Save the Date

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Stepping carefully to avoid broken glass and worse on the lane’s crumbling asphalt paving, he unlocked the truck and reached under the front seat, pulling out the rolled-up jeans and clean T-shirt he kept there. He stretched across the seat, opened the glove box, and scrabbled around until he found a box of kitchen matches.

  He was just locking the truck again when a shiny black Lexus rolled slowly down the lane. The car’s windshield was tinted, so he couldn’t see the driver, until he stopped right beside Jack and the electric window slid down.

  The driver was a white guy, late thirties, with blond hair and a deeply tanned face. Despite the tinted windows, he wore a pair of Ray-Bans.

  Jack didn’t know the guy. He tucked the clean clothes under his arm and started back toward the gate.

  “Hey man,” the stranger called out.

  Jack turned around, but said nothing.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  Jack shrugged, and the towel settled lower on his hips. He retucked it. “Not much.” He turned to go again.

  “Some kinda party goin’ on in there?” The blond jerked his chin in the direction of the courtyard and the town house beyond and smirked.

  “Nope.” Was the guy trying to proposition him? The historic district had a vibrant gay community, and it was well known that people sometimes trolled the quieter lanes and parks looking for a casual hookup. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been approached. And after all, Jack was standing in the lane, barefoot and dressed only in a towel.

  “See ya,” Jack said, and he motored back inside, being careful to lock and padlock the gate behind him. The Lexus rolled on down the lane, and he went inside to get dressed.

  While he was grilling the steaks, Cara put the potatoes in the oven and threw together a salad, slicing fat, ripe red tomatoes she’d bought at the Saturday farmers’ market in Forsyth Park, and crumbling locally made goat cheese into a vinaigrette dressing. She went out to the garden to snip some dill and chives from her herb patch, and handed Jack a cold Moon River.

  He gave her an appreciative kiss, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You smell nice,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.

  “So do you. Hey—did you use my shampoo and conditioner?”

  “Sure. If that’s a problem, next time, I’ll bring my own.”

  “What makes you think there’s gonna be a next time?” She stifled a giggle.

  He ran his hands up under her T-shirt. “There will be. You can’t get enough of me, right? You’re insatiable, right?”

  Cara pushed him away lightly. “Don’t burn my steak, wise guy.”

  The mosquitoes and gnats swarmed the garden right at dusk, so they ate at the dining-room table, moving the box fans from the bedroom into the living area.

  Jack sipped the last of the wine she’d poured him, and pushed back from the table.

  “That was great,” he said. “I guess I could cook if I took the trouble, but living alone, hell, most of the time when I get home from work, I have a microwave burrito or something like that. Having a real steak, and salad, all of it, that’s a treat.” He turned and flipped a bit of steak to Shaz, who had spent the past hour crouched by his feet, hoping for a treat.

  “The books say you shouldn’t give dogs table scraps,” Cara said. She looked down at Poppy, who’d also been hanging around, hoping for a handout.

  “You always go by what the books say?”

  “No. But Poppy’s breeder said the same thing.”

  He grunted something noncommittal, then sighed. “I’ll get these dishes cleaned up, then I better get on down the road. Early day out at Cabin Creek tomorrow.”

  She nodded, and helped carry their dishes into the kitchen. He ran soapy water in her sink, carefully washed and rinsed everything while she dried. When the kitchen was cleaned up, he whistled for Shaz.

  “Let’s go girl,” he called. The dog stood slowly.

  Cara followed them downstairs. “Oh. I almost forgot. Your clothes.” She moved toward the washer-dryer, but Jack caught her by the hand. “Why don’t I leave ’em here? You know, just in case?”

  “You mean for next time? You’re not very subtle, you know.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “Subtle no. Smooth yes.” He kissed her deeply and sighed.

  “Hmm?” Cara inhaled his scent, and halfway wished he’d stay.

  “Today was fun,” Jack said. “I mean it. It wasn’t like work at all. We make a good team, you know. And then dinner was awesome—the only time I get a real Sunday dinner is if I drop by my mom’s house.”

