of this silver epergne we used to hold cards. It’s gone missing, and if it doesn’t turn up, I’m in a shitload of trouble.”

“Damn, Cara,” Billy Shook said. “Was it Lillian’s?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Damn. I don’t ever want to deal with that woman again. I feel your pain, Cara. Pretty sure I’ve got at least one shot like that. I’ll look right now and email you whatever I find.”

Half an hour and two more panicky phone calls later, she heard the van pull into the lane in back of the shop. It was nearly ten o’clock.

Cara did a slow burn while she waited to confront her assistant.

He strolled in through the back door, whistling. His damp hair was slicked back from his forehead, still bearing comb marks. He carried two grande iced macchiatos, one of which he handed to Cara, with his most ingratiating smile.

“I know I’m a little late. Before you say anything, I’m sorry. Okay? Whew—it’s hot in here. What’s going on with Sylvia Bradley? Are they gonna fix the air, or what?”

“We’ll get to that,” Cara said. “First off, why haven’t you returned any of my phone calls?”

His face went blank. “Calls?” He reached into the pocket of his black skinny jeans and pulled out his phone. “Oh man. My battery’s dead. Sorry. I didn’t even realize. I left my charger at home.”