Save the Date

by Mary Kay Andrews

  She doubted Leo would notice they were missing. The only time he went into their backyard was to mow the grass or practice his backswing.

  Cara searched the Savannah Craigslist ads for weeks before she finally found a square teak outdoor table. She added a market umbrella and placed her benches on either side of it.

  When spring came, even if it was raining or storming, Cara stole away to her courtyard garden for an hour or two. She’d light one of the red-currant candles she sold in the shop and then have her dinner sitting at the table. She sipped wine while she plucked weeds or snipped herbs, or just sat, with Poppy at her feet, watching the stars, listening to the rustle of the birds in the treetops.

  Sometimes Bert would join her. He’d donated a pair of weather-beaten Adirondack chairs to the garden. They would sit back on the chairs, not talking. Cara would sip her pinot grigio and Bert, a recovering alcoholic, would occasionally sneak a joint—although this was not something she actually approved of.

  “Gimme a break,” Bert would say, closing his eyes, tilting his head skyward and blowing smoke through his nostrils. “I quit drinking. You can’t make me give up all my vices.”

  * * *

  Thursday night, after putting together dozens of Mother’s Day arrangements for delivery, Cara and Bert were sitting in the courtyard garden. Bert slapped at a mosquito and sighed. “Here it comes. Skeeter season. Makes me want to move to Maine. I hate those little fuckers.”

  “They have stinging black flies in Maine, Bert,” Cara pointed out. “And mud. Months and months of mud. Not to mention snow.”

  “Never mind,” he said lazily. “So—did I hear right? You’re actually going to interview for the privilege of doing that Trapnell wedding?”

  “Yessss,” she said, already regretting what she thought of as her capitulation. “I really like Marie Trapnell. And Vicki Cooper tracked me down at the golf club Tuesday and begged me to at least consider taking the job if they offer it. Brooke’s father, Gordon, called me today to set up an appointment for ‘a chat.’ He wants me to see the Strayhorns’ plantation house, so I can get an idea of where the wedding is being held. So yes, I’m going over to Cabin Creek tomorrow, hat in hand, to present my ideas for the wedding.”

  “Want me to tag along?”

  “Normally, I’d love to have you accompany me. It looks pretty fancy, don’t you think, to introduce you as my assistant and have you carry my photo book and bow and scrape like a minion?”

  “Bowing and scraping? Not in my job description.”

  “Anyway, I need you at the shop tomorrow to finish up with the Mother’s Day orders. And don’t forget, we’ve got Laurie-Beth Winship’s wedding Saturday. But don’t worry, I promise to bring back a full description.”

  13

  Somebody, at some point in the Strayhorn family history, had a puckish sense of humor. Cabin Creek? Cara drove slowly down the bumpy crushed oyster-shell drive. Age-blackened live oaks dripping with thick curtains of Spanish moss shaded both sides of the roadway, their trunks dotted with clumps of dark green Resurrection ferns, and the trees were underplanted with hedges of azaleas, past blooming, but still lovely. A rail fence separated the drive from a vast green pasture, and a trio of horses grazed outside a weathered barn. At the end of the quarter-mile drive, a weathered cypress sign was nailed to one of the trees.

  SLOW DOWN. SMALL CHILDREN. LARGE DOGS. OLD MEN.

  The house loomed ahead. Cara had read up on Cabin Creek in a book about low-country plantation homes. The property had been a land grant from King George III, but the original homeplace, described as a two-story wood-frame cabin, had burned in the early 1800s, and the Strayhorns, who’d done well with cotton, rice, and indigo, built themselves a showplace to display all that wealth.

  Cabin Creek was no longer a cabin. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The main house was a three-story Greek Revival beauty, with a two-story-tall portico supported by four thick Doric columns. A widow’s walk topped the portico. Large wings sprouted from each side of the main house, and the estate was set on an expanse of deep green lawn, with foundation plantings of carefully clipped boxwoods.

  Cara followed the drive around to the right side of the house, as Gordon Trapnell had instructed, where she found a gravel car park adjoining a low three-bay garage. She parked her own car next to a sleek silver Jaguar, and walked around to a smaller side entrance marked by a pair of miniature versions of the front columns.