  Cara raised one amused eyebrow. “And before dinner?”

  “I was pretty amazing, wasn’t I?”

  She swatted his arm.

  “Okay. You were amazing too.”

  She grinned. “Wait’ll you get the bill.”

  31

  Monday morning hadn’t started well. It was hot. And sticky, and the box fans at Bloom did little more than circulate more hot, sticky air. At eight o’clock, Cara called Sylvia Bradley and left a message on her phone.

  “Sylvia? This is Cara Kryzik calling again about the broken air-conditioning over here on Jones Street. I’m sorry about your mother, but I really, really need you to get somebody over here to see about replacing our unit. Please call me.”

  At nine, she called again.

  “Sylvia? Cara. It is eighty-eight degrees in my shop. Eighty-eight degrees! Upstairs it’s in the nineties. This is totally unacceptable. Please call and let me know when I can expect to have a new unit.”

  Slamming the phone down, Cara got up and walked over to the fan, pulling her damp tank top away from her chest. She had a million things to do today, but the heat had already drained her of energy.

  She was in the kitchenette, fetching another bottle of cold water, when she heard the shop bell tinkle.

  “Cara?”

  Crap. She knew that voice. Why today, of all days?

  Forcing a smile, she walked into the front room. “Lillian! So nice to see you. And what a beautiful tan from Bermuda!”

  Lillian Fanning did not return her smile. Actually, her narrow, carefully made-up face was more pink than tan, and Cara had a feeling it wasn’t just from the heat.

  “What’s going on?” Lillian demanded, pointing at the dueling window fans. “It feels like a third-world country in here.”

  “Our air-conditioning is broken. I’ve called our landlady but…”

  “Appalling. Look, Cara,” Lillian interrupted. “This isn’t a social call. My epergne? Where is it?”

  “Epergne?”

  “Yes. My grandmother’s silver epergne that you used at Brooke’s reception.”

  “Isn’t it with the rest of the silver? I mean, Bert delivered that silver to you Friday afternoon, didn’t he?”

  “The rest of the silver, yes. It was in the kitchen when I got home late Friday. But not the epergne. The most valuable piece I own. Is it still here, Cara?”

  Cara felt a familiar knot of fear and panic in the pit of her stomach. She tried to think, tried to remember if she’d actually seen the epergne in with the rest of the Fannings’ pieces.

  “I … I don’t know, Lillian. I put the bin of silver in the back of the van Friday afternoon, and I guess I just assumed it was in there. You’re sure it’s not at your house?”

  “Of course I’m sure! Sunday morning, I unpacked all of it. I wanted to polish everything before putting the pieces back in the tarnish-proof bags I keep them in. But the epergne wasn’t there.”

  Cara’s mind raced. “Maybe it fell out of the bin. I can check in the back of the van.”

  “You do that.” Lillian’s voice was steely. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll wait right here.”

  “The thing is, I can’t. Bert, my assistant, is driving the van. He’s uh … out on a delivery.”

  The truth of the matter was, her assistant was MIA again this morning. Along with the van, which he’d had over the weekend.
/>   “Can you call him? Ask him to check to see if it’s there?”

  “Of course.” Cara gestured toward the chair closest to the window and the fan. “Please sit. I’ll get you a bottle of water.…”

  “I’m not thirsty.” She lifted her hair from the nape of her neck and exhaled noisily. “How do you stand this?”

  “Be right back,” Cara said. She fled into the hallway with her cell phone and punched in Bert’s cell-phone number, which immediately went to voicemail.

  “Bert! Where the hell are you? Lillian Fanning is standing in the shop with smoke coming out of her ears. Her epergne was missing from that bin of silver you dropped off Friday. I need you to check in the van to see if it fell out. Call me immediately, either way. Like right now!”

  Cara reluctantly retraced her sheps to the front of the shop.

  “Well?” Lillian Fanning hadn’t moved. “What did he say? Did he find it?”

  Cara’s throat was so dry she thought she might spit cotton. “Um, actually I couldn’t reach him. He’s probably out on Wilmington Island. There’s a dead zone there, do you know the spot? Right on Johnny Mercer? My cell calls always get dropped there.”

