Cara carefully gathered the forty-five-pound puppy in her arms. She found the hose bib, turned it on, and, placing a finger over the nozzle, gently sprayed the dog’s face and the top of her head with it. Poppy’s pink tongue worked furiously, lapping at the sun-warmed water. At some point, Cara searched for the thermometer attached to the courtyard wall. Ninety degrees, and it was now nearly six o’clock.
Somehow, she got to her feet, with Poppy still cradled in her arms. She jerked the back door open, sprinted toward the front of the shop.
Ginny Best was standing by the front door, her pocketbook over her shoulder, smiling into her cell phone. “Okay, if you’re sure you’ve done your spelling words, we’ll go out for ice cream when we get home.” Her eyes widened when she saw her employer.
“I’ll see you in a bit,” Ginny said hastily, ending the call.
“Did you do this?” Cara demanded. “Did you tie my dog to a tree and leave her out there all day with no shade and no water?”
“She had water,” Ginny protested.
“What kind of heartless, stupid bitch are you?” Cara felt her whole body shaking with barely contained fury. “It was nearly a hundred degrees out there today. You tie her up with four feet of rope, so she can’t get to shade, can’t get to water? And you leave her there? She could have died!”
“She was fine,” Ginny said. “You weren’t here. You don’t know. She kept whining to go out, then whining to come back in, and the phone was ringing, and when I went to load the van, she tried to get out of the gate. She would have run away! So I tied her up. And I gave her water. I did. She had a whole bowl of it. I figured she’d be okay.”
“How about this, Ginny? How about I take one of your kids and tie a rope around their neck and leave them out in the sun all day—with no water and no food? And dressed in a fur coat? Would that be okay?”
“She’s a dog, for God’s sake,” Ginny said. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“It certainly won’t,” Cara said. “You’re fired. Now get out of my sight before I do something we’ll both regret.”
* * *
The vet tech at the after-hours animal clinic found Cara in the waiting room, sitting beside an elderly man whose dachshund had eaten a remote control.
“Ms. Kryzik? Poppy’s fine. Why don’t you come back and see her now?”
* * *
Poppy was sprawled out on her side on an examining table, damp towels draped over her head and body, a small fan pointed toward her face. It reminded Cara of a spa treatment she’d once had. When the dog saw Cara, her tail thumped against the vinyl tabletop.
“My girl,” Cara whispered, kissing the towel on top of Poppy’s head. “My sweet, sweet girl. You had me so worried.”
“It’s a good thing you found her when you did,” the tech said, giving Poppy’s rump a fond pat. “Her body temp was right at a hundred and two. She was one degree from stroking out. You did the right thing too, wetting her down like that and getting her over here immediately. You’d be surprised how many people try to put a dog in an ice bath. They mean well, but that’s totally the wrong thing to do. It makes the surface blood vessels constrict, and that can kill a dog.”
Cara realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly now. “I guess I just reacted. I was so scared, and then so furious, I didn’t really have time to stop and think.”
“We gave her some Pedialyte and her urine checked out okay, and her heart’s fine,” the tech said. “So you can take her home now. Just try to keep her quiet tonight, and cool, of course. Let her have as much water as she wants, but don’t try to force her to drink.”
“I will. I mean, I won’t. I mean, I’m still pretty freaked out. Can you write all that down for me?” Cara asked.
* * *
She dragged Poppy’s dog bed downstairs and placed it in the workroom, near the air conditioner, which she turned on high. Screw the electric bill.
Poppy flopped down on her bed, but seemed restless, getting up every few minutes to stand in front of the front door, staring out at the now-dark sidewalk. Cara didn’t know if the dog was watching for enemy squirrels, or even worse, Ginny Best.
Cara was restless as well. She opened her laptop and checked her emails. There were at least forty more responses to her Craigslist ad. She read a few, silently, her reaction to the contents ranging from hopeless to hilarious. Finally, Poppy gave up her sentry post and returned to her bed.
“Here’s a good one,” Cara said, turning toward the drowsy dog and reading aloud.
