“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.
She paged over to Cullen Kane’s portfolio, which featured dozens of achingly gorgeous photographs of his flowers showcased in all kinds of settings.
Bert clicked the mouse on the About Us tab of the website, and read his bio aloud in a deeply accented Southern cartoon voice that made him sound like Foghorn Leghorn.
Cullen Kane is a native Charlestonian. He received his undergraduate degree in English Literature from the College of Charleston. Cullen spent his senior year abroad in England, where he met and studied floral design for three years under famed horticulturist Rosemary Verey. Returning to the States, Cullen settled in Napa Valley, California, where he became the in-house floral designer for Valleyview House, the largest private event venue in Napa. In 2008, Cullen returned home to Charleston, where he opened Cullen Kane Floral Design Studio.
“Here’s a photo of him,” Bert said, tapping the laptop screen.
“Oh shit,” Cara said.
The photo of Cullen Kane showed him lounging in an artistically weathered Adirondack chair, with a stretch of the low-country marsh in the background. He was dressed in an open-necked white dress shirt, with a celadon-green sweater knotted casually over his shoulders. His glossy blond hair was worn stylishly long, he had a small goatee, and his hand rested lightly on a Cavalier King Charles spaniel in his lap. He was a candy-coated cinematic version of everything a Southern gentleman should look like.
“I’d hire him if I weren’t me,” Cara said glumly.
“He’s certainly yummy-looking,” Bert agreed. “You know, if you go in for that kind of screamingly effeminate, highly overqualified overachieving type. But if he’s such a hotshot in Charleston, why would he want to open shop in Savannah?”
“To make my life a living hell,” she said.
Bert laughed. “That’s right, Cara. Cullen Kane hasn’t even met you and he’s already conspiring to put you out of business and ruin your life. Are we feeling just the teeniest bit paranoid this morning?”
* * *
Monday was technically Cara’s day off, but she hadn’t hesitated to schedule the appointment with Marie Trapnell.
Now Poppy was standing by the door, scratching to go out.
“I’ll take her if you like,” Bert offered.
“Thanks, but it’ll do me good to stretch my legs,” Cara said. She grabbed Poppy’s leash and clipped it to her collar, which she’d already shortened by a notch.
“Now listen,” she told the puppy, who was already straining at her leash as they exited the shop. “Slow down. Heel. We’ve really got to work on this obedience thing, you know.”
It was a spectacular late-spring morning. The sky was blue, and a slight breeze stirred the Spanish moss draping the live-oak trees.. She gave Poppy a little slack in her leash and the dog gamboled along happily down the street. Cara heard feet approaching rapidly from behind.
“On your left,” a gruff voice called out. She stepped to the right just in time to avoid being mowed down by a sweaty male jogger wearing a white T-shirt and red running shorts. He had a familiar-looking puppy on a leash.
Poppy gave an excited yelp of recognition and lunged for the puppy and the jogger, nearly yanking Cara off her feet.
“Poppy, heel!” Cara exclaimd. “Sit!”
But Poppy did no such thing. She strained at her leash, whining her disappointment at being kept from joining the jogger.
It was him! Jack the dog thief. She watched as he and his dog sped away down the street, without so much as a backward glance. It had all happened so fast she’d nearly missed it. But yes, the other puppy did bear a resemblance to Poppy. She was certainly a goldendoodle, and she shared Poppy’s creamy coloring and curly coat.
“Come on, girl,” Cara said, giving her dog an affectionate ear scratch. “Let’s get a move on before it gets too hot.”
She and Poppy continued their stroll, walking down Jones to Whitaker, and then south on Whitaker, where she happily window-shopped at the half-dozen little boutiques and antique shops that were some of her favorite local haunts. They continued on Whitaker, crossing over at Gaston Street when they got close to Forsyth Park.
It was late, nearly ten, but the park was still full of joggers, dog walkers, and young mothers with babies in strollers and toddlers in tow. Cara greeted several young mothers who’d been her brides not so long ago. She and Poppy did one circuit of the park, then walked over to the Sentient Bean, where she treated herself to a cold bottle of water and an orange cranberry scone and Poppy to a vegan dog biscuit.
When they were within a block of home, Poppy, already a creature of habit at seven months, did her business in her own dainty way, squatting in her customary spot between two huge camellia bushes, as though she required absolute privacy from prying eyes. Cara cleaned up after her pet, and walked back to the shop, keeping a wary eye out for joggers with goldendoodles.
Bert was finishing up a staid hospital arrangement of daisies and carnations.
“You’re not going to believe it,” he said, after she’d unclipped Poppy and washed her hands. “I just got off the phone with Lillian Fanning.”
“And what was her complaint? Honestly, Bert, Torie’s wedding was truly as close to perfection as I’ve ever gotten. And yet she still finds something to bitch about? I give up!”
“Not so fast,” Bert said. “She wasn’t calling to complain. Actually she was calling to thank you for making Torie’s day so amazing. Her phone’s been ringing off the hook from calls from all her friends, wanting to know who did Torie’s flowers.”
