“I don’t think goldendoodles are particularly moody. I mean, yeah, Poppy sometimes lets me know she misses me when I’m working late, or not paying her proper attention, but mostly, she’s a happy camper. And if I don’t walk her at least twice every day, she lets me know I’m being a slacker.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“Is there a chance Shaz is depressed? I mean, has anything changed in her routine that would make her want to run away?”
* * *
Jack took a long swig of his beer. Hell yeah, he wanted to tell her. Everything had changed in Shaz’s routine. His, too. The minute Zoey walked out the door, it had all changed. He would have liked to have left, too. But he had bills to pay, and obligations to his brother, and their business. Anyway, where would he have gone?
It wasn’t that he actually missed Zoey that much. They hadn’t gotten along for months before she left. They quarreled constantly. Zoey couldn’t understand why they couldn’t travel, cut loose, have some fun. Couldn’t he get a real job in a real office, instead of coming home late every night, dirty and sweaty, his hands and hair spattered with paint, his clothes leaking sawdust with every step he took?
He couldn’t really blame her for resenting him. He’d had a good job as an insurance broker when they met a year previously. He drove a new BMW 750, had a sleek glass and chrome loft in a new development down by the river. He’d walked away from all of it, only two months after Zoey moved in, selling the loft to buy the crappy little freedman’s cottage on Macon Street, trading in the Beemer for a used F-150 pickup, leaving behind his slick suits for painter’s pants and a tool belt when he and Ryan started their historic-restoration business.
Jack had bedgrudgingly accepted Zoey’s crazy designer dog, christened with a name he couldn’t even spell. And then she’d taken off, leaving him and Shaz trying to figure out where it had all gone so wrong.
He glanced over at Cara’s empty glass, deciding to save her the dismal details of his dismal home life. “Is that champagne? Can I get you another? Or maybe you wanna dance?” He hoped he didn’t sound too eager. In fact, he halfway hoped she’d tell him no. Then he’d have an excuse to go home and drink some real liquor. Maybe he’d even think about hanging some doors, or finishing the tile in the hall bathroom.
“After Torie’s wedding, I didn’t think you liked to dance,” Cara said.
“Oh.” He looked away, his hands in his pockets, looking bored. “I’m okay with dancing. It was just that song. It’s stupid, I know.…”
“Torie told me,” she said, her voice gentle. “About your girlfriend.”
“Torie talks too much,” he snapped. “How about that drink?”
But now the bride and groom were making their way to the cake table. Laurie-Beth had commissioned a sculptor friend to make figurines of her and Payton, authentic down to the tiniest real flowers in her bouquet, for a cake topper. The caterer had asked Cara to stick around for the cake-cutting ceremony so she could help remove the sculpture before it came under attack from the Confederate-era sword Payton planned to use.
“Sorry, can’t,” Cara said, giving him a smile he hoped was full of regret. “I’m still on duty.”
She hurried off in the direction of the bride and groom, leaving Jack Finnerty staring at her back, at her bare shoulders, and her neck. She really did dress oddly, and yet, he thought she was by far the prettiest girl in the room that night, with her windblown butterscotch curls tied up with a pink satin ribbon. Her pink-orange skirt billowed out from around her tightly belted waist, and she reminded him of a tropical hibiscus blossom. Begging to be picked.
17
Bert was lounging on a low brick wall outside the warehouse, smoking a questionable substance with Austin Winship. When they saw Cara approaching, they giggled in unison, threw down the butts and stamped them flat. Austin drifted down the cobblestoned walkway toward River Street, where yet another party beckoned.
“Heeyyyy, Cara,” Bert said, in a singsongy voice. “Is the reception over already?”
“It is for me,” she told him. “Do you want a lift back to your place?”
Bert looked off toward the river, where they could hear faint strains of loud rock music, and laughter, but Austin had already disappeared.
“I guess,” he said.
She left the van’s windows down for the short ride back to Bert’s apartment on St. Julian Street, which was only a few blocks away from her own place.
“I saw you talking to your favorite person,” Bert said, giving her a sly sideways look.
