Save The Date Part 8

"No!" Marie's voice was sharp. "You're the exact right florist for our wedding. Please don't bow out. I've seen your photo alb.u.m, I was at Torie's wedding. I know you'll give Brooke something lovely and memorable. I'll have Brooke look at your website, but I know she'll love your work. And then, maybe she can talk some sense into her daddy. If he'll listen to anybody, he'll listen to her."

"Of course," Cara said. "Talk it over with Brooke. Have her look at my portfolio. But do keep in mind that time is really running very short for a July wedding. If I'm going to do a good job, I'll need some kind of a commitment from you-by the end of the week. Does that sound reasonable?"

"Very reasonable." Marie stood and straightened the nonexistent wrinkles in her dress.

Cara nodded. "Just out of curiosity-do you happen to know what other florists your ex-husband is interviewing?"

Marie chewed her bottom lip. "It's just one florist. Somebody Patricia met at a wedding in Charleston. I don't actually know his name. Just that he's very well known, and considered very chic. I believe he's just opened a shop here in Savannah. I think he and Patricia have become bosom buddies."

"And Patricia is?"

Marie's brown eyes narrowed. "Gordon's new wife."

As soon as the would-be new client left, Bert popped his head out of the back room, where he'd been getting hospital orders ready for delivery. He rubbed his hands together in the manner of a cartoon villain. "Oooh. Drama."

Cara laughed. "Which I don't especially need in my life right now."

Poppy edged over to Bert and rubbed up against his legs.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Thang," Bert said, obligingly scratching the dog's ears. "When did you come home?"

"Yesterday morning. It seems her captor discovered his own dog at his vet's office. He showed up here at eight yesterday morning, looking pretty embarra.s.sed."

"Good for him," Bert said. "Poppy doesn't seem any worse for the wear, right?"

"Guess not," she admitted. "I had to give her a bath just to get rid of the smell of sawdust. And I don't ever want to go through a night like that again."

"Tell me about our new client. Obviously, I was eavesdropping from the back room. But I came in late. Who is she, and where did she come from?"

"Another of Vicki Cooper's friends. Her name is Marie Trapnell, and her daughter is marrying one of the Strayhorns."

"Big money marrying big money. Me likey," Bert said. "But the ex-husband has to approve you? And he's interviewing another florist? What is up with that?"

"Sounds like another control freak. Which I would just as soon avoid. Marie seems like a very nice person, but I honestly won't mind when they choose somebody else."

"Wait just a second," Bert protested. "Why wouldn't they choose you?"

"You heard the woman, right? The daddy wants some hotshot florist from Charleston. I guess this guy just decided to expand into Savannah."

Bert moved over to the laptop, and his long, tanned fingers began to fly over the keyboard. "Hang on, I'm Googling."

A moment later he looked up. "Well, his name is Cullen Kane, and from the look of his website, he has quite the business. Big-a.s.s shop on Tradd Street, and he's had lots of events published-Town and Country, Charleston Magazine, Garden and Gun, and on and on. He just expanded to Savannah last month. Opened a little outpost on Habersham Street."

Cara's curiosity got the better of her. "Let me see that thing." She peered over Bert's shoulder at the website. The opening page was an extreme closeup of a mouthwateringly beautiful all-white bride's bouquet, featuring velvety magnolia blossoms, crinum lilies, orange blossoms, and stephanotis.

She paged over to Cullen Kane's portfolio, which featured dozens of achingly gorgeous photographs of his flowers showcased in all kinds of settings.

Bert clicked the mouse on the About Us tab of the website, and read his bio aloud in a deeply accented Southern cartoon voice that made him sound like Foghorn Leghorn.

Cullen Kane is a native Charlestonian. He received his undergraduate degree in English Literature from the College of Charleston. Cullen spent his senior year abroad in England, where he met and studied floral design for three years under famed horticulturist Rosemary Verey. Returning to the States, Cullen settled in Napa Valley, California, where he became the in-house floral designer for Valleyview House, the largest private event venue in Napa. In 2008, Cullen returned home to Charleston, where he opened Cullen Kane Floral Design Studio.

"Here's a photo of him," Bert said, tapping the laptop screen.

"Oh s.h.i.+t," Cara said.

The photo of Cullen Kane showed him lounging in an artistically weathered Adirondack chair, with a stretch of the low-country marsh in the background. He was dressed in an open-necked white dress s.h.i.+rt, with a celadon-green sweater knotted casually over his shoulders. His glossy blond hair was worn stylishly long, he had a small goatee, and his hand rested lightly on a Cavalier King Charles spaniel in his lap. He was a candy-coated cinematic version of everything a Southern gentleman should look like.

"I'd hire him if I weren't me," Cara said glumly.

"He's certainly yummy-looking," Bert agreed. "You know, if you go in for that kind of screamingly effeminate, highly overqualified overachieving type. But if he's such a hotshot in Charleston, why would he want to open shop in Savannah?"

