Save the Date (42 page)

She pointed to a cleared area on the south side of the barn. “Instead, he’s giving me a fire pit over there. He and Ryan will build some benches from wood left over from the barn.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Cara said. “If you don’t mind, maybe we could move that old cart over near the fire pit. We can use it to set up the bar and the dessert buffet.”

Cara turned to Marie. “Layne is baking homemade chocolate-dipped graham crackers and her own marshmallows for s’mores at midnight. And we’re going to do a signature Cabin Creek cocktail. It’s basically an old-fashioned, but we’ll use this new bourbon from a distillery in Americus. And we’ll serve them in pint Mason jars.”

“Americus as in Georgia?” Patricia laughed. “No thanks. Give me a dry martini any day.”

Cara couldn’t resist the challenge. “You might be pleasantly surprised, Patricia. I’ve had this bourbon, and it’s really quite good.”

“I think this all sounds great,” Marie said. She looked around to seek her daughter’s agreement, but Brooke and Harris had drifted away from the others. They were standing under the shade of a pin-oak tree several yards away, deep in discussion, and from the looks of their expressions, things had gotten heated again.

“Brooke, Harris,” Marie called, determined to draw them out of their argument. “Did you hear what Cara said about the Cabin Creek cocktail?”

Brooke shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks, and stomped off.

“That sounds fine, Marie,” Harris called. Then he hurried off in his fiancée’s wake.

A few minutes later, they heard car doors slamming, then Brooke’s Volvo, roaring up the road in a cloud of dust.

“Oh my,” Libba said, shading her eyes with her hand as she watched Harris’s car follow a moment later.

Marie sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Libba. Brooke’s just a bundle of nerves these days. It’s this trial she’s working on. I’ll be so glad when it’s over. This is classic Brooke. She’s so intense and driven when it comes to her job. She was the same way when she was in school. She’d make herself sick worrying and studying before a big test. She’d convince herself she couldn’t possibly pass, and of course, she always did. I don’t remember her ever making anything lower than a B-plus.”

“Brooke is so unlike Gordon in that way,” Patricia piped up. “He’s always so calm and confident. I think he actually thrives under pressure.”

Marie gazed wordlessly at her ex-husband’s new wife. She started to say something, but stopped herself.

“Never mind,” Libba said soothingly. “Whatever is going on between the kids, they’ll work it out.”

“I hope so,” Marie said.

52

Cara felt like a wrung-out dishrag by the time she finally parked her car on the street outside Bloom. It was nearly 5:30, but she was surprised to see that the garden cart was still on the sidewalk, and through the window she spotted Ginny Best, still seated at the worktable, poking daisies and zinnias into a round glass bowl.

“Oh hi,” Ginny said. She held up the arrangement. “What do you think?”

“Mmm. Needs something else. Maybe some of those little miniature blue irises.” Cara looked around the shop. “Where’s Poppy?”

“Out back,” Ginny said, going to the cooler for more flowers. “Some guy came by to see you earlier. I told him you’d be back late in the day.”

“What guy?” Cara asked, grabbing a bottle of cold water from the fridge in the kitchenette. She left the fridge door open, uncapped the bottle, and swigged deeply as the cool air chilled her damp skin. She felt a tiny prickle of hope. Could it have been Jack? Was it possible that he hadn’t totally written her of?

“He didn’t tell me his name,” Ginny said. “He was kind of a hottie, though. Blond hair, Ray-Bans. Your boyfriend?”

Cara choked, spewing water over her chest and chin. She grabbed a paper towel and mopped her face. “Not even,” she said.

“Oh.” Ginny nodded. “I think I get the picture.”

“Thanks, Ginny. You can go on home now. I don’t want you working a ten-hour day. I can finish that in the morning,” Cara said.

“Okay,” Ginny said, hopping down from her stool.

Cara fished a puppy treat from the jar on the counter and unlocked the back door, bracing herself for Poppy’s typical rocket launch of unbridled puppy love.

At first glance, she thought the dog was sleeping. Poppy lay motionless on the sun-baked bricks.

“Here girl!” Cara called gaily. “Treat time!”

Poppy raised her muzzle and whined. That’s when Cara saw the taut rope leading from the trunk of the crepe myrtle to the dog’s neck. That’s when she noticed the reddish trickle staining Poppy’s platinum curls.

