Save the Date

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  “I’ve called everybody we know. Nobody’s seen or talked to her. Wherever she went, she took her car. Marie told me you were asking about that.”

  “Did she pack any bags? Take a lot of clothes?”

  “I’m walking in the bedroom now to check.” Cara heard footsteps, and the sound of a door opening.

  “She’s got this duffel bag she takes when we go over to my folks’ house for the weekend. It’s not in the closet.”

  “What about clothes?”

  She heard the sound of hangers on a wooden rod, of drawers being opened and closed.

  “It’s hard to tell with her clothes. Wait. Yeah, her favorite jeans are gone. Maybe some shorts. Definitely her running shoes, although she sometimes leaves those in her car if she’s working out at lunch.”

  There was a long silence at the other end of the phone. Had he hung up?

  “Harris? Are you still there?”

  She could hear him breathing heavily. And then, a sort of muffled sob.

  “Harris?”

  “I should never have gone. I knew she didn’t want me to go. We had a fight about it. And we almost never fight. I never should have gone to those stinking clubs.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t about that,” Cara said. “Was there anything else worrying her, something she was upset about?”

  “Not that she talked about,” Harris said. “Brooke was … moody sometimes. She needed her space. I tried to give it to her. I love her, you know?”

  “I know,” Cara said. “And she loves you. She told me so.”

  “Then why would she leave? Where would she go?”

  “We’ll find out,” Cara said soothingly. “Brides … sometimes it all becomes too much for them. Sometimes they just have these little meltdowns. That’s probably all this is. Like you said, Brooke needs her space.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do,” Cara lied.

  56

  “Holy shit,” Bert said. “Brooke Trapnell is a runaway bride?”

  “Looks like it. Harris hasn’t seen her since she left for work Friday morning. They’d had a fight, because she hated the idea of his doing the strip-club stag-night thing with his buddies.”

  Before Cara could explain any more, Marie Trapnell called back.

  “What did Harris tell you?” she asked urgently.

  “Her car is gone, and she apparently packed an overnight bag. So we know she went of her own accord. She wasn’t abducted or anything.”

  “Thank God for that,” Marie said. “I can’t tell you all the things running through my mind right now. This is just such a nightmare. Why would she do something like this? If she needed to get away, why not at least tell me? She knows how I worry.”

  “I talked to Brooke Friday, to remind her about her portrait sitting, and she did seem stressed.” Cara said. “She even admitted she was dreading the bachelorette party, but she never said she was thinking of skipping it. So it looks like she probably left sometime Saturday.”

  “Why did you want me to ask Harris about his Facebook page?” Marie asked. “He told me he didn’t know what you were talking about, but I know he was lying.”

  Cara hesitated. She hated to rat Harris out, but on the other hand, Marie had a right to know what might have triggered her daughter’s flight.

  “One of Harris’s buddies posted some pretty risqué pictures of him from the bachelor’s party on Harris’s Facebook page.”

  “Risqué, how?”

  “There were pictures of him getting a lap dance from a stripper.”

  “That’s revolting. It doesn’t even sound like Harris.”

  “He said he was pretty drunk. I saw the pictures, and he looked like he was about to pass out. Which he apparently did later that night.”

  “And you think maybe Brooke saw those pictures, and that’s why she left?”

  “That could be part of it. Brooke told me she and Harris had a fight about it, because she didn’t want him to go to those strip clubs. But maybe that’s just part of it. I don’t really know, Marie. I’m not a therapist. I’m only a florist-slash-wedding-planner.”

  “I’m just trying so hard to understand what was going through Brooke’s mind. I don’t dare say this to Harris or Gordon, but I’m terrified Brooke will hurt herself.”

  “Oh, yikes. I hadn’t even thought about Gordon. How’s he handling this?”

  “In typically Gordon style. He’s furious at Brooke for quote ‘pulling a stunt like this.’ It doesn’t occur to him that perhaps his daughter is in some kind of emotional distress. All he can think about is how it affects him. How embarrassing it will be if the wedding doesn’t come off as planned. He’s already talking about hiring a private detective to track her down.”

