Page 24 of Save the Date
The bells on the shop door tinkled, and a pale, nervous-looking woman stood looking uncertainly around the room.
“Mrs. Trapnell?” Cara hurried toward her, but Poppy bounded into the room, nearly knocking the poor woman on her butt.
“Poppy, down!” Cara cried. “Bad girl!”
“Oh, she’s all right,” the woman said, her voice soft. She stroked Poppy’s ears and looked up at Cara. “What a beautiful dog. What breed is she?”
“She’s a goldendoodle. A very disobedient, undisciplined cross between what’s called a cream English golden retriever and a standard poodle,” Cara said. “But please don’t judge the breed by Poppy. I’m afraid I haven’t been very effective at training her.”
“She’s just high-spirited, is all.” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Marie Trapnell. Vicki Cooper’s friend? And you’re Cara—how do I pronounce your last name?”
“‘Krizzik’—the ‘y’ is soft,” Cara said. “It’s always good to meet one of Vicki’s friends, Mrs. Trapnell. She seems to know everybody in Savannah, doesn’t she?”
“Please, call me Marie. Yes, Vicki does know an astonishing number of people. I don’t know how she juggles all her charitable and social commitments. I get exhausted just looking at one week of her calendar.”
Cara guided Marie Trapnell to the worktable, seated her, and poured two glasses of iced tea.
“So,” she said, once Marie seemed comfortable. “Vicki tells me your daughter just got engaged. What an exciting time for you.”
Marie’s face flushed softly with happiness. Now that she was sitting across the table from her, Cara realized the mother of the bride was probably much younger than she’d initially estimated. She was fair-complected, with intelligent brown eyes, a short, straight nose, and poker-straight shoulder-length graying brown hair pushed back from her high forehead with a tortoiseshell hair band. Her clothes were obviously expensive—a little nothing sleeveless cotton shift in a sedate pastel print, low-heeled pumps, and a Ferragamo handbag. She wore pearl stud earrings, but no other jewelry.
“Brooke wanted to come with me to meet you, but she had a client meeting she couldn’t get out of. She’s a second-year associate at Farrell Wynant Hanrahan,” Marie said.
“Have they set the wedding date?” Cara asked, opening her day planner.
“Oh yes,” Marie said. “And that’s what’s giving me heart palpitations. They’re getting married in less than eight weeks.”
“Oh my,” Cara said. “That doesn’t give us much time, does it?”
“It gives menotime,” Marie agreed. “I’ve tried and tried to get Brooke and Harris to move the date at least to October, but Harris is adamant. July sixth it is, and he refuses to discuss any other date.”
“Well…” Cara turned to the July page of her calendar. She had weddings every Saturday of the month, and several big debutante parties later that month. But a big black X had been drawn through the notes she’d scribbled there.
“Ahh, yes,” Cara said, tapping the X with a fingertip. “I did have a wedding scheduled on the sixth, but I’m afraid it’s been called off.”
“Oh.” Marie looked startled. “Oh, how sad.”
Marie would never know just how sad Cara was about that canceled wedding. Hannah Draper’s daddy had major bucks, and only one daughter. But just two weeks earlier, Hannah had come home from her senior year at Wellesley and announced a change of plans. Hannah, it seemed, had discovered her true sexual leanings, and was deliriously in love with her field-hockey coach.
Thank God, Cara was thinking, she’d been firm about that nonrefundable fifty percent deposit on the flowers. And thank God, again, that this new bride wanted the only open Saturday she had for July.
“Was your daughter able to book a church on such short notice?” Cara knew that all the big downtown churches, Christ Church, Independent Presbyterian, St. John’s Episcopal, Wesley Monumental, First Baptist, and the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist, were all always booked up for summer weddings as far as two years in advance. She knew of at least one bride, Leigh-Anne Grady, whose mother had booked her wedding at Christ Church two months before dear Leigh-Anne had actually gotten engaged.
Marie fiddled with one of her pearl earrings. “The church isn’t the problem. We’re actually going to have the ceremony and the reception at Cabin Creek—the Strayhorns’ plantation in South Carolina.”
“Ahh,” Cara said, trying to contain her excitement. She’d seen photos of Cabin Creek in numerous magazines. It was a working rice plantation on twelve hundred acres, just across the river from Savannah. From the photographs it looked like the main house would make Tara look like a bait shack.
In her mind, Cara was already designing the flower arrangements for Cabin Creek’s high-ceilinged entrance hall. She’d have to meet the bride very soon, to discover her flower and color preferences. Was she a brunette like her mother?
“Um, Cara?”
“Oh, sorry. Marie, I’ve got so many questions. When do you think Brooke will be available to meet with me? And what about Harris? And his mother? Since it’s their home, will they want to be consulted?”
“Harris?” Marie looked blank. “Do you usually talk to the grooms? I guess it didn’t occur to me.…”
“It just depends on the couple. Some grooms like to be consulted on every detail of the event, while with others—and I will say this is the majority—all they care about is what kind of beer is served at the reception.”
“Well, uh, Harris probably falls into the latter group,” Marie said. “Anyway, he travels a good bit for business, and according to Brooke, all he cares about is that everything is tasteful. Libba Strayhorn, that’s Harris’s mother, has already said she’s happy for me to plan everything.” She gave Cara a dubious shrug. “Libba is very horsey. According to Harris, she’d live in the stables at Cabin Creek if she could.”