"To make my life a living h.e.l.l," she said.

Bert laughed. "That's right, Cara. Cullen Kane hasn't even met you and he's already conspiring to put you out of business and ruin your life. Are we feeling just the teeniest bit paranoid this morning?"

Monday was technically Cara's day off, but she hadn't hesitated to schedule the appointment with Marie Trapnell.

Now Poppy was standing by the door, scratching to go out.

"I'll take her if you like," Bert offered.

"Thanks, but it'll do me good to stretch my legs," Cara said. She grabbed Poppy's leash and clipped it to her collar, which she'd already shortened by a notch.

"Now listen," she told the puppy, who was already straining at her leash as they exited the shop. "Slow down. Heel. We've really got to work on this obedience thing, you know."

It was a spectacular late-spring morning. The sky was blue, and a slight breeze stirred the Spanish moss draping the live-oak trees.. She gave Poppy a little slack in her leash and the dog gamboled along happily down the street. Cara heard feet approaching rapidly from behind.

"On your left," a gruff voice called out. She stepped to the right just in time to avoid being mowed down by a sweaty male jogger wearing a white T-s.h.i.+rt and red running shorts. He had a familiar-looking puppy on a leash.

Poppy gave an excited yelp of recognition and lunged for the puppy and the jogger, nearly yanking Cara off her feet.

"Poppy, heel!" Cara exclaimd. "Sit!"

But Poppy did no such thing. She strained at her leash, whining her disappointment at being kept from joining the jogger.

It was him! Jack the dog thief. She watched as he and his dog sped away down the street, without so much as a backward glance. It had all happened so fast she'd nearly missed it. But yes, the other puppy did bear a resemblance to Poppy. She was certainly a goldendoodle, and she shared Poppy's creamy coloring and curly coat.

"Come on, girl," Cara said, giving her dog an affectionate ear scratch. "Let's get a move on before it gets too hot."

She and Poppy continued their stroll, walking down Jones to Whitaker, and then south on Whitaker, where she happily window-shopped at the half-dozen little boutiques and antique shops that were some of her favorite local haunts. They continued on Whitaker, crossing over at Gaston Street when they got close to Forsyth Park.

It was late, nearly ten, but the park was still full of joggers, dog walkers, and young mothers with babies in strollers and toddlers in tow. Cara greeted several young mothers who'd been her brides not so long ago. She and Poppy did one circuit of the park, then walked over to the Sentient Bean, where she treated herself to a cold bottle of water and an orange cranberry scone and Poppy to a vegan dog biscuit.

When they were within a block of home, Poppy, already a creature of habit at seven months, did her business in her own dainty way, squatting in her customary spot between two huge camellia bushes, as though she required absolute privacy from prying eyes. Cara cleaned up after her pet, and walked back to the shop, keeping a wary eye out for joggers with goldendoodles.

Bert was finis.h.i.+ng up a staid hospital arrangement of daisies and carnations.

"You're not going to believe it," he said, after she'd unclipped Poppy and washed her hands. "I just got off the phone with Lillian Fanning."

"And what was her complaint? Honestly, Bert, Torie's wedding was truly as close to perfection as I've ever gotten. And yet she still finds something to b.i.t.c.h about? I give up!"

"Not so fast," Bert said. "She wasn't calling to complain. Actually she was calling to thank you for making Torie's day so amazing. Her phone's been ringing off the hook from calls from all her friends, wanting to know who did Torie's flowers."

"Really? Lillian was actually pleased about something? That's a first."

"'Tickled pink' were her exact words. And," he added, then paused for drama. "She also wanted to ask a huge favor."

"Such as?"

"She's giving a baby-shower luncheon for Torie's cousin Lindsay at the golf club tomorrow, and it just occurred to her that she'd love for us to whip up a few 'teensy' little centerpieces, and a corsage. I told her no, of course. There's no way we can do something like that with no lead time."

"Why would you do that? We can't turn down business, especially from somebody like Lillian Fanning."

Bert gestured toward the shop's gla.s.s-fronted flower cooler. "Look in there. We're cleaned out. I used the last pathetic little carnations for this hospital arrangement that just came in. All we've got left is some sad yellow spider mums and a few sprigs of baby's breath. Which we both know will never satisfy Lillian. She wouldn't have spider mums and baby's breath for her worst enemy's funeral. And Lamar won't be back here until day after tomorrow."

"Oh." Cara stood in front of the cooler and peered inside. Bert had a point. The dozen buckets of water in the cooler were nearly empty.

"Dadgummit. I hate giving up that kind of business. Was Lillian talking about the smaller eight-tops at the golf club?"

"Yes," Bert said. "but it doesn't matter. We don't have any flowers. You're a floral designer, Cara. Not a magician."

"How many tables?" Cara asked, reaching for her phone with one hand and her supplier's catalogue with the other.

"Eight," Bert said. "What are you thinking?"

"What color scheme?" Cara asked, rapidly flipping the pages of the catalogue.