  Before she could ring the doorbell, the door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman dressed in faded blue jeans and a grubby T-shirt pushed open the screen door. An army-green ballcap with an embroidered Cabin Creek logo shaded the woman’s round, ruddy face.

  “Are you the florist?” she asked.

  “Uh yes,” Cara said, taken aback. Funny way for a butler to dress.

  The woman extended her hand and opened the door wider. “Great! So glad to meet you. I’m Libba Strayhorn. Come on in. I was just getting ready to go out to the stables, but Gordon and Patricia are inside. I’ll show you the way, then let you all talk.”

  They were in what was obviously used as a mudroom by the Strayhorn family. It was high-ceilinged, with a marble floor, but simple wooden benches lined each side, and wall-mounted hooks held jackets and coats. Muddy boots were lined up beneath the benches, and a pair of shotguns rested casually in one corner.

  Libba walked quickly, the soles of her riding boots clacking against the marble floor. Cara followed her through a pair of double doors into a formal parlor with an immense fireplace mounted by a fancy gilt-framed mirror. Stiff brocade-covered Empire-era settees and armchairs faced the fireplace. Libba didn’t slow. Instead she led Cara through yet another doorway, into a cypress-paneled library.

  Gordon Trapnell and his wife were sitting at a felt-topped game table near the fireplace. “Cara?” he asked, standing to shake her hand.

  He was short, maybe only an inch or two taller than Cara, with thinning dark hair, carefully combed across his high-domed head, and a neatly clipped mustache. He wore silver wire-rimmed glasses, a pale pink logoed Polo shirt, and dark dress slacks.

  “Yes, hello, Mr. Trapnell.”

  “Call me Gordon.” He turned toward the woman seated to his right and beamed. “And this is Patricia, my wife.”

  Cara had only caught a glimpse of Patricia Trapnell at the golf club earlier in the week, just a blur of blond hair and cheekbones.

  Patricia’s silicone-plumped lips widened into what she probably thought was a smile. But her skin was stretched so tightly over the high cheekbones, it really resembled more of a grimace. Her pale blue eyes had an almost Asian tilt. Her face was skillfully made up, and her blond hair gleamed in the low light of the library. She was dressed in a cobalt-blue silk blouse.

  “Hello, Cara,” she said, her voice husky. “We’ve heard so much about your work. And of course, we loved what you did for Torie Fanning’s wedding last week. Please sit, and tell us about your ideas for Brooke and Harris.”

  “I’m going to leave you experts to it then,” Libba Strayhorn said, and she hurried out of the room.

  * * *

  Cara took a deep breath and opened her iPad. “These are a few ideas I came up with for the church, and the reception,” she said, tapping an icon on the screen that read “Trapnell Wedding.”

  “Of course, everything is very preliminary,” she said. “I was able to find pictures on the internet of the ballroom and the chapel here at Cabin Creek, but it would still be helpful for me to see them in person, just to get a sense of the scale of the spaces.”

  “Of course,” Gordon Trapnell said. “We can walk around and show you the layout after we chat. Libba has graciously given us the run of the place.”

  “I forgot to ask Marie—how many guests?”

  Patricia sighed deeply. “That’s been a matter of controversy. Brooke and her mother have some quaint notion about a small, intimate affair. But they totally overlook the fact that with Gordon’s and my extensive socia
l and business contacts, not to mention the Strayhorns,’ we’re talking about three hundred people minimum—and that’s cutting the guest list right to the bone.”

  “To the bone,” Gordon said, nodding agreement.

  “And do you have a budget in mind?” Cara asked.

  “Not really,” Patricia said. She gave Gordon a warm smile, then reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand. “How do you put a price tag on a father’s love for his only daughter?”

  “Exactly,” Cara replied.

  Really? This is about demonstrating love for Brooke? Not about showing your “extensive business and social contacts” just how much money you have to throw around on an overblown wedding your kid doesn’t even really want?

  Cara tapped an icon marked “Centerpieces.” “Since it’s a July wedding, I thought we might stick to cooler colors, blues, greens, white, cream, maybe some lavenders and silvers.” She glanced from Brooke to Gordon. “Are those colors Brooke likes?”

