Page 119 of Save the Date
“Kane hired him that quickly?”
“Cullen Kane is Bert’s new boyfriend. That’s who Bert’s been sneaking around with all these weeks now. And that’s how Cullen found out my landlady died. Bert ‘just happened to mention’ to Kane that Bernice Bradley had died, and that Sylvia Bradley was refusing to fix my air-conditioning.”
“Bert was spying on you for Cullen Kane? I thought the guy was practically your best friend.”
“I thought so too,” Cara said sadly. “Bert was probably planning to quit and go to work for Cullen all along. And he didn’t even have the decency to feel guilty about betraying me. He just sat at that stupid desk wearing that stupid Cullen Kane T-shirt, smirking at me. He even had the nerve to ask me if I wanted a bottle of Perrier, or some champagne!”
“Did you let him have it?”
“I did. And then I went barreling to the back room to let his boss have it too.”
“I’d like to have heard that.”
“No you wouldn’t have. You would have been ashamed of me. I’m such a spineless jellyfish. I ended up groveling at his feet—begging him to give me a new lease and let me stay in my building.”
“I’m guessing you weren’t successful?”
Cara nodded. “Big mistake. Kane was actually enjoying himself, telling me all about his big plans to gut the place and put on a new roof and all new systems, and then raise the rent—which he said he knew I could never afford. Finally, I flat-out asked him why he was so determined to destroy me. And he just looked at me—like I was nothing. And he said what every megalomaniac says these days when they do something unconscionable. ‘It’s nothing personal. It’s just business.’”
“Bastard,” Jack said. “So, what now?”
It was noisy in the restaurant, the tables were close together, so close she could hear snatches of conversation from all directions. A woman, her voice slow and syrupy:“I told Mama you have to be firm with these people. Otherwise they walk all over you, but you know Mama.”A man’s deep voice: “You can’t get there direct from Savannah. We’ll lay over in Atlanta and get into Kansas City after five on Monday.”
Cara heard her own voice, too. It sounded tinny and somehow disembodied. “I’ve got to leave my building. Two weeks. That’s all the time I have before I have to get out. Two weeks. To pack up and find a new shop and a new apartment.”
All day long, she’d managed to pushthatreality to the back of her mind. She’d busied herself with the tedium of what had to get done, ordering flowers and answering emails and feeding Poppy, and dozens of other little things. But the enormity of what she was facing was gaining strength and velocity. And as she thought about it now, it felt like a huge boulder, inescapable, careering down a mountain, threatening to crush her under its weight.
She hadn’t realized she was crying until she felt the big sloppy tears sliding down her cheek. And then she was full-out sobbing, sitting in the middle of a crowded restaurant, bawling like a baby.
“Oh, God,” she said, choking back the tears. The voices around her quieted, and she knew people were staring. She crushed the linen napkin to her face, wishing she could crawl under the table.
“Heeyyyy.” Jack scooted his chair beside hers. He put his arm around her shoulder. Her chest heaved, and she couldn’t catch her breath. He put a glass of water in her hand. “Drink this.”
She managed a sip. “I’m… so… sorry.…” The words were wobbly.
The waiter came with their meals, crispy flounder for him, shrimp bisque for her. He stood—statuelike, unsure of the proper thing to do in such a situation.
“Could you box that up for us?” Jack said quietly. “And bring the check?” Of course Jack Finnerty would know exactly what to do.
***
Despite Cara’s feeble protests, he called a cab, and five minutes later he’d unlocked the door to the shop, and they were upstairs, and he’d sat her down on the sofa. While he went out to the garden to check on Shaz and Poppy, she went into the bathroom to try to pull herself together.
She was a mess. Her face was blotchy, her nose was red and running, and there were mascara trails down both cheeks. She washed her face and combed her hair and put on some lip gloss.
Jack was waiting in the living room with a glass of wine. She took a sip, and then another.
“Better?” he asked.
She nodded, afraid if she tried to speak the tears would start anew. He sat down on the sofa beside her, and gathered her into his arms. She pressed her face into his starched shirtfront, he rested his chin on the top of her hair.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he said.
The phone in his pocket buzzed. He swore softly and ignored it, but five minutes later, it buzzed again.
Jack shifted onto his left hip, took out the phone, and looked at the text.
“Dammit, Zoey,” he muttered.