“Oh my God!” Cara cried. She dropped to the ground, her fingers shaking uncontrollably as she worked at the knot attached to her pet’s collar. Poppy whined again, but she didn’t squirm. All the fight had already gone out of her.

The bricks beneath Cara’s knees scorched her skin as she fumbled helplessly with the tangled cord. “Oh my sweet girl. My poor sweet girl,” Cara crooned. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than a minute, she tossed the rope aside. Cara unbuckled the dog’s collar, flinching at the sight of the bloodstained fur.

She felt Poppy’s nose. It was dry. She looked around for her water bowl and saw it, just out of reach, turned on its side.

Cara carefully gathered the forty-five-pound puppy in her arms. She found the hose bib, turned it on, and, placing a finger over the nozzle, gently sprayed the dog’s face and the top of her head with it. Poppy’s pink tongue worked furiously, lapping at the sun-warmed water. At some point, Cara searched for the thermometer attached to the courtyard wall. Ninety degrees, and it was now nearly six o’clock.

Somehow, she got to her feet, with Poppy still cradled in her arms. She jerked the back door open, sprinted toward the front of the shop.

Ginny Best was standing by the front door, her pocketbook over her shoulder, smiling into her cell phone. “Okay, if you’re sure you’ve done your spelling words, we’ll go out for ice cream when we get home.” Her eyes widened when she saw her employer.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Ginny said hastily, ending the call.

“Did you do this?” Cara demanded. “Did you tie my dog to a tree and leave her out there all day with no shade and no water?”

“She had water,” Ginny protested.

“What kind of heartless, stupid bitch are you?” Cara felt her whole body shaking with barely contained fury. “It was nearly a hundred degrees out there today. You tie her up with four feet of rope, so she can’t get to shade, can’t get to water? And you leave her there? She could have died!”

“She was fine,” Ginny said. “You weren’t here. You don’t know. She kept whining to go out, then whining to come back in, and the phone was ringing, and when I went to load the van, she tried to get out of the gate. She would have run away! So I tied her up. And I gave her water. I did. She had a whole bowl of it. I figured she’d be okay.”

“How about this, Ginny? How about I take one of your kids and tie a rope around their neck and leave them out in the sun all day—with no water and no food? And dressed in a fur coat? Would that be okay?”

“She’s a dog, for God’s sake,” Ginny said. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It certainly won’t,” Cara said. “You’re fired. Now get out of my sight before I do something we’ll both regret.”

*   *   *

The vet tech at the after-hours animal clinic found Cara in the waiting room, sitting beside an elderly man whose dachshund had eaten a remote control.

“Ms. Kryzik? Poppy’s fine. Why don’t you come back and see her now?”

*   *   *

Poppy was sprawled out on her side on an examining table, damp towels draped over her head and body, a small fan pointed toward her face. It reminded Cara of a spa treatment she’d once had. When the dog saw Cara, her tail thumped against the vinyl tabletop.

“My girl,” Cara whispered, kissing the towel on top of Poppy’s head. “My sweet, sweet girl. You had me so worried.”

“It’s a good thing you found her when you did,” the tech said, giving Poppy’s rump a fond pat. “Her body temp was right at a hundred and two. She was one degree from stroking out. You did the right thing too, wetting her down like that and getting her over here immediately. You’d be surprised how many people try to put a dog in an ice bath. They mean well, but that’s totally the wrong thing to do. It makes the surface blood vessels constrict, and that can kill a dog.”

Cara realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly now. “I guess I just reacted. I was so scared, and then so furious, I didn’t really have time to stop and think.”

“We gave her some Pedialyte and her urine checked out okay, and her heart’s fine,” the tech said. “So you can take her home now. Just try to keep her quiet tonight, and cool, of course. Let her have as much water as she wants, but don’t try to force her to drink.”

“I will. I mean, I won’t. I mean, I’m still pretty freaked out. Can you write all that down for me?” Cara asked.

*   *   *

She dragged Poppy’s dog bed downstairs and placed it in the workroom, near the air conditioner, which she turned on high. Screw the electric bill.

Poppy flopped down on her bed, but seemed restless, getting up every few minutes to stand in front of the front door, staring out at the now-dark sidewalk. Cara didn’t know if the dog was watching for enemy squirrels, or even worse, Ginny Best.