  “Would he really do that?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Gordon’s not somebody who just sits around waiting for things to happen. He’s used to making them happen. Right now. Times like these, I have no idea how we ever ended up marrying or staying together for as long as we did.”

  “But you did, and the two of you raised an amazing daughter. I’m sure Brooke is okay, and she wouldn’t hurt herself, Marie. Like I told Harris, she probably just needs some alone time.”

  “Have you ever had a bride do anything like this before?”

  Cara had to think. “Just disappear? Without saying anything to anybody?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No.”

  “Oh God.” Marie was weeping. “I’m so sorry, Cara. I’m trying not to fall to pieces, but I can’t stand not knowing where she is, or what she’s going through.”

  “It’s all right, Marie,” Cara said. “I don’t blame you for being upset. Let me think a moment. Does Brooke have any special ‘happy place’—someplace she likes to retreat to? Maybe a friend’s mountain cabin, or a beach cottage or something?”

  “Gordon and Patricia have a condo down at St. Simon’s, but I doubt she’d go there. I don’t think she even has a key.”

  “You might ask Gordon to check on that. Where else?”

  “She and Harris have rented cottages in Highlands, North Carolina. They usually go in the fall, with other couples.”

  “Maybe ask Harris to call the real-estate company they rent from, to see if they’ve heard from Brooke.”

  “That’s a thought. You’re making me feel better already, Cara.”

  “I’m just taking stabs in the dark here Marie. There’s just as good a chance that she found a motel room on the interstate and she’s lounging by the pool, drinking a Margarita.”

  “No. That doesn’t sound like Brooke at all.”

  Cara threw her hands up in exasperation. “I’m sorry. I’m out of ideas.”

  “I am too,” Marie said, her voice nearly a whisper. “But I’ve got to keep trying.”

  “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know,” Cara promised. “Try not to worry too much, Marie. Brooke’s a smart, resourceful woman. She can take care of herself.”

  “I hope so.”

  * * *

  Cara hung up the phone and turned to Bert. “I’ve got a really bad feeling in my gut about this.”

  Bert’s eyes widened. “What? You really think she might be in some kind of physical danger? Like, maybe somebody really did abduct her?”

  Cara shook her head. “No. It’s not that. Her car’s gone, she packed a suitcase. Brooke went of her own free will. And that’s what’s got me so worried. If she doesn’t come back—if that wedding doesn’t come off? I’m through. That’s a twenty-five-thousand-dollar paycheck that doesn’t get written. I absolutely promised the Colonel I’d get him the rest of his money by next week. And I’ve got all these bills coming due, first and last month’s rent on the new place, plus the expenses of getting moved in over there.”

  She swallowed hard, trying to suppress the tide of fear and panic that had begun bubbling just below the surface as soon as she’d heard the news
that Brooke Trapnell was missing.

  “Technically? It’s not really your problem, Cara. As of yesterday, per your contract, Gordon Trapnell owed you the balance of your fee, whether the wedding happens or not.”

  Cara sighed. “That’s true. But if this wedding doesn’t come off, there’s no way, short of suing, that Patricia will write that check. Anyway, I really care about Brooke and Harris.”

  Bert rolled his eyes. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I wish I knew. I honestly do think this is just a classic case of pre-wedding jitters. If I could find Brooke, and talk to her, I really believe I could help her see that this is totally normal. I’ve never done a wedding where the bride didn’t freak out, in some way.”

  Bert nodded agreement. “What was that girl’s name—the one who kicked her maid of honor out of the wedding party because she wouldn’t grow her hair out long like the rest of the bridesmaids?”

  “Cherish Scanlon,” Cara said. “And don’t forget about Vanessa Pettigrew. She literally plucked out all her eyebrows and eyelashes three days before the wedding.”

  “Poor girl looked like a Chihuahua,” Bert said.

