Save the Date (5 page)

“Dude,” Ryan said. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Jack said, looking around the cramped room. He pointed to a garment bag hanging from the back of the door. “Is that mine?”

“Hell yeah,” Ryan said, glancing at his watch. “And you better get into it too. You guys are going to start hauling people down the aisle pretty soon. You’re getting Mom and Grandma, right?”

“Taken care of,” Jack said. He had kicked off his Topsiders and was pushing his arms through the sleeves of the starched white shirt.

The door opened again and the wedding planner coughed and waved aside the smoke. “Um, gentlemen, we’ve got guests arriving.”

Ryan waved them out of the room. “Come on, guys. Get going. We don’t need any hitches today. You know how Torie gets.”

Cara saw two of the groomsmen roll their eyes, and she grinned despite herself.

If you only knew.

As the men filed past her, she checked and adjusted their ties and boutonnieres. Then she turned to the best man. He was tall and rangy, with the weather-beaten look of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. His hazel eyes had flecks of gold beneath thick brows, which at this moment were drawn into an uncompromising frown.

“You mind?” he said pointedly, fastening the studs on his tux shirt. “I’m trying to get dressed here.”

“And I’m trying to get my dog back,” Cara said. “I’m not leaving this room until you agree to hand over Poppy.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. He unzipped his jeans and nimbly stepped out of them.

Cara blushed and looked away quickly, but the impression was made and it caused an involuntary fluttering in her chest. The starched shirttails hung just low enough to reveal an inch or two of black briefs and tanned, well-muscled thighs. This dognapper was a very, um, well-proportioned man.

“See anything you like?” Jack asked. He turned and reached for his pants, and Cara’s face grew hotter as she appreciated the back view almost as much as the front. She mentally chastised herself.
Stop leering at this man. He has your dog!

He turned around and with deliberate leisure stepped into his pants, pulling the suspenders over his shoulders, leaving the fly unzipped, she was sure, in a deliberate attempt to embarrass her. His eyes met hers, and she forced herself not to look away as he finally zipped up. Cara blushed even deeper, but stood her ground. “Please give me back my dog.”

“I don’t have your dog.”

Restrained organ music floated from the direction of the sanctuary. Cara clenched her fists on her hips and stared at him.

He stared right back, his jaw clenched tightly. He was smooth-shaven now, his dark wavy hair brushed back from a high forehead.

“Looks like a stalemate,” he said, his hazel eyes unblinking. He picked up the cummerbund, buckled it, then slid the buckle to the back.

There was a brief knock at the door. “C’mon, Jack,” Ryan called impatiently. “Don’t make me send Mom in there after you.”

“Gotta go,” Jack said, gesturing toward the door. “There’ll be hell to pay if I screw up this wedding. I’m already on the bride’s shit list for keeping little brother out all night at the bachelor party.”

“Wait. Did you say Ryan’s your brother?”

He looped the bowtie under his collar. Cara felt an irresistible urge to reach up and tie it for him, even though all she really wanted to do was strangle him with it.

“Ryan is two years younger than me. He’s the nice one. I’m the asshole.”

The door opened and an older woman in a floor-length peach-colored gown stuck her head in the door. “Jack! For God’s sake—get a move on! Everybody’s waiting on us.”

Jack plucked his tux jacket off the hanger. “Keep your shirt on, Mom.”

The woman gave Cara an appraising look. “Who’s this?”

“The owner of the dog your son stole from me earlier today,” Cara said. After a moment of hesitation, she held out her hand. “I’m Cara Kryzik.”

The woman’s dark hair was flecked with streaks of gray, and her head barely met her son’s shoulder. Her hazel eyes crinkled in amusement. “So nice to meet you. I’m Frannie Finnerty. But why on earth would Jack steal your dog? He has a dog of his own.”

“Ignore her. She’s just the florist. And she’s crazier than a shit-house rat,” Jack said. He tucked his mother’s arm through his own and steered her nimbly toward the door.

“Wait!” Cara called.

He wheeled around. “Now what?”

She grasped the ends of his bowtie and quickly tied it. The top of her head barely reached his chin, and he smelled like Irish Spring soap. Magically delicious? Or was that Lucky Charms? Make that maddeningly delicious. Then she plucked the last boutonniere from the cardboard box, grabbed the black satin lapel of his jacket, and jabbed at it violently with the long pearl-headed pin.