  “Did you leave him a message? Does he understand how important this is?”

  “I did, and we both understand how important this is. I promise, Lillian, as soon as he calls me, I’ll call you. I feel sure the epergne probably just spilled out of the bin in the back of the van, and Bert didn’t notice it.”

  “I hope that’s the case,” Lillian said huffily. “That epergne is a family heirloom. It was made by a Savannah silversmith in the eighteenth century, and of course, it’s a museum-quality piece, which means it’s irreplaceable.”

  All she could do was nod and walk Lillian to the door.

  “I’ll call,” Cara promised, yet again.

  * * *

  After Lillian’s departure, Cara called Torie’s wedding photographer.

  “Billy? It’s Cara. Can you do me a huge favor? I know you haven’t delivered the proof book from the Fanning wedding yet, but I’ve got a problem. Can you look through your shots of the reception and see if you’ve got one of the table for gifts and cards? I’m looking for a shot of this silver epergne we used to hold cards. It’s gone missing, and if it doesn’t turn up, I’m in a shitload of trouble.”

  “Damn, Cara,” Billy Shook said. “Was it Lillian’s?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Damn. I don’t ever want to deal with that woman again. I feel your pain, Cara. Pretty sure I’ve got at least one shot like that. I’ll look right now and email you whatever I find.”

  Half an hour and two more panicky phone calls later, she heard the van pull into the lane in back of the shop. It was nearly ten o’clock.

  Cara did a slow burn while she waited to confront her assistant.

  He strolled in through the back door, whistling. His damp hair was slicked back from his forehead, still bearing comb marks. He carried two grande iced macchiatos, one of which he handed to Cara, with his most ingratiating smile.

  “I know I’m a little late. Before you say anything, I’m sorry. Okay? Whew—it’s hot in here. What’s going on with Sylvia Bradley? Are they gonna fix the air, or what?”

  “We’ll get to that,” Cara said. “First off, why haven’t you returned any of my phone calls?”

  His face went blank. “Calls?” He reached into the pocket of his black skinny jeans and pulled out his phone. “Oh man. My battery’s dead. Sorry. I didn’t even realize. I left my charger at home.”

  “Second—this is the second Monday in a row that you’ve been over an hour late. And not a word to give me a heads-up. I’m running a business here, Bert. We’ve got orders to fill, deliveries to get out, work to do. What’s going on with you?”

  He shrugged and stared down at the floor. “Nothing. Hey, I said I was sorry.…”

  “And last week you said the same thing, and that it wouldn’t happen again. This isn’t like you, Bert. As your employer—and your friend—I think I deserve some kind of explanation.”

  “It’s nothing. I went out of town for the weekend, and we were delayed getting back this morning, and like I said, I left my phone charger at home.”

  “‘We’? This is a new boyfriend?”

  “Maybe,” he said, his expression sullen. “Since when does my private life become any of your business?”

  Cara felt her spine stiffen and her temples start to pound. “You make it my business when your private life interferes with your ability to do your job. Which is what’s been happening the past two weeks. I wasn’t going to say anything, because I was happy for you. But you leave me no choice. You disappear for hours at a time, slack off, ignore phone calls, come in late … and now this thing with Lillian’s silver epergne…”

  “What about the silver? C’mon, Cara. I told you I took the damned silver back to that bitch.…”

  “There’s a piece missing. Lillian Fanning showed up here this morning, loaded for bear, and I can’t say I blame her. Which is what I was trying to call you about. I wanted you to check to see if maybe it had fallen out of the bin and was in the back of the van. But you couldn’t be bothered to keep your phone charged. Or to come to work on time.”

  Bert shook his head obstinately. “Why are you making such a federal case out of this? I’ll go look right now.”

  “Fine,” Cara said. “Go look.”

  He hesitated. “What the fuck is an epergne anyway?”

  She pulled out the photo of the Fanning epergne that Billy Shook had emailed, and that she’d printed out.