“Really? Lillian was actually pleased about something? That’s a first.”
“‘Tickled pink’ were her exact words. And,” he added, then paused for drama. “She also wanted to ask a huge favor.”
“Such as?”
“She’s giving a baby-shower luncheon for Torie’s cousin Lindsay at the golf club tomorrow, and it just occurred to her that she’d love for us to whip up a few ‘teensy’ little centerpieces, and a corsage. I told her no, of course. There’s no way we can do something like that with no lead time.”
“Why would you do that? We can’t turn down business, especially from somebody like Lillian Fanning.”
Bert gestured toward the shop’s glass-fronted flower cooler. “Look in there. We’re cleaned out. I used the last pathetic little carnations for this hospital arrangement that just came in. All we’ve got left is some sad yellow spider mums and a few sprigs of baby’s breath. Which we both know will never satisfy Lillian. She wouldn’t have spider mums and baby’s breath for her worst enemy’s funeral. And Lamar won’t be back here until day after tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Cara stood in front of the cooler and peered inside. Bert had a point. The dozen buckets of water in the cooler were nearly empty.
“Dadgummit. I hate giving up that kind of business. Was Lillian talk
ing about the smaller eight-tops at the golf club?”
“Yes,” Bert said. “but it doesn’t matter. We don’t have any flowers. You’re a floral designer, Cara. Not a magician.”
“How many tables?” Cara asked, reaching for her phone with one hand and her supplier’s catalogue with the other.
“Eight,” Bert said. “What are you thinking?”
“What color scheme?” Cara asked, rapidly flipping the pages of the catalogue.
“She didn’t specify. Just something pretty and springish. You’re not seriously thinking of taking this party on, are you?”
“Is the baby a girl or boy?”
“Girl,” Bert said.
“Call Lillian Fanning,” she told Bert. “And let her know there’s been a change of plans.”
Cara had her Savannah wholesaler, Breitmueller’s, on speed dial.
“Wendy? This is Cara over at Bloom. How are you?”
“Fine,” Wendy Breitmueller said cautiously. “What do you need, Cara?”
“Pink and white,” Cara said. “Springy, youthful. With maybe some silvery gray foliage? And I need something feminine and pretty for corsages, but no gigantic orchids. Maybe some pink spray roses?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Cara said, jotting down notes as Wendy listed what was available. “That sounds good. Love the idea of the tulips and the pink stocks and the foxgloves. And I’ll take all the pink gerberas you’ve got. Can you put everything aside for me? I’ll come over right away to pick everything up.”
She hung up the phone and grabbed her car keys.
“Lillian is thrilled you’ll do her flowers. But I think you’re crazy,” Bert said disapprovingly. “It’s supposed to be your day off, remember? And when was the last time you actually took any time for yourself?”
“I know exactly how long it’s been,” Cara said ruefully. “I haven’t had a real day off since the Monday before Valentine’s Day last year.”
* * *
Valentine’s Day the previous year had been memorable, for sure, but for all the wrong reasons. It was her birthday, but because of the business she was in, Cara rarely had time to celebrate.
That year had been crazier than usual. She’d been forced to rent a second van just to get the flower deliveries covered. And when her second driver slipped and fell and broke his ankle on the third delivery of the afternoon, Cara had gotten behind the wheel of the van in his place.
She was making the last delivery of the afternoon, to a dentist’s office on the south side of town: two dozen long-stemmed American Beauty roses to the dentist’s wife, who ran the office, for her husband, Dr. Pratt, one of Cara’s regular customers.
While Nancy Pratt was oohing and aahing over the roses from her husband in the reception area, another florist’s delivery driver had walked into the office, with a huge vase of lilacs.
Lilacs? Who ordered lilacs in Savannah? Only one man Cara knew of. Her husband, Leo.
As soon as she saw the lilacs, Mrs. Pratt opened the door to the back office. “Cyndi! Flowers from your mystery man again.”
Cara heard a chorus of giggles from the girls in the office—the receptionists and billing clerks and hygienists. “Our Cyndi has a mysterious beau who sends her gorgeous flowers every month,” Mrs. Pratt confided.
A petite redhead in a tight-fitting white lab coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal her double-D décolletage burst through the door.
“Oh my God, is he is the sweetest thing ever?” She reached for the card stuck among the lilacs. Then she saw Cara, standing there beside Mrs. Pratt and her American Beauty roses, and Cyndi froze. She snatched the vase and disappeared into the back office.
Cara had seen enough. When she got home she picked up the huge vase of lilacs that had been left on her doorstep, and set them on the kitchen counter. She listened to the message Leo left on her voicemail. “Late meeting tonight. Sorry babe. I know you’ll be dead on your feet by the time you get this, so we’ll celebrate your birthday tomorrow night. ’Kay? Love you.”
Leo’s message had a strangely energizing effect on Cara. She went into his home office, and using a nail file, pried open the desk drawer where he kept their financial records. It was easy to find the statements for the new Visa card he’d procured for himself, easier still to find the monthly flower deliveries to Cyndi Snodgrass and the biweekly check-ins at the Airport Courtyard Marriott, visits that neatly coincided with Leo’s supposed sales meetings in Atlanta.
