Save the Date (27 page)

“Second—this is the second Monday in a row that you’ve been over an hour late. And not a word to give me a heads-up. I’m running a business here, Bert. We’ve got orders to fill, deliveries to get out, work to do. What’s going on with you?”

He shrugged and stared down at the floor. “Nothing. Hey, I said I was sorry.…”

“And last week you said the same thing, and that it wouldn’t happen again. This isn’t like you, Bert. As your employer—and your friend—I think I deserve some kind of explanation.”

“It’s nothing. I went out of town for the weekend, and we were delayed getting back this morning, and like I said, I left my phone charger at home.”

“‘We’? This is a new boyfriend?”

“Maybe,” he said, his expression sullen. “Since when does my private life become any of your business?”

Cara felt her spine stiffen and her temples start to pound. “You make it my business when your private life interferes with your ability to do your job. Which is what’s been happening the past two weeks. I wasn’t going to say anything, because I was happy for you. But you leave me no choice. You disappear for hours at a time, slack off, ignore phone calls, come in late … and now this thing with Lillian’s silver epergne…”

“What about the silver? C’mon, Cara. I told you I took the damned silver back to that bitch.…”

“There’s a piece missing. Lillian Fanning showed up here this morning, loaded for bear, and I can’t say I blame her. Which is what I was
trying
to call you about. I wanted you to check to see if maybe it had fallen out of the bin and was in the back of the van. But you couldn’t be bothered to keep your phone charged. Or to come to work on time.”

Bert shook his head obstinately. “
Why
are you making such a federal case out of this? I’ll go look right now.”

“Fine,” Cara said. “Go look.”

He hesitated. “What the fuck is an epergne anyway?”

She pulled out the photo of the Fanning epergne that Billy Shook had emailed, and that she’d printed out.

“It’s a centerpiece thingy. Multiple arms that can hold little fruits or candies or flowers. We used it in the tent at the wedding, to hold gift cards. Lillian’s is an eighteenth-century family heirloom. And she says it’s irreplaceable.”

*   *   *

They took the delivery van apart. Removed the racks for flower arrangements, lifted the bed liner, but there was no sign of the aforementioned epergne.

Cara dragged herself back into the shop and held her head under the faucet in the kitchenette, letting cold water sluice over her face and hair. The thought occurred to her that this would be a handy way to drown herself.

When she turned around, Bert stood in the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Beneath all the pouting and bravado, he obviously knew he’d messed up. “Now what?”

She sighed. “I’ve got a menu tasting with Brooke Trapnell and her fiancé at the caterers in exactly forty-five minutes. So I’ve got to get myself presentable for that. In the meantime, I need you to take the van, and retrace—exactly—the route you took last Friday out to Isle of Hope and the Fannings’ house. Every stop—the hospital, any house you made a delivery to—every stop, Bert. You go in, and show them the photo of the epergne, and you ask if they’ve seen it.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Like that’s gonna work.”

“Just do it,” she exploded. “And get yourself another charger for your phone. “

32

Delicious smells assaulted her nostrils as Cara pushed through the door at Fete Accompli. Layne Pelletier stood at attention just inside the door, hands clasped behind her back. She wore the traditional black and white checked slacks, clogs, and a white kerchief tied over her hair. Her white chef’s smock was spotless, her name embroidered in script over her left breast.

Her face fell when she saw that Cara was alone. “The bride’s not with you?”

“No. She and Harris called right before I left the shop and said they were running late. They’re supposed to meet me here.”

“You don’t think they’ll stand us up, right? I’ve spent a small fortune fixing all this food.”

“No, no, they’re coming,” Cara assured the caterer. “Marie made Brooke swear she had it on her calendar.”

Cara followed her nose into the shop’s small dining area. A long wooden table held a starched white cloth and a small floral arrangement of lilies, roses, and hypericum berries she’d had Bert drop by earlier on his way to track down the missing epergne.

“I’m so hungry, I could faint,” Cara confided. A small round of roast beef stood on a carving stand under a red heat lamp, a pool of juices \radiating out from it. Silver chafing dishes held a dozen other hot dishes. Shallow bowls filled with finely crushed ice held arrays of boiled shrimp, oysters, and stone-crab claws. A smoked salmon fillet was sprinkled with capers, finely diced hard-boiled eggs, and lemon slices.