“‘Hello sweet mommy. My name is Khalika and I am living in Gambia. I have read your requirements and am saying I am excellent candidate for professional job you are wanting. Please be immediate wiring two thousand dollars (American) for air travel expenses.’”
Poppy’s bright pink tongue lolled from her mouth.
“Wonder if he’s single?” Cara mused.
She was still reading when the laptop dinged, signaling the arrival of a new message in her inbox.
“I don’t believe it,” Cara said, staring at the message.
“Poppy, listen to this. It’s an email from that stupid bitch Ginny. The one who tried to kill you earlier today? Here’s what she says.”
Poppy opened one eye, lifted one ear.
“‘Hi. I’ll come by the shop tomorrow to pick up my paycheck for ten hours worked. I’m assuming you won’t be taking out taxes or social security? Sincerely, Virginia Best.’”
Cara’s fingertips flew over the keyboard.
Hi Ginny. The bill for the emergency after-hours vet clinic for treating Poppy for heat stroke and deyhydration came to four hundred and fifty dollars. How about we call it even and you never come near here again? Otherwise you won’t have to worry about a dog attacking you. I’ll bite you my ownself. Sincerely, Cara Kryzik.
She read it aloud for Poppy’s approval. “What do you think, girl?”
The dog’s eyes were half closed. Her tail switched, and emitted a short, noxious blast of gas.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Cara hit the Send button.
53
Poppy seemed good as new by Friday morning. Cara took her out for a brief early-morning stroll at 7:30, taking a cautionary interest in her urine output, as the vet tech had suggested. All was well.
Except that she was running a one-woman show again. Reluctantly concluding that there was no way she could do it all, Cara referred phone and email orders to another downtown florist, and even paid the florist to deliver the few arrangements Ginny Best had finished before her Thursday banishment.
Cara was working on placing the Trapnell order with her California shipper when the office phone rang. She grabbed the receiver.
“Bloom. This is Cara.”
“Hi Cara, it’s Meredith. Have you talked to your bride today?”
“Which bride?”
“Brooke Trapnell. She was supposed to sit for her wedding portrait in my studio today. She’s nearly an hour late.”
Cara squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. “Have you tried to call her?”
“I don’t have her number. I made the arrangements with you, remember?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll call and suggest she get her tiny little heinie over there pronto. Sorry for the hassle.”
She considered her best strategy for contacting Brooke Trapnell. Emails were a waste of time, and phone calls were iffy at best. A text just might get the girl’s attention.
Brooke! Call me ASAP! Very important! Cara
Ten minutes later, when she’d still had no reply, she tried again.
Brooke! Don’t make me call Patricia.
Her phone rang almost as soon as the text sent.
“Very funny,” Brooke said, chuckling. “What’s so important that you had to threaten to bring in the big guns?”
“Do you know what day it is?” Cara asked.
“It’s Friday. Lunchtime. I only know that because everybody else in my office is eating lunch, whil
e I’m still sitting at my desk buried in Georgia code.”
“You’re supposed to be at the photographer’s,” Cara said pointedly.
“Oh hell! I completely forgot. I had a deposition that ran long this morning, and my whole day has been screwed up.”
“You were due there almost an hour ago.”
“I can’t get away now, that’s for sure. Give me her number, and I’ll call and rebook.”
“Do both of us a favor and see that you do, okay? Otherwise your stepmother is going to hound me into an early grave. She wants that wedding portrait as a belated Father’s Day gift for your dad.”
“Why? Gordon’s not her daddy. He’s mine.”
“Take it up with her, not me,” Cara said. “Um, while I have you on the phone, did you and Harris kiss and make up yesterday? Your mom and Libba were pretty upset when you left the way you did.”
“Geez,” Brooke said. “I should have known blabbermouth Patricia would tell you we were fighting about the damned bachelor party. My girlfriends keep saying it’s no biggie—just a bunch of overaged frat guys getting hammered and cruising strip clubs. And Harris insists it’s harmless. They’ve rented a van and a driver to take them to Atlanta and back. ‘Good dirty fun’ he calls it.”