  Gordon glanced at his wife for guidance. Patricia rolled her eyes. “Brooke doesn’t really have much of a sense of color at all, bless her heart. Or style, for that matter. As far as I can tell, she wears navy blue or black suits to work, and she lives in running clothes on the weekend.”

  “Oh.”

  “We thought, that is, Gordon and I thought, it might be exciting to do something really dramatic with the tables. We were at a wedding in Charleston last month, that was simply stunning. The designer had spent time in India, and he designed these amazing pierced brass vessels and low tables, with piles and piles of cushions and Oriental rugs, and there were no flowers at all, just flickering lights, and piles of exotic fruits, pomegranates and what have you, and the tablecloths were embroidered, with mirrors…”

  “No flowers?” Cara said blankly.

  Then what the hell am I doing here?

  “But we wouldn’t want to copy that look, not exactly,” Patricia added hastily. “And anyway, that was just to give you an idea of the kind of emotions we’d like to elicit with our event.”

  It’s a wedding, Cara thought. And it’s not actually your wedding. It’s Brooke’s and Harris’s.

  “What we’re looking for, Cara, is something absolutely original,” Gordon said.

  “Something that hasn’t been done in Savannah. None of those tired old post-deb looks you see all the time,” Patricia added. “And to be perfectly honest, Cara, we have looked at a presentation by another designer which was beyond amazing. So I guess what Gordon is asking from you, is to be amazing.”

  Cara looked down at her iPad. Screw this. Be amazing? That’s your design mandate?

  She willed herself to smile. “Would you like to look at some of my ideas now?”

  Patricia scrolled rapidly through the photos and sketches Cara had assembled, and five minutes later, handed the iPad back.

  “Interesting,” she said. “Lots of silver vases and such. Very traditional though, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Well, yes. I assumed that since the wedding and reception were being held in a historic home, you’d want the flowers to fit in with the setting. But I’m not necessarily tied to any one look. We do lots of cutting-edge weddings. In fact, tomorrow, we’re doing the décor for a wedding in an old cotton warehouse down on River Street, and the bride requested an industrial, steampunk look, with some goth elements mixed in.”

  “Goth?” Gordon looked to his wife for interpretation.

  “Oh, you know, Gordie. Those kids who wander around with their faces made up with white powder and black-lined eyes and lips, like something out of a Halloween fright show.”

  “People do that at weddings? Adults?” He shook his head. “Thank God Brooke was never into that sort of thing.”

  Cara couldn’t help herself. There was no way these people were going to hire her, so why not have a little fun with them? “Instead of tablecloths, we’re topping the tables with long sheets of rusted corrugated tin, from old farmhouses. And we’re doing centerpieces with all black flowers, and animal skulls.”

  Patricia’s pale eyes bugged out slightly. “Not … real animal skulls.”

  “Oh sure,” Cara said cheerfully. “The groom is a big hunter, so he’s collected things over the years from his own kills and walks in the woods. I’ve managed to incorporate rattlesnake rattles in the bride’s bouquet, strung on strips of deer rawhide. Plus, I’ve been buying additional skulls and antlers online for months now.”

  “Dear God,” Patricia said faintly. She looked a little ill.

  “And we’re having a tattoo booth,” Cara added. “I’ve designed a custom tattoo that combines the bride’s and groom’s initials and their wedding date. It’s the first one I’ve designed, and I’m really very proud of how it turned out.”

  “Who in hell are these people?” Gordon demanded.

  “Laurie-Beth Winship?” Cara said. “She’s marrying Payton Jelks.”

  “That’s not Frank and Elizabeth Winship’s child, is it?” Patricia asked. “I know they have a daughter, but Laurie-Beth was in Brooke’s debutante class. Surely they wouldn’t sanction something like that.…”

  “It is,” Cara said. “Do you know the Winships? I just love them. So adventurous. Elizabeth has already promised that she’ll get tattooed tomorrow night, but I think Frank is a little squeamish about needles, so he’s just going to do the henna thing. You wouldn’t think a radiologist would be, would you? Squeamish, I mean.”

  “Dear God.” This time Gordon and Patricia said it as a duet.