Wordlessly, Layne handed Cara a napkin, and loaded it with boiled shrimp.

Cara walked down to the far end of the table. A silver tiered stand held half a dozen iced cupcakes. She turned to Layne. “Cupcakes? Cute, but that doesn’t seem like something the Trapnells are going to think is impressive.”

“We won’t serve cupcakes. These are just all the different options for cake flavors and icings I can do. It’s not cost-effective for me to bake six whole wedding cakes for just a menu tasting,” Layne explained.

The shop door opened, and Marie Trapnell stepped in. “Hi. Sorry to be late.”

Cara introduced Layne and Marie, and Marie looked at her watch and frowned. “I can’t believe the kids aren’t here yet. Brooke texted me they were leaving her office fifteen minutes ago.” A faint chirp sounded from the direction of Marie’s pocketbook. She dug it out, read the text message, smiled, and held it up for the other women to see.

On way. There in 5
.

“Wow!” Marie walked over to the buffet table. “This looks wonderful. Are we really going to have all this?”

Layne glanced at Cara for an answer.

“Not necessarily all of it. When I talked to your husband…”

“Ex-husband, actually,” Marie said quietly.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, of course. Anyway, Mr. Trapnell said he and his wife wanted to sample everything we offer, so they could get…”

Marie’s face paled. “Are you saying that Gordon’s coming today? And Patricia too?”

This was news to Cara. And not happy news.

“Um, well, I think that was the plan. Isn’t that the plan?” Layne asked Cara.

Uh-oh,
Cara thought. Once again, Patricia Trapnell had managed an end run around her.

“When I set up the tasting with Layne today, I was under the impression that it was just going to be the bride and groom and mother of the bride.” Cara chose her words carefully.

The door opened again, and Brooke Trapnell rushed in, a tall strawberry-blond man right behind. “Hi everybody. Sorry to be late!”

Brooke Trapnell wore pearls, white running shoes, and a crisp seersucker power suit, straight out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue. Her fiancé was dressed more casually, in khakis and a blue button-down dress shirt.

Marie gave her daughter an exasperated hug. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

“I tried, Marie,” Brooke’s fiancé said ruefully. “I even fibbed and told her we were supposed to be here half an hour earlier.…”

“Sweet boy!” Marie Trapnell beamed her approval, then kissed him on the cheek and turned to Cara.

“Cara Kryzik, this is my future son-in-law, Harris Strayhorn.”

“Hey there.” Harris’s handshake was firm, his smile genuine. He looked a lot like his mother, with fair hair, blue eyes, and the same ruddy complexion. But he was half a head taller than Brooke, long-limbed and gangly, like a colt whose legs had outgrown the rest of his body.

Harris’s eyes widened as he took in the food table. “Oh man, is that all for us? Awesome!” He turned to Brooke, tugging at her sleeve. “Honey, check out this spread!”

Brooke laughed. “He is always hungry. Always. You wouldn’t believe he just came from a breakfast meeting, right?”

“I happen to enjoy good food,” Harris said. “Is that a crime?”

“It’s a good thing you know how to cook,” Marie said. “Because if it’s up to Brooke, you might starve to death.”

“That’s not true. I can fix oatmeal, and scrambled eggs, and grits, of course,” Brooke protested.

“Do you ever eat any of that yourself?” Layne asked dubiously, taking in the bride’s slender figure.

“No,” Marie said, frowning now at the way Brooke’s jacket hung loosely from her shoulders.

“I eat,” Brooke said.

Harris raised one eyebrow. “What? What have you eaten today?”

“Well … nothing, but that’s just because I knew we would be pigging out at this tasting, and I didn’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“She has no appetite,” Marie said flatly. “Except for work.”

“And me,” Harris said, wrapping an arm around his fiancée’s waist.

Obviously ready to change the subject, Brooke pointed at the food table. “Okay so can we get started? This all looks great, but I’ve got a two-o’clock meeting back at the office.”

Layne gave Cara a questioning glance.

“Yes. Let’s go ahead and start tasting and comparing notes,” Cara said. “I gather we’re expecting Gordon and Patricia to join us, but I don’t want to hold you two up.”

Brooke had picked up a slice of roast beef from the carving station, but she dropped the fork now, with a clatter.