“Ow!” He jerked away, opened his jacket, and looked with disbelief at the tiny spot of blood blooming on his starched white shirtfront. “You did that on purpose.”

“Serves you right,” Cara said, jabbing again, until the flower was securely fastened to his coat.

*   *   *

“Jack!” His mother tugged at his arm. “Come on. Everybody else has been seated. Torie’s bridesmaids are all lined up. We have to go!”

Jack narrowed his eyes and gave the florist his long-practiced stink-eye. It was wasted on her, he knew. She was a head shorter than he, but she stood her ground without flinching. Her hair wasn’t quite blond and wasn’t quite brown, more of an in-between caramel color, he decided. She had large, liquid brown eyes with surprisingly dark lashes that dominated her heart-shaped face. He was pretty sure she was wearing no more makeup than a little pink lipstick, and even that was wasted, since she was scowling up at him, returning his stink-eye measure for measure.

Finally, she took a step backward. “This isn’t over,” she said softly, under her breath.

“That’s what you think,” he said. And then he allowed his mother to drag him out of the vestry and into the wedding melee.

5

Cara didn’t stick around the church to watch Torie Fanning pledge her troth to Ryan Finnerty. She rarely did. Weddings were her business, not her pleasure, she told herself.

Instead, she raced for the van, pausing only to give the sky an anxious look. She and Ellie Lewis, the wedding planner, had done their best to talk Torie out of an outdoor reception. It was already hot in Savannah, and tornado season to boot. Cara had witnessed way too many weather-related wedding disasters, including one memorable reception where a sudden lightning storm had pinned seventy-five black-tie and cocktail-gowned guests huddled together in terror under the Victorian wooden gazebo in Whitfield Square.

But Torie was determined to have her reception at home, on the back lawn at the Shutters, her parents’ gracious old home on the bluff at the Isle of Hope, facing the Skidaway River. And amazingly, it looked as though the weather was going to cooperate. A fresh breeze was blowing in off the river, and the humidity was actually bearable.

Cara pulled the van into the long driveway at the gray-shingled Fanning house, relieved to see Bert’s car already tucked beside the carriage house, in front of the caterer’s trucks. The brilliant blue sky had faded to a pale lavender—one of Torie’s wedding colors, of course. The setting sun sparkled on the pale green water (also one of Torie’s colors) lapping at the long dock opposite the Shutters.

The Fannings’ dockhouse had been torn down and rebuilt just for the wedding, and now green-and-white-striped canvas drapes fluttered from its open corners, and a large wrought-iron chandelier hung from its peaked ceiling. This was where the guests would mingle and sip cocktails to watch the sunset while waiting for the wedding party to arrive from the church.

Cara hurried across the wide expanse of front lawn, her boot heels sinking into the grass. She crossed the road and found Bert standing in the dockhouse, directing a helper who was fastening baskets of flowers to the tiki torches dotting the corners of the dock.

“Well?” he asked, turning to face her. “Is the deed done?”

“The soloist was just starting when I left. Everything at the church looked great. And Torie actually cried when I handed her the bouquet with Ryan’s pin. I’d say we have twenty more minutes before the first guests arrive.”

Bert nodded. “You didn’t try to talk the groom into making a run for it?”

“Hah! And foul up my biggest wedding of this season? No way. Anyway, even if I had, Ryan wouldn’t have run. The poor guy is totally koo-koo for Cocoa Puffs over Torie.”

Bert wrinkled his nose. “No accounting for taste. So … what do you think?”

“I think they might just have a shot at making it for the long haul,” Cara admitted. “But only because Ryan Finnerty is a total teddy bear. You?”

He shrugged. “I give them six years. Although, if she gets knocked up sooner, I could be wrong.”

Cara giggled. “I’ve got news for you, sport. She’s
already
preggers. That gown fit her with room to spare when it was delivered in March.”

Bert’s eyes widened. “You think?”

“I know,” she assured him. “At the rehearsal dinner? She stuck to iced tea all night. And did you see the way her boobs were about to fall out of the dress? I promise you, we’ll be doing baby-shower balloon bouquets for her by fall.”

Cara took a brisk walk around the dockhouse, straightening tablecloths on the caterer’s highboy tabletops, brushing at the stray fern frond or fallen petal. Technically, this was the wedding planner’s job, but Cara Kryzik never left anything to chance.