Cara left the Visa statements on top of the desk. She dumped the lilacs onto the middle of their bed. She packed her clothes and her books and called Bert on the way over to his apartment to ask if she could stay in his guest room for a few nights.
She’d hired a lawyer and started divorce proceedings the next day, and within two weeks she’d rented the apartment over Bloom. And she’d worked every day since then, with the exception of the day after this Valentine’s Day, when she’d gone to visit the breeder in Atlanta to pick out her own birthday present, her new roommate, Poppy.
“You’re going to burn yourself out,” Bert chided her now. “Do you realize we’ve got weddings every Saturday for the next six weeks, not to mention the Mandelbaums’ golden anniversary party and those two huge banquets at the Westin? Plus the deb parties…”
“We can’t afford to turn down Lillian Fanning,” Cara said firmly. “Between Lillian and Vicki Cooper—if this keeps up we’ll have more business than we can handle.”
“We already have more business than we can deal with,” Bert grumped.
“We can handle it,” Cara said.
“Yeah, if we don’t want to have a life. Which I do,” he added.
“Are you referring to your new frat friend? Or the fireman?” Cara asked.
Bert winked. “You could say things are heating up with my love life.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “And what about you? It’s been what, a year and a half since you left Leo? You have got to stop burying yourself in work, Cara.”
“Stop and smell the roses, you mean?”
“Something like that. Not all men are like Leo, you know. Some of us are actually faithful and caring and thoughtful. And fun to be around.”
“All the men I know who fit that description in this town are gay,” Cara pointed out.
“You never meet any new men. All you ever do is work. And you’ll never meet anybody nice again if you keep up like this,” Bert said.
“Has it occurred to you that I don’t want to meet anybody new?” Cara tried to keep her voice light. “I’m done with men.” She reached down and scooped the wriggling Poppy into her arms, burying her nose in the dog’s rose-scented curls.
“I’ve got a dog now,” she informed her assistant. “She never steals the covers. Never lies. And she would never, ever sleep with some skanky dental hygienist with short arms and big boobs. Plus, Poppy loves me unconditionally.”
“Except when she runs away,” Bert said.
“That reminds me,” Cara said. “When I was out walking Poppy earlier, the jerk ran right past me—with his real dog in tow.”
“But he did go to all the trouble to track you down here and bring her back yesterday,” Bert said. “So he can’t be that big a jerk.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” Cara said. “Look, Bert. I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to get over to Breitmueller’s for Lillian’s flowers. Will you keep an eye on Poppy?”
“That’s cool,” Bert said. He looked down at Poppy, who was standing by the window, wagging her tail as she watched a woman walk by with a pair of dachshunds on leash. “But maybe you should think about getting Poppy microchipped. Just in case she gets out again. Right?”
“All right, all right, I will,” Cara said. “The very next time I have a day off.”
11
On Tuesday, Cara used one hip to bump open the door at the Savannah Golf Club at 10:45 a.m. Her face was beaded with perspiration and she was well aware that she looked a hot mess.
The previous day’s picku
p from Breitmueller’s had been a failure.
She’d arrived at the wholesaler shortly before noon. But the buckets of flowers holding her order were nothing like what she’d been promised.
Gaudy hot pink dyed carnations, some sad-looking cream spray roses, a few Stargazer lilies, and loads of stiff yellowish baby’s breath.
She marched over to the office, where Wendy Breitmueller was typing away on her computer terminal.
“Oh, hi, Cara,” Wendy said, not looking up. “We pulled your order, it’s back out in the warehouse.”
“That’s not what I ordered, Wendy,” Cara said sharply. “Come on! Baby’s breath? And those yucky dyed carnations? Where are my tulips? My pink spray roses? My gerberas?”
Wendy sighed. “Look, it’s not my fault. Allen took a big phone order just before I talked to you, and he’d already promised all the stuff you wanted to another client. You know how it goes. This is our busy season, and unless you call up a week ahead of time and let us know what you need, you take what you get. First come, first served.”
“But you promised me,” Cara reminded her. “Not less than an hour ago. I’ve got a baby shower tomorrow for one of my regular clients, and there is no way I can show up at the golf club with that mess out there.”
“You’re welcome to walk around in the warehouse and pick out whatever else looks good,” Wendy said with a shrug. Reluctantly, she got up from her computer and led Cara back into the chilled air of the warehouse.
Cara saw a huge cluster of buckets lined up near the loading-dock doors, holding what looked like a whole greenhouse full of blooms: peonies, tulips, hydrangeas, orchids, roses, ranunculus, lilies, and more.
“That!” Cara said, pointing. “That’s what you promised me.”
“Sorry, like I told you, it’s all spoken for. Allen’s new customer.”
“Wow. All that for one client?”
“He’s got two shops. Been open in Charleston for a while, and now he’s moved over to Savannah too. And he’s just as particular about his flowers as you.”
Cara felt a twinge of jealousy. “Are all these flowers for Cullen Kane?”
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