“Jack Finnerty? He’s not so bad.”
“Certainly not bad-looking,” he said. “Kind of a coincidence that he’d show up at two weddings you were working, two weeks in a row, don’t you think?”
“He knows a lot of people,” Cara said. “He went to school with Laurie-Beth’s brother. And he knows Payton’s brother too.”
“Interesting,” Bert said. “What were you two chatting about?”
“Nothing, really. Our dogs. He thinks his dog is depressed.”
Bert giggled. “Maybe his dog needs some puppy uppers.”
She rolled her eyes in the dark.
“So. Is he married? Seeing somebody?”
“Not married. Had a bad breakup with his girlfriend a few months ago. And before you start, Bert, I am not interested.”
He feigned a look of innocence. “I’m not saying a word.”
“You were thinking it,” Cara said. “I could hear you loud and clear.”
“Would it hurt you to have a life after Leo? To start seeing a nice, good-looking guy, who also happens to have a dog?”
“Yes,” Cara said crisply. “It would. Now let’s drop it, shall we?”
He waved his hands wearily. “Whatever. You’re the boss.”
She pulled the van alongside the curb outside his apartment. Bert got out and walked unsteadily over to the driver’s-side window and leaned in.
He lightly touched her shoulder. “Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
“I’m not mad. But you’re wasted. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
“I am not wasted. A little buzzed maybe, but definitely not wasted. So, I just want to tell you one more thing. And it’s going to make you mad at me, but I’m telling you anyway. The guy was watching you. All night. But not in a creepy way. I saw him looking around, during the ceremony, and when he finally spotted you, he got this dippy smile on his face.”
“You’re imagining things,” she told him. “Go to bed, okay?”
“Oh-kay. But remember, you heard it here first.”
She was a block away from Bert’s apartment, humming along to the radio, when she realized, much to her chagrin, that she had a big dippy smile on her own face.
18
Cara was on the phone with a customer when she heard the shop door open. It was only 8:30 a.m., but Bert was out on a delivery, so she was manning the store by herself. She placed a hand over the receiver and addressed the visitor. “Be with you in a minute.”
While her phone customer droned on and on about the exact right shade of red she wanted for the roses she was sending her recuperating granny, Cara sized up her visitor, who was wandering around the shop, examining some of the “make and take” arrangements in the walk-in cooler.
She was a bride, obviously. In her late twenties, tall and slender, with skin so pale it was nearly opaque, and fine, dark hair gathered into a hastily styled ponytail tied with a scrunchy. A scrunchy? Cara didn’t even know those still existed. The bride wore very little makeup and was dressed in a navy-blue suit and white silk blouse that fairly screamed job interview. The earpiece from her phone dangled from one ear, and she clutched a briefcase under one arm. Every once in a while, she glanced furtively down at her watch. The diamond solitaire on her left ring finger was impressive, at least two carats, Cara thought, and her pulse quickened. She needed to finish up with the sixty-dollar red rose order and get with this bride.
When she’d finally man
aged to persuade her caller that she’d only use the very freshest, loveliest, long-stemmed roses for her arrangement, she put the phone down with a sense of relief.
“Good morning,” she said, hurrying around from behind her worktable. “Is there anything special I can help you with?”
“No. Well, yes, I mean, are you the owner? Cara? I think my mother’s already been in to see you. I’m getting married in July, and we thought, I mean, well Vicki Cooper raved about the flowers you did for their wedding and…”
“I’m Cara. And you must be Brooke Trapnell. Is that right? Marie’s daughter?”
“That’s right.” Brooke nodded. A faint blush crept over her face. “I understand you met with my father and stepmother too?”
“Yes,” Cara said. “Just last week. I met them over at Cabin Creek. What a beautiful spot for a wedding. You must be very excited.”
Brooke was busy looking around the shop. She traced the tip of a white phalaenopsis orchid with her fingertip. “This is so pretty. What kind of flower is it?”
“It’s a phalaenopsis,” Cara said. “Do you like orchids?”