“I’m going to head back over to the reception tent,” she told Bert. “All the flowers in the baskets here have water?”

“Check,” Bert said.

“And you’ve misted the ferns with water?”

“Not my first rodeo, boss lady.”

She patted his shoulder. “I think I’ll keep you.”

*   *   *

The first thing she checked at the reception tent was the compressor for the rented air conditioner. It was humming along, she noted with relief. The only thing worse than bad weather for an outdoor function in Savannah was a nonfunctioning air conditioner—or even a heater. Again, the tent and the air-conditioning were not her responsibility, but you couldn’t tell that to a finicky bride who was prone to pitch a fit over the slightest flaw in her plans.

Cara stood quietly in the entrance to the tent, taking it all in. The temperature had cooled down nicely, and her flowers, she thought, not immodestly, looked sensational.

She’d commissioned a local glassblower to create three-foot-tall vases for the centerpieces, and these were placed in the center of each of the thirty round tables in the room. The tables themselves were covered in sea-foam-colored linen flounced cloths. Spilling from each vase were arrangements of coral tea roses, blue hydrangeas, variegated Swedish ivy, and marguerite daisies. Hanging from the metal support beams of the tent, she’d rigged up five enormous ivy-covered ten-arm wire chandeliers fitted with battery-operated candles. She pulled a small remote-control pad from her pocket, clicked a button, and the candles began to flicker in the dim light of the tent.

White-coated waiters moved efficiently about the tent, polishing water and wine glasses at each place setting, adjusting and straightening the thick silver place settings and gold-rimmed dinner plates.

“Cara, hi!” Torie’s caterer, Layne Pelletier, hurried to her side.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, girlfriend,” Layne said, gesturing around the tent.

Cara sighed. “Let’s just hope our bride agrees with you.”

“How can she not? It’s perfection. I’ve been snapping pictures of the tables to put up on my own website. Your flowers plus my food—it’s going to be the party of the year.”

“Hope so,” Cara said. “The Fannings move in some pretty lofty circles. This little clambake of Torie’s could be a real rainmaker if all goes well.”

“It will,” Layne assured her. “Were you at the church just now? Any idea how long before everbody will start arriving?”

They heard the sound of car doors closing. “About now,” Cara said. “Showtime!”

*   *   *

Normally, the wedding party’s arrival would signal Cara’s departure. If she left now, maybe she could drive back to the dognapper’s house on Macon Street. Maybe there was a backyard. She could cruise down the lane and steal her dog back while Jack Finnerty was still at the wedding. Cara was heading for her van when she heard her name being called.

“Cara … so glad you’re still here.” It was Ellie Lewis, the wedding planner.

“Just leaving,” Cara said. “I’ve checked everything in both tents, and it’s all good. By the way, thanks again for referring me to the Fannings.”

Ellie’s face was shiny pink with perspiration. “Don’t thank me yet,” she warned. “The photographer wants to get some candid shots of the wedding party down at the dock, and Torie is insistent that you should be there to style things.”

“I’m not a photo stylist,” Cara protested. “And honestly, Ellie, I’m whipped. I’ve been on my feet for nearly twenty-four hours. All I want right now is a shower and a cocktail—and my bed.”
And my dog,
she thought.

Ellie nodded glumly. “I don’t blame you. I’ve had a bellyful of Torie and Mommy Dearest these past few weeks. I’d leave too, if I could. But you know how it goes—I’ll be here till the bitter end tonight.”

She turned and began to trudge back across the lawn.

Cara had her hand on the van’s door handle, but when she saw the dejected droop of her colleague’s shoulders, she just didn’t have the heart to abandon ship.

“Ellie,” she called.

“Yes?”

“Wait for me, dammit.”

*   *   *

By eight o’clock, the big reception tent vibrated with life. Dinner service for three hundred guests was winding down and the eight-piece orchestra was just starting to tune up. Cara made a few last-minute adjustments to the flowers on the cake table and tiptoed toward the door.

“Cara!”

Torie’s voice rose above the din of the crowd. Her mermaid skirts rustled as she cut a swath through the crowd. The bride reached out and grasped Cara’s hands in hers. “You’re not leaving already! The party’s just starting to crank up.”