  “When I worked for Norma we had a bride who was so nervous during the ceremony she literally passed out cold, right at the altar. When she fell, she somehow bit her own tongue, there was blood everywhere.…”

  “Maybe Brooke knows something we don’t,” Bert said gently. “Even in bizarro bride world, running away is pretty radical, don’t you think?”

  “No. This is just how Brooke Trapnell operates. I’ve been working with this girl for weeks and weeks now. It’s just stress, that’s all. If I could just talk to her…”

  “Give her a call,” Bert suggested.

  “Everybody has tried calling her. Her mom, Harris. I’m sure Gordon’s tried to reach her too. This is typical Brooke behavior. She never returns phone calls. The only success I’ve ever had reaching her is with a text.”

  “So text her. What have you got to lose?”

  Cara stared at Bert. She grabbed her phone and started typing, her fingers flying so quickly over the keyboard she had to start over three times. Finally, she got it right.

  Brooke. Where are you?

  She hit send and held her breath. A minute later, Cara’s phone dinged.

  Promise u won’t tell?

  Cara looked over at Bert. He nodded.

  Promise.

  She waited five long minutes before her phone dinged again.

  Brooke had typed only one word.

  Loblolly.

  Bert had been reading over her shoulder. “Huh? Is that a typo? Was she trying to write LOL—you know, laughing out loud?”

  “No,” Cara said slowly. She smacked her forehead. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it. Loblolly is the name of some house that used to belong to Brooke’s mother’s family. It’s on Cumberland Island.”

  “Why would she go to Cumberland Island of all places?”

  Cara thought back to her lunch at Johnny Harris, of the lanky park ranger who’d dropped by their table, and Brooke’s confession about their secret romance. What was his name? Pete something?

  “I’ve been to Cumberland Island. There’s nothing over there,” Bert was saying.

  “Wrong,” Cara said. “There’s a house, someplace that used to be special to Brooke. And a man. He used to be special too. Maybe he still is.”

  “And how do you happen to know all this?”

  “When I had lunch with Brooke at Johnny Harris last week, we ran into this guy—he was kind of geeky-looking, not at all somebody you’d picture Brooke Trapnell with. But she got all flustered after they spoke. It turns out he was this secret college flame she’d had. She actually told me she was sleeping with him the summer before she started law school—even though she was unofficially engaged to Harris.”

  “Oooh. Quel scandal!”

  “Right. Anyway, he came by the table before leaving, and was sort of hinting that he wanted to get together with her. He works as some sort of park ranger or something, and he’s temporarily posted on Cumberland Island. Cara told him straight up that she was getting married. She even introduced me as her wedding planner. But she gave him her business card.”

  “Which you don’t do unless you want somebody to call you again,” Bert pointed out.

  “He asked her if they still went to the family place over there. Loblolly. And Brooke said no, not in years. Listen, where exactly is Cumberland Island? Is it somewhere around Savannah? Or Hilton Head?”

  “It’s about two hours south of here. Almost to the Florida line. The whole island used to belong to the Carnegie family—the steel magnates? They had a couple big spooky old mansions and a farm and a few other houses for their staff going all the way back to the late 1800s. But a few years ago they deeded or sold almost all of it over to the National Park Service. One of the mansions burned down years ago, you can still see the ruins, and some of the Carnegie heirs run a really expensive inn you can stay at, but other than that, it’s all just wilderness.. I remember, we went camping out there when I was a Boy Scout. I was totally traumatized when I figured out there was no outlet for my hair dryer in the outhouse.”

  “You were a Boy Scout?”

  “I liked the uniform,” Bert said. “Are you sure this Loblolly place is on Cumberland? I thought the only people who still had houses over there were Carnegies. Is Marie Trapnell a Carnegie?”

  “Who knows? It doesn’t really matter anyway. What matters is, I need to go down there, and find Brooke Trapnell.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Bert asked. “Why don’t you just leave that to her fiancé, or her parents?”

  “Because I promised her I wouldn’t tell. Anyway, if Brooke really is on that island, I think there’s a chance she’s with that old flame, the park ranger. What do you think Harris would do if he figured that out?”

  “Call off the wedding, probably.”