The girl was still concentrating on the orchid. “Hmm?” She looked up at Cara. “I’m sorry. What were you saying before?”
“Just that you must be getting excited. With your wedding only a few weeks away.”
The girl nodded, her face serious. “Patricia printed out this timeline thing from one of the wedding websites, and according to it, I’m already hopelessly behind schedule. On top of everything else, I’ve got a big trial scheduled a week before the wedding. I’m actually starting to feel pretty panicky.”
“Oh, no. Don’t be panicky,” Cara said. “That’s my job. Your job is to look beautiful and enjoy your special day.”
Brooke gave her a dubious look. “Half the girls I know have gotten married this past year. I’ve been a bridesmaid six times just since September, and it’s been hell. Every single time. Have you ever seen a bride who wasn’t panicky?”
“Well, there was this one girl this past weekend,” Cara admitted. “But she was probably the exception to the rule.”
“One of my friends, Melanie Eaves? Maybe you know her? Her caterer went out of business two weeks before the wedding. Mel got so stressed her hair was falling out in big clumps. She lost so much weight they finally put a feeding tube in her stomach.”
“Oh my.”
“And this other girl? She was a year ahead of me in law school at Georgia? Samantha Epstein? She ended up going so far over budget, her parents were fighting like cats and dogs, and they ended up filing for divorce. Like, the week before Samantha’s wedding. Her father refused to go the reception.”
“That’s too bad,” Cara said.
“Yes, well, at least that won’t happen with my parents. Patricia already took care of that, didn’t she?”
“Ummm,” Cara said, stalling.
“Anyway.” Brooke stole another glance at her watch. “Oh, God, look at the time. I promised my mom I’d come by and see you. About the flowers. She said you’d need to talk to me?”
“Yes,” Cara said. “Usually I like to spend some time with the bride, to talk about what type flowers you like, color preferences, style. Maybe you have a Pinterest board, or some pictures from the wedding magazines you’ve been clipping, something like that?”
Brooke shrugged. “Not really. I guess I’m not much into that kind of stuff. Whatever you and Mom come up with, I’m sure I’ll like.”
This was a first for Cara. A bride who didn’t have pages and pages of carefully clipped or pinned wedding photoraphs. Earlier in the spring, she’d done flowers for a bride who’d actually been scrapbooking her future wedding since the age of twelve.
“No favorite color or flower?”
Brooke flicked the phalaenopsis blossom. “This is pretty.”
“That’s a start,” Cara said. “We can do some really pretty arrangments with orchids. Probably not just orchids though, right? I’m thinking maybe something very simple and natural-looking?”
Brooke nodded vigorously. “Yes. Definitely simple. I don’t want anything too…” She waved her hands in the air. “Too fluffy. Or show-offy. Do you know what I mean?”
Yes, Cara thought, I do: the exact opposite of what your father and stepmother are envisioning.
“Anything else?” Cara asked. “Besides orchids for your bouquet? What about your attendants? And the groom and groomsmen? Any particular flower your fiancé likes—or hates?“
“Harris?” Brooke shrugged. “He’s a guy.” Her face softened. “A sweetie, but he’s probably even more clueless than me when it comes to something like this. As far as Harris Strayhorn is concerned, as long as we have an open bar and some kind of barbecue at the reception, he’ll be happy.”
“Like a lot of grooms,” Cara said, laughing. “I can help you figure out the boutonnieres—maybe in Harris’s school colors or something? And we’ll need to talk about flowers for the reception, as well as the chapel at Cabin Creek. Patricia showed me the dining room, which is lovely. But Patricia wasn’t clear on whether you’ll be doing a seated dinner or a buffet, so that’s something we’ll need to talk about.…”
“All that?” Brooke twisted the solitaire on her ring finger with her right hand. Around and around, looking down at it and then back up at Cara. “Just, I mean, can’t you make all the flowers sort of all look like the same thing?”
Cara heard a faint ringing coming from the vicinity of Brooke’s jacket pocket, prompting the girl to start patting all the pockets of her jacket, searching for her phone.