"She didn't specify. Just something pretty and springish. You're not seriously thinking of taking this party on, are you?"

"Is the baby a girl or boy?"

"Girl," Bert said.

"Call Lillian Fanning," she told Bert. "And let her know there's been a change of plans."

Cara had her Savannah wholesaler, Breitmueller's, on speed dial.

"Wendy? This is Cara over at Bloom. How are you?"

"Fine," Wendy Breitmueller said cautiously. "What do you need, Cara?"

"Pink and white," Cara said. "Springy, youthful. With maybe some silvery gray foliage? And I need something feminine and pretty for corsages, but no gigantic orchids. Maybe some pink spray roses?"

"Mmm-hmm," Cara said, jotting down notes as Wendy listed what was available. "That sounds good. Love the idea of the tulips and the pink stocks and the foxgloves. And I'll take all the pink gerberas you've got. Can you put everything aside for me? I'll come over right away to pick everything up."

She hung up the phone and grabbed her car keys.

"Lillian is thrilled you'll do her flowers. But I think you're crazy," Bert said disapprovingly. "It's supposed to be your day off, remember? And when was the last time you actually took any time for yourself?"

"I know exactly how long it's been," Cara said ruefully. "I haven't had a real day off since the Monday before Valentine's Day last year."

Valentine's Day the previous year had been memorable, for sure, but for all the wrong reasons. It was her birthday, but because of the business she was in, Cara rarely had time to celebrate.

That year had been crazier than usual. She'd been forced to rent a second van just to get the flower deliveries covered. And when her second driver slipped and fell and broke his ankle on the third delivery of the afternoon, Cara had gotten behind the wheel of the van in his place.

She was making the last delivery of the afternoon, to a dentist's office on the south side of town: two dozen long-stemmed American Beauty roses to the dentist's wife, who ran the office, for her husband, Dr. Pratt, one of Cara's regular customers.

While Nancy Pratt was oohing and aahing over the roses from her husband in the reception area, another florist's delivery driver had walked into the office, with a huge vase of lilacs.

Lilacs? Who ordered lilacs in Savannah? Only one man Cara knew of. Her husband, Leo.

As soon as she saw the lilacs, Mrs. Pratt opened the door to the back office. "Cyndi! Flowers from your mystery man again."

Cara heard a chorus of giggles from the girls in the office-the receptionists and billing clerks and hygienists. "Our Cyndi has a mysterious beau who sends her gorgeous flowers every month," Mrs. Pratt confided.

A pet.i.te redhead in a tight-fitting white lab coat unb.u.t.toned just enough to reveal her double-D decolletage burst through the door.

"Oh my G.o.d, is he is the sweetest thing ever?" She reached for the card stuck among the lilacs. Then she saw Cara, standing there beside Mrs. Pratt and her American Beauty roses, and Cyndi froze. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the vase and disappeared into the back office.

Cara had seen enough. When she got home she picked up the huge vase of lilacs that had been left on her doorstep, and set them on the kitchen counter. She listened to the message Leo left on her voicemail. "Late meeting tonight. Sorry babe. I know you'll be dead on your feet by the time you get this, so we'll celebrate your birthday tomorrow night. 'Kay? Love you."

Leo's message had a strangely energizing effect on Cara. She went into his home office, and using a nail file, pried open the desk drawer where he kept their financial records. It was easy to find the statements for the new Visa card he'd procured for himself, easier still to find the monthly flower deliveries to Cyndi Snodgra.s.s and the biweekly check-ins at the Airport Courtyard Marriott, visits that neatly coincided with Leo's supposed sales meetings in Atlanta.

Cara left the Visa statements on top of the desk. She dumped the lilacs onto the middle of their bed. She packed her clothes and her books and called Bert on the way over to his apartment to ask if she could stay in his guest room for a few nights.

She'd hired a lawyer and started divorce proceedings the next day, and within two weeks she'd rented the apartment over Bloom. And she'd worked every day since then, with the exception of the day after this Valentine's Day, when she'd gone to visit the breeder in Atlanta to pick out her own birthday present, her new roommate, Poppy.

"You're going to burn yourself out," Bert chided her now. "Do you realize we've got weddings every Sat.u.r.day for the next six weeks, not to mention the Mandelbaums' golden anniversary party and those two huge banquets at the Westin? Plus the deb parties..."

"We can't afford to turn down Lillian Fanning," Cara said firmly. "Between Lillian and Vicki Cooper-if this keeps up we'll have more business than we can handle."

"We already have more business than we can deal with," Bert grumped.

"We can handle it," Cara said.

"Yeah, if we don't want to have a life. Which I do," he added.

"Are you referring to your new frat friend? Or the fireman?" Cara asked.

Bert winked. "You could say things are heating up with my love life." He put an arm around her shoulders. "And what about you? It's been what, a year and a half since you left Leo? You have got to stop burying yourself in work, Cara."

"Stop and smell the roses, you mean?"