Cara was restless as well. She opened her laptop and checked her emails. There were at least forty more responses to her Craigslist ad. She read a few, silently, her reaction to the contents ranging from hopeless to hilarious. Finally, Poppy gave up her sentry post and returned to her bed.

“Here’s a good one,” Cara said, turning toward the drowsy dog and reading aloud.

“‘Hello sweet mommy. My name is Khalika and I am living in Gambia. I have read your requirements and am saying I am excellent candidate for professional job you are wanting. Please be immediate wiring two thousand dollars (American) for air travel expenses.’”

Poppy’s bright pink tongue lolled from her mouth.

“Wonder if he’s single?” Cara mused.

She was still reading when the laptop dinged, signaling the arrival of a new message in her inbox.

“I don’t believe it,” Cara said, staring at the message.

“Poppy, listen to this. It’s an email from that stupid bitch Ginny. The one who tried to kill you earlier today? Here’s what she says.”

Poppy opened one eye, lifted one ear.

“‘Hi. I’ll come by the shop tomorrow to pick up my paycheck for ten hours worked. I’m assuming you won’t be taking out taxes or social security? Sincerely, Virginia Best.’”

Cara’s fingertips flew over the keyboard.

Hi Ginny. The bill for the emergency after-hours vet clinic for treating Poppy for heat stroke and deyhydration came to four hundred and fifty dollars. How about we call it even and you never come near here again? Otherwise you won’t have to worry about a dog attacking you. I’ll bite you my ownself. Sincerely, Cara Kryzik.

She read it aloud for Poppy’s approval. “What do you think, girl?”

The dog’s eyes were half closed. Her tail switched, and emitted a short, noxious blast of gas.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Cara hit the Send button.

53

Poppy seemed good as new by Friday morning. Cara took her out for a brief early-morning stroll at 7:30, taking a cautionary interest in her urine output, as the vet tech had suggested. All was well.

Except that she was running a one-woman show again. Reluctantly concluding that there was no way she could do it all, Cara referred phone and email orders to another downtown florist, and even paid the florist to deliver the few arrangements Ginny Best had finished before her Thursday banishment.

Cara was working on placing the Trapnell order with her California shipper when the office phone rang. She grabbed the receiver.

“Bloom. This is Cara.”

“Hi Cara, it’s Meredith. Have you talked to your bride today?”

“Which bride?”

“Brooke Trapnell. She was supposed to sit for her wedding portrait in my studio today. She’s nearly an hour late.”

Cara squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. “Have you tried to call her?”

“I don’t have her number. I made the arrangements with you, remember?”

“Okay, okay. I’ll call and suggest she get her tiny little heinie over there pronto. Sorry for the hassle.”

She considered her best strategy for contacting Brooke Trapnell. Emails were a waste of time, and phone calls were iffy at best. A text just might get the girl’s attention.

Brooke! Call me ASAP! Very important! Cara

Ten minutes later, when she’d still had no reply, she tried again.

Brooke! Don’t make me call Patricia
.

Her phone rang almost as soon as the text sent.

“Very funny,” Brooke said, chuckling. “What’s so important that you had to threaten to bring in the big guns?”

“Do you know what day it is?” Cara asked.

“It’s Friday. Lunchtime. I only know that because everybody else in my office is eating lunch, while I’m still sitting at my desk buried in Georgia code.”

“You’re supposed to be at the photographer’s,” Cara said pointedly.

“Oh hell! I completely forgot. I had a deposition that ran long this morning, and my whole day has been screwed up.”

“You were due there almost an hour ago.”

“I can’t get away now, that’s for sure. Give me her number, and I’ll call and rebook.”

“Do both of us a favor and see that you do, okay? Otherwise your stepmother is going to hound me into an early grave. She wants that wedding portrait as a belated Father’s Day gift for your dad.”

“Why? Gordon’s not her daddy. He’s mine.”

“Take it up with her, not me,” Cara said. “Um, while I have you on the phone, did you and Harris kiss and make up yesterday? Your mom and Libba were pretty upset when you left the way you did.”

“Geez,” Brooke said. “I should have known blabbermouth Patricia would tell you we were fighting about the damned bachelor party. My girlfriends keep saying it’s no biggie—just a bunch of overaged frat guys getting hammered and cruising strip clubs. And Harris insists it’s harmless. They’ve rented a van and a driver to take them to Atlanta and back. ‘Good dirty fun’ he calls it.”