“Oh geez. I have to take this. It’s the office. Hello?” Brooke’s eyebrows drew together, her narrow shoulders hunched over. “Right. Yes. Absolutely. I’m on my way in right now. I can do a conference call in ten minutes. Will that work?”
She was heading for the door, already immersed in business.
Cara cleared her throat, and Brooke turned.
“Look. Just talk to my mom, would you? The two of you can work it out much better than I could.”
“What about your father?” Cara asked. “I think he and your stepmother have some ideas.…”
“No!” Brooke said sharply. “Patricia already took over my dad. She doesn’t get to take over my wedding too. I won’t let her.”
“Well okay,” Cara said. “But they have another florist in mind. I’m actually not certain they plan to hire me.”
“It’s my damned wedding,” Brooke said, her jaw clenched. “And my mother and I am hiring you. Period.”
She threw open the shop door and hurried down the sidewalk.
19
The siege by Trapnells descended upon Cara Kryzik at 6 p.m. on Wednesday, right at closing time.
Brooke and Marie Trapnell arrived at the door, just as she was wheeling in the old-fashioned wooden garden cart full of potted plants from the sidewalk.
Brooke wore a black lady lawyer dress with a black-and-white-striped jacket, and an expression of pure misery. Her mother was dressed more casually, but the expression was almost identical to Brooke’s.
“Brooke, Marie, uh, well, how nice to see you,” Cara stammered. She heard a car door slam then, and glancing over, saw Patricia Trapnell step out of the silver Jaguar parked in a no-parking slot at the curb.
Her head whipped from the stepmother to the mother and daughter.
“Hi, Patricia,” Cara said. She felt her scalp prickle, and wondered if this was what the sensation of fight-or-flight was like.
“You’re about to close, aren’t you?” Brooke said. Brooke glared at Patricia, who’d joined them on the sidewalk. “I told you, she closes at six.”
“But not for you,” Cara said quickly.
“Of course not,” Patricia said, her voice silky, as she neatly sidestepped Marie and Brooke. “We’re so sorry to catch you like this, on the spur of the moment, but as I was just explaining to Brooke, if we’re going to pull off this wedding, we simply have to start nailing down the details.
Now.”
Patricia reached into the large buff-colored calfskin bag that dangled from her shoulder. Cara, who told herself she only read In Style magazine to keep up with wedding trends, recognized the handbag as the $3,500 Fendi bag she’d drooled over in a recent issue.
“Here,” Patricia said, thrusting a document into her hands. “This is the game plan we’ve finally managed to hammer out.”
“Game plan?” Cara said dumbly, glancing down at the multipage dossier.
“For our wedding, of course,” Patricia said.
“My wedding. Mine and Harris’s,” Brooke said.
“Which her father and I are paying for,” Patricia added.
Marie coughed quietly.
“And her mother, of course,” Patricia said, giving Marie a curt nod.
“Does this mean you want me to do the flowers?” Cara looked directly at Brooke.
“Yes,” Brooke said, nodding vigorously. “And everything else, too. Flowers, food, all that stuff. Can you?”
“Brooke, I’m flattered to be asked, but, I’m not a wedding planner—I can give you the name of several people locally who’d do a wonderful job. I work with most of them.…”
“That’s what I suggested,” Patricia said. “What we need is a professional planner to pull together all our vendors, the photographer, the caterer, the cake baker, the band, the valet-parking people…”
“I want Cara,” Brooke said. She crossed slim, freckled arms over her chest, and in that moment, Cara found new admiration for this bride who’d suddenly acquired a backbone. “She’s done tons of weddings for lots of girls I know, right?”
“Well, flowers for the weddings,” Cara said cautiously.
In fact, she’d been a de facto wedding planner lots of times, mostly for small weddings, as a favor to her budget-minded brides. And she’d complained, privately, to Bert, that she might as well have charged for the service, though she never had.
“See!” Patricia said. “Brooke, we’re not talking about some little cake and punch affair at the American Legion hall. Your father has budgeted two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
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