  “It’s a centerpiece thingy. Multiple arms that can hold little fruits or candies or flowers. We used it in the tent at the wedding, to hold gift cards. Lillian’s is an eighteenth-century family heirloom. And she says it’s irreplaceable.”

  * * *

  They took the delivery van apart. Removed the racks for flower arrangements, lifted the bed liner, but there was no sign of the aforementioned epergne.

  Cara dragged herself back into the shop and held her head under the faucet in the kitchenette, letting cold water sluice over her face and hair. The thought occurred to her that this would be a handy way to drown herself.

  When she turned around, Bert stood in the doorway, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Beneath all the pouting and bravado, he obviously knew he’d messed up. “Now what?”

  She sighed. “I’ve got a menu tasting with Brooke Trapnell and her fiancé at the caterers in exactly forty-five minutes. So I’ve got to get myself presentable for that. In the meantime, I need you to take the van, and retrace—exactly—the route you took last Friday out to Isle of Hope and the Fannings’ house. Every stop—the hospital, any house you made a delivery to—every stop, Bert. You go in, and show them the photo of the epergne, and you ask if they’ve seen it.”

  He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Like that’s gonna work.”

  “Just do it,” she exploded. “And get yourself another charger for your phone. “

  32

  Delicious smells assaulted her nostrils as Cara pushed through the door at Fete Accompli. Layne Pelletier stood at attention just inside the door, hands clasped behind her back. She wore the traditional black and white checked slacks, clogs, and a white kerchief tied over her hair. Her white chef’s smock was spotless, her name embroidered in script over her left breast.

  Her face fell when she saw that Cara was alone. “The bride’s not with you?”

  “No. She and Harris called right before I left the shop and said they were running late. They’re supposed to meet me here.”

  “You don’t think they’ll stand us up, right? I’ve spent a small fortune fixing all this food.”

  “No, no, they’re coming,” Cara assured the caterer. “Marie made Brooke swear she had it on her calendar.”

  Cara followed her nose into the shop’s small dining area. A long wooden table held a starched white cloth and a small floral arrangement of lilies, roses
, and hypericum berries she’d had Bert drop by earlier on his way to track down the missing epergne.

  “I’m so hungry, I could faint,” Cara confided. A small round of roast beef stood on a carving stand under a red heat lamp, a pool of juices radiating out from it. Silver chafing dishes held a dozen other hot dishes. Shallow bowls filled with finely crushed ice held arrays of boiled shrimp, oysters, and stone-crab claws. A smoked salmon fillet was sprinkled with capers, finely diced hard-boiled eggs, and lemon slices.

  Wordlessly, Layne handed Cara a napkin, and loaded it with boiled shrimp.

  Cara walked down to the far end of the table. A silver tiered stand held half a dozen iced cupcakes. She turned to Layne. “Cupcakes? Cute, but that doesn’t seem like something the Trapnells are going to think is impressive.”

  “We won’t serve cupcakes. These are just all the different options for cake flavors and icings I can do. It’s not cost-effective for me to bake six whole wedding cakes for just a menu tasting,” Layne explained.

  The shop door opened, and Marie Trapnell stepped in. “Hi. Sorry to be late.”

  Cara introduced Layne and Marie, and Marie looked at her watch and frowned. “I can’t believe the kids aren’t here yet. Brooke texted me they were leaving her office fifteen minutes ago.” A faint chirp sounded from the direction of Marie’s pocketbook. She dug it out, read the text message, smiled, and held it up for the other women to see.

  On way. There in 5.

  “Wow!” Marie walked over to the buffet table. “This looks wonderful. Are we really going to have all this?”

  Layne glanced at Cara for an answer.

  “Not necessarily all of it. When I talked to your husband…”

  “Ex-husband, actually,” Marie said quietly.

  “Oh. Right. Sorry, of course. Anyway, Mr. Trapnell said he and his wife wanted to sample everything we offer, so they could get…”

  Marie’s face paled. “Are you saying that Gordon’s coming today? And Patricia too?”

  This was news to Cara. And not happy news.

  “Um, well, I think that was the plan. Isn’t that the plan?” Layne asked Cara.