“But you don’t see it that way.”
“No. When I was a first-year associate I had a pro-bono client—a girl who’d worked in one of those clubs. She was barely twenty-one and had a five-year-old son and a string of prostitution and solicitation arrests. And a raging meth habit. She told me what it was like working in a strip club. They treat those girls like … trash. They post rules telling them they’re not allowed to fraternize with the customers, but the only way the girls make tips is by coming on to the guys, offering them, you know, hand jobs or whatever out in the parking lot. My client got busted for meth, and her little boy ended up in foster care. I’ve never forgotten her.”
“Did you tell all that to Harris?”
“I told him I hated the idea, and he said he couldn’t cancel, because all the guys would say he was pussy-whipped.”
Cara could see both points of view. They were both right, but there would be no winner over an issue like this.
“It’s just one night,” she pointed out.
“You sound like my mom. I know, I’m a bitch. I’ll get over it. I guess I’m just really, really tired. This sounds awful but I wish I didn’t have my own bachelorette party tomorrow night.”
“Aww, you don’t want to miss your bachelorette party,” Cara said. “What are you doing?”
“Holly won’t tell me. It’s supposed to be some big surprise. All I know is, there better not be any male strippers involved.”
“I’m sure they’ll have something fun planned for you. Look, Brooke. I know you have a lot on your plate right now with the trial and the wedding. And it probably doesn’t do much good for people to tell you to relax and stop stressing, but I’ve done tons and tons of weddings, and I’m telling you, relax. Your wedding is supposed to be fun, you know?”
“Fun,” Brooke said dully. “Got it.”
“Magical.”
“Right.”
“Never mind,” Cara said, finally. “Please, please, I beg you, call Meredith and get over there and have your wedding portrait taken. And while you’re at it, you might practice smiling.”
54
Because her real-estate agent knew how to make things happen—or maybe just because her new about-to-be landlord had a certain laissez-faire attitude about legal matters—Cara picked up the key to the Hall Street duplex Saturday afternoon.
Friday night must have been a happening scene on this block. Empty malt-liquor bottles, fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, and even something she feared might be a condom littered the sidewalk out front of the building. Cara made a mental note to bring a hose, a bottle of Pine-Sol, and a scrub brush on her next trip back.
Poppy sat down on the sidewalk while Cara unlocked the front door. “Come on, girl,” Cara said, stepping inside and flipping the light switch. “Let’s see our new place.”
The dog wouldn’t budge. “Let’s go,” Cara urged, gesturing toward the doorway. “Check it out. I’ll bet there’s a whole bunch of squirrels out back.”
Cara couldn’t bear to tug at the dog’s neck, with its fresh abrasions from Thursday. In the end, she simply picked Poppy up and plopped her down inside the building.
The inside of the shop wasn’t much cheerier than the exterior. Alice Murphy said the last tenant had been a dry cleaner and alterationist. The faded linoleum floor was gritty underfoot; the wide plate-glass window was streaked with dust and what looked like remnants of masking tape.
She forced herself to overlook the negative and focus on the positive. The walls were the original exposed brick, and there was a handsome fireplace with a carved Victorian mantelpiece and stained marble hearth. The walls would be charming once she pressure-washed them, and the fireplace, which was intended to burn coal, could perhaps be fitted with gas logs, which might be nice on what passed for a cold winter day in Savannah. The front room was much wider and deeper than the shop on Jones Street. Eventually, maybe she’d have a large showroom here, with a counter and display shelves, with the workroom separated by a partition or finished wall.
For now, though, with the huge bump in rent, she’d have to leave things as they were.
Before being turned into commercial space, Cara knew this floor of the building, like most of the others on the block, had been residential. There were still a small kitchen and a tiny, squalid bathroom here, and a back door that led out to a large fenced area.