  “Which is why I’ve got to go myself,” Cara said. “I’m going to go down to Cumberland Island, and find Brooke Trapnell, and then I’m going to drag her back to Savannah and put on the most amazing wedding anybody in this town has ever seen.”

  “High five,” Bert said.

  57

  Cara raced into her bedroom and unearthed her backpack from her closet while Bert sat on her bed and researched Cumberland Island on Google.

  “There are only two ferry departures a day from the Park Service dock at St. Marys, at nine and eleven-forty-five a.m.,” he reported. “You’re supposed to call weekdays before five p.m. to make a reservation.”

  “What if you decide on Sunday afternoon that you want to go on Monday morning?”

  “Mmm, looks like if you don’t have a reservation it’s first-come, first-serve. You’re supposed to be there half an hour before departure time. Only two return trips a day, at ten-fifteen a.m. and four-forty-five p.m.”

  Cara started folding a T-shirt to put in her bag.

  “Bad idea,” Bert said. “Long sleeves are the way to go over there. The place is crawling with bugs. Make sure you throw in some insect repellent and some sunscreen too. Can I ask about your plan of attack?”

  “You can ask, but I don’t really have one. I guess I’ll get over to Cumberland, track Brooke down, and then hope and pray she’ll listen to good sense.”

  “About the tracking-down thing. You do realize the island is like twenty miles long, right? And most of it’s either woods, swamp, or beaches. And only rangers or residents are allowed to have cars.”

  Cara threw in a pair of running shorts, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans, then added hiking boots, socks, panties, and a toothbrush to her pack.

  She frowned. “Check that website, see if you see a place called Loblolly on it.”

  Bert skimmed the website, and clicked around until he found a reference.

  “‘Loblolly is a circa-1912 hunting lodge built to house overflow guests from Plum Orchard, the Carnegies’ opulent hundre
d-room Georgian Revival mansion. In 1930, Loblolly was deeded to Jasper O. Updegraff, a wealthy friend of George Carnegie, who reportedly won the property in a high-stakes poker game.’”

  “Updegraff.” Cara turned the name over in her mind. “Vicki Cooper told me that Marie Trapnell came from a family with even more money than Gordon’s, but I can’t remember if she told me the family name.”

  “One moment,” Bert said, typing in a Google search. “Okay, here it is. Brooke’s engagement announcement from the Savannah Morning News. Mary Brooke Trapnell, daughter of Gordon Vincent Trapnell of Vernonburg, and Marie Louise Eagleton Trapnell, of Savannah.”

  “Gotta love the Savannah newspaper for running those engagement announcements so everybody in polite society can keep a scorecard on who’s marrying whom,” Cara said.

  “Cullen reads the engagement announcements in the Savannah and Charleston papers religiously, and if he sees an upper-crust name, he always sends flowers to the bride-to-be,” Bert said. “You’d be amazed the amount of business it generates.”

  “Yes, he’s quite the entrepreneur,” Cara said. “I wonder if he makes it a habit to steal heirloom silver from any of those brides?”

  “Updegraffs,” Bert muttered. “Updegraff?”

  “Keep looking,” Cara said. “If the house belonged to Marie’s mother’s family, maybe that’s the Updegraff connection.”

  “Okay … yeah. Here we go. There’s a story about Brooke’s debut from a few years ago. Daughter of Gordon and Marie, stepdaughter of Patricia, granddaughter of so and so Von Moneybags the Third, and great-granddaughter of the late Dr. and Mrs. Warner Updegraff of Sea Island, Georgia.”

  “Bingo.” Cara found a bottle of bug spray and threw it into the bag. “So, the question is, how far is Loblolly from the ferry dock, and if there are no cars, how do I get there once I’m on the island?”

  “Checking. This says Loblolly is five miles from the dock. That’s a pretty good hike in June. But it does say you can rent a bike.” Bert looked up at her. “Did I mention there are no motels? Just primitive tent camping. And the Greyfield Inn, where rooms without a private bath start at around five hundred dollars a night.”