  14

  Cara climbed uneasily to the top of the scaffolding, eight feet off the ground. She aimed the can of black spray paint at the age-blackened brick wall and began writing, in big, looping letters.

  LUV WILL KEEP US 2-GETHER.

  She looked down at Bert, who was holding the piece of paper that acted as their script. Bert, it turned out, was afraid of heights. The next time she hired an assistant, she vowed, she would have to ask prospects about their phobias. But for now, it was what it was. “What next?”

  “Mmm. Says here ‘Laurie-Beth (heart) Payton.’”

  Cara walked a few paces down the catwalk, and clambered up to the next level, the paint can tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She painted the next phrase, walked four feet to the left, and looked down. “Next?”

  Bert had to crane his neck to see her. He cupped his hands to form a makeshift megaphone. “‘You are the sunshine of my life.’”

  She remembered that one. It was the title of Laurie-Beth’s parents’ favorite song from their own courtship. She sprayed the phrase on the wall, using the last little bit of the spray paint. She tossed the can to the ground and began the slow climb down.

  Bert still had his eyes tightly closed when she reached the concrete floor. “You can look now,” she said, touching his arm.

  He did. The two of them walked around the cavernous warehouse, surveying their handiwork.

  “Fanfuckintastic,” Bert said.

  And Cara, despite all her initial misgivings, had to agree.

  Laurie-Beth Winship had read one too many wedding magazines, stayed too long on Pinterest. Despite her mother’s tearful pleas for a nice, traditional reception at the Oglethorpe Club, or the Chatham City Club, Laura-Beth had proclaimed she wanted a “real” venue for her wedding.

  Unable to find a wedding planner willing to execute her vision, Laurie-Beth had appointed Cara her de facto “imagineer.”

  This cotton warehouse belonged to one of Elizabeth Winship’s great-uncles, but it hadn’t been used in at least thirty years. They’d had to hire a commercial cleaning crew to come in and steam-clean the brick walls and pressure-wash the grease-soaked floors. After that, the one existing bathroom, which consisted of nothing more than a urinal and a sink, had to be gutted and rebuilt into a proper unisex facility—while still keeping to Laurie-Beth’s “industrial” look.

  It would have been cheaper, Cara thought, to just build a new warehouse. But she kept that thought to he
rself, and gamely soldiered on, buoyed by the thought of the handsome fee the Winships were paying her.

  So here they were, on the Friday night before the Winship-Jelks wedding. It was nearly midnight, and she and Bert had been working all evening. They’d hung miles of safety lights, spray-painted graffiti on everything that didn’t move, and strung canvas painters’ dropcloths from those rusty steel girders to form a backdrop for the newly built bandstand constructed of old wooden pallets Cara had liberated from the back of a nearby building supply.

  The oversized wooden cable spools that would act as cocktail tables had been wheeled into place, and tables, improvised from corrugated metal spread over sawhorses, were arrayed around the dance floor.

  “You really think the flowers are okay?” Cara asked Bert.

  He shrugged. They’d cleaned out two local feed and seed stores of every galvanized bucket, tub, and horse trough in stock. These were now filled with leafless branches that had been spray-painted black, and strung with white lights and chains made of beer-can pop-tops. On every tree, Cara had wired bunches of carnations, dip-dyed in bloodred and black.

  More dyed black flowers filled recycled aluminum cans on the tabletops, which were interspersed with Cara’s carefully curated assortment of animal skulls.

  “It’s sure as hell original,” Bert said. “And that’s what she wanted, right?”

  “If Tim Burton married Alice Cooper, I think this is what their wedding would look like,” Cara muttered. She yawned. “Let’s go. I’m dead on my feet, and we’ve got another loooong day tomorrow.”

  She pulled the van to the curb in front of Bert’s apartment on St. Julian Street. “See you in the morning.”

  “Hey. You never told me how your meeting with the Trapnells went,” Bert said, his hand on the passenger door.

  “It went. The plantation? Cabin Creek—it’s unbelievable. If it weren’t for the bride’s father and stepmother, I’d love to design a wedding in that house. But those two? Gordon and Patricia?” She made a face. “It’s the first time I’ve ever hoped not to get hired.”