She opened the thick fire door and frowned at the sight that met her eyes. Impossible to find anything to like here. The space couldn’t even be called a yard, and it certainly wasn’t a garden. It was overgrown with weeds, and a tall, narrow, sickly-looking magnolia tree blocked whatever sunlight might otherwise have shone there. She could see a couple of bashed-up Dumpsters next to the stockade fence, and next to them was an abandoned supermarket shopping cart, probably stolen from the Kroger a few blocks away. Cara shuddered, sure the area was probably teeming with rats, snakes, spiders, and God knew what else. She would have to have the yard cleared out and mowed before she’d dare let Poppy out there.
One more thing to add to her to-do list. She closed the door, locked and bolted it.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she told Poppy. The dog yawned and dropped to the floor. Only a puppy, and she was already a prima donna.
The staircase was narrow and steep, with worn risers and a handrail and balustrades thick with gummy layers of old paint.
At the top of the stairs she stood and took it all in. Her new home. The wallpaper was a dusty blue pattern of baby ducks and tulips, circa 1982, Cara thought. She knew there were probably wooden floors under the cheap commercial carpet, but she also knew she wouldn’t be pulling that carpet up to find out anytime soon.
“It’s a nice, big space,” Alice Murphy had pointed out. Big, yes; nice, not so much.
Whoever had installed that fugly wallpaper back in the eighties had also seen fit to install a dropped ceiling of stained and yellowed acoustical tile. She was standing in the living room, which had a fireplace that roughly matched the one on the first floor. It was also much bigger than her apartment on Jones Street, but with not a scintilla of appeal. An arched doorway led from the living room to the dining room, which led to the kitchen.
The kitchen was about what you’d expect. Yellow vinyl floor, cheap orangish-stained pine cabinets, laminate countertops littered with cockroach corpses, rusting stove and fridge, no dishwasher, tiny sink. Depressing. A window over the sink overlooked the Dumpster graveyard.
Cara meant to head up to the third floor, where her bedroom would be, but suddenly found she lacked the energy.
Poppy was where she’d left her in the living room. “Come on, girl,” she said, opening the door. “Let’s go back home. While we still can.”
* * *
She stripped down to shorts and a tank top in the Jones Street apartment, and halfheartedly began packing boxes of books. After an hour or so, she gave up, and plopped down on the sofa. She’d brought her laptop upstairs, and out of boredom, logged on to Facebook.
Cara had a business page for Bloom, and in the past, she’d made a regular practice of posting pictures of happy brides and beautiful bouquets. It was good marketing, and most of the “likers” on her page were former clients or other vendors in the wedding business.
She was scrolling down the page when a bubble popped up on her screen—a private message from Layne Pelletier.
OMG—have you seen this? There was a link, and Cara clicked it, the link taking her to Harris Strayhorn’s Facebook page.
The OMG-inspired item Layne referred to was a timeline photo at the top of Harris’s page. It was definitely a cell-phone picture, with bad lighting and fuzzy focus, but there was no mistaking the subject matter: Harris Strayhorn, leaning back in a chair, his eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth slack, with a very naked, voluptuous redhead straddling his lap. And just to make it clear who the subject of the photo was, the caption read HARRIS STRAYHORN TAKES IT LIKE A MAN.
There was a whole album of photos, and each one was worse than the one before—fifteen in all, fifteen photos of a bunch of overaged frat guys in a cheesy strip club, including five or six starring the bridegroom and man of the hour, Harris Strayhorn, receiving lap dances from two different naked women.
Cara felt a little sick. It was nearly four in the afternoon. The photos had been posted hours ago. Why hadn’t Harris taken them down? Brooke had to have seen them by now. She glanced at the post again. There were forty-two comments and sixty-eight likes.
She closed the laptop, went to the refrigerator, and got a bottle of cold water. She felt like she also needed a cold shower, to rinse away the ugly images she’d just viewed.
* * *
Dinner was a slice of pizza at nine o’clock. She wasn’t really hungry, but she needed to get out of the house, so she and Poppy strolled over to Mellow Mushroom on West Liberty Street.
Save the Date Page 34