“Mom?” She stared at Marie. “You didn’t tell me Dad and Patricia were coming.”

“I didn’t know myself, until just now. It’s fine though. Really. I can deal. Let’s just go ahead and begin.”

Harris stepped over to the table and began loading a plate with food. He popped a shrimp in his mouth and chewed, nodding his head in approval.

“Can we have the shrimp? What, are they cooked in beer or something?”

“Boiled in beer, actually,” Layne volunteered.

Harris dropped one on Brooke’s empty plate. “Try this. We gotta have this for the wedding.”

But Brooke ignored the food. “I can’t believe she just invited herself today. I
told
Daddy she keeps trying to run things.…”

Marie put her hand on Brooke’s sleeve. “Let’s just let it go for today, okay? Layne has fixed all this beautiful food for us to try. You can have another discussion with your dad later.”

“It’s so not okay,” Brooke said, stony-faced.

“Honey?” Harris said, soothingly. “C’mon. Just eat something.”

*   *   *

They worked their way around the table. For as skinny as he was, Harris Strayhorn’s appetite and enthusiasm knew no bounds. He was every mother’s dream, every caterer’s dream. He loved it all.

For her part, Brooke merely picked at the offerings, despite her mother’s urging.

Marie was busily taking notes and conferring with Layne. “I love the little new potatoes with the caviar and sour cream. Brooke?”

“I’m not really into fish eggs, but if you like them, that’s fine,” Brooke said.

They were ten minutes into the tasting when the shop door opened and Patricia Trapnell swept in.

“Shit,” Brooke said under her breath. Marie shot her a warning look.

Patricia didn’t offer a greeting, or an excuse for her lateness. “You’ve started already?” She glared accusingly at Cara.

“Yes. We did, Patricia. Harris and I have jobs. We can’t wait around all day for you.” Brooke glowered at her stepmother. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Something came up.” Patricia picked up a plate and started down the line, but frowned when she saw the roast beef.

“Layne? I thought we discussed tenderloin, not steamship round. It’ll be so hot that day, and honestly, I think that presentation is so passé. It reminds people of being on a second-rate cruise ship.”

“Well,” Layne began.

“I asked for this cut,” Brooke said. “It’s Harris’s favorite. His dad’s too. And it’s not passé, but even if it were, nobody but you would care.”

“Fine.” Patricia’s lips pursed and she moved on to the next dish. She pointed with her fork at one of the chafing dishes.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

Layne dabbed a bead of perspiration from her forehead. “That’s the roast asparagus you requested.”

“But it’s wrapped in bacon,” Patricia said, her nostrils quivering. “We’re supposed to have prosciutto. Cold-smoked prosciutto. Don’t think I don’t know the difference.”

“For the reception, we’ll use prosciutto,” Layne assured her. “But I have to special-order it from my supplier, and he only delivers on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“We’re going to want to taste the prosciutto before the wedding,” Patricia warned. “It’s an entirely different taste.”

Brooke snorted, and this time, Patricia decided not to let it pass. She whirled around to confront the bride.

“You may not care about these things, Brooke Trapnell, but I can assure you your father and I do care. We’re paying eighty dollars a plate for this reception. And that does not include the bar. So please excuse me if I happen to object when somebody expects me to pay for prosciutto when it’s clearly only bacon. Is that too much to ask?”

Marie hesitated, then stepped between her daughter and Patricia.

“We all want a beautiful wedding, don’t we, Brooke?”

Brooke rolled her eyes, then looked away.

“Hey, honey?” It was Harris’s turn to referee now. He had a smear of chocolate icing on his upper lip, and a glob of coconut on his shirt collar. He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the opposite end of the table. “Come down here and check out the desserts. Cupcakes! I freakin’ love ’em.”

“Cupcakes?” Patricia’s surgically stretched face registered her horror. She stalked down to the dessert offerings. “Are we having a 4-H picnic, Layne? Really?”

“No!” Layne hurried over. “These are just all the different cake types and frostings and fillings we do. I thought Brooke and Harris could taste everything and decide, and then, of course, we’ll do a proper cake.…”

“Forget it,” Brooke said, her eyes blazing. “Just let Patricia decide. After all, she’s the one running this show.”

Brooke reached over and snatched the lemon-iced cupcake he’d just bitten into from Harris’s hand. She set it down on the table.