Page 126 of Save the Date
He’d only been gone less than a week, but she missed her former assistant more than she’d ever admit. Ginny seemed pleasant and efficient, but Cara knew that she and Ginny would never sip from the same cup of snark sauce.
And there would be no Jack, either. The angry words they’d hurled at each other the night before had guaranteed that.
So, fine. She was too busy for idle gossip and casual sex anyway. Cara pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. Time to concentrate on today’s meeting.
She and Marie had finally managed to bully Brooke and Harris into agreeing to meet at Cabin Creek to walk through the plans for the reception and after-party. Libba Strayhorn was anxious to show them the progress on the old barn, and if all went well, they’d even be able to finalize placement of all the tables, chairs, and “lounge furniture” Cara had already rented from the tents and events house in Savannah. And, of course, Patricia Trapnell would be there, too.
Cara’s stomach was already in knots. She wondered if Patricia was aware of the way her “dear friend” Cullen Kane had managed to so thoroughly torpedo her personal and professional life.
She relaxed her grip on the steering wheel just slightly after her car was finally speeding along the flat, featureless low country on the South Carolina side of the bridge. Glimpses of marsh flashed by, of elderly men with cane poles fishing on muddy creek banks, of elegant white egrets soaring over the green-gold grass, of rusted, aging mobile homes separated from the highway by little more than a weedy patch of dirt.
Thirty minutes later she slowed the car for the turn down the crushed-gravel drive to Cabin Creek. It was five till two, and she felt relief at the sight of Brooke’s white Volvo sedan parked behind her mother’s sedate gray Mercedes. There was always a fifty-fifty chance their harried bride might not show up.
Libba Strayhorn met her at the back door, dressed in a short, mint green cotton dress, pearls, and low-heeled sandals. Her blond hair curled just below her chin. Cara realized she’d never seen her client’s hair, because Libba was never without her baseball cap.
“You’re staring,” Libba said, as she ushered her inside.
“It’s just that I’ve never seen you so dressed up before,” Cara admitted.
“Doesn’t happen very often,” Libba said cheerfully. “I had an altar guild meeting at church this morning, and I haven’t had a minute to change. But I’m going to, right this minute.”
She gestured toward the kitchen wing. “Everybody’s out in the kitchen getting something cold to drink. Go on in, and I’ll be right with you as soon as I get out of this rig and into something comfortable.”
***
As soon as she walked into the kitchen, Cara sensed something was amiss. Marie sat at the kitchen table, her hands folded in her lap, glancing anxiously in the direction of the French doors that led to the patio. Patricia sat at the far end of the table, her head bent, furiously typing something into her Blackberry. But where were the bride and groom?
Ahh. Finally, she saw Brooke and Harris, outside on the patio. They stood close together, talking quietly, but Cara could tell from the angry set of Harris’s usually placid face and the animated flashing of Brooke’s hands that they were arguing.
Marie winced. “They’ve been out there for about ten minutes. Brooke is really wound up about something. I’ve never seen her like this before.”
Patricia looked up from her typing. “I heard them when I walked up to the house, they were so involved, they didn’t even notice me. It’s all over this silly bachelor party tomorrow night. Brooke is being ridiculous.”
“Why do you say that?” Marie said, her voice uncharacteristically sharp.
“She’s making this big fuss about nothing. It’s a bachelor’s party, for God’s sake. A bunch of guys hooting and hollering at a strip club. So what? It’s harmless. A rite of passage. My son’s friends all do it before their weddings.”
Marie stared down at her iced-tea glass. “Brooke won’t see it like that.”
“Then she needs to get over herself,” Patricia shot back. “Harris is a big boy. He can take care of himself.”
Marie’s eyes narrowed. But before she could respond, Libba bounced into the room. She wore faded blue jeans, a loose-fitting T-shirt, tennis shoes, and her ever-present Cabin Creek baseball cap again, and her dog was right on her heels.
“Thanks for your patience, ladies,” Libba said. “I feel soooo much better. You know, every year I swear I’m not going to dress up for these darned altar-guild meetings, and every year, I bow to peer pressure, and put on the dress and heels and pantyhose. And every year, I want to kill myself. It’s torture! And I’ll tell you right now, I amnotwearing hose at this wedding. My mother-of-the groom dress is floor length, so nobody but me and Jesus will be any the wiser.”
“Ooh, good idea,” Marie chimed in. “Mine is long too. And I despise pantyhose. Let’s make a pact. We’ll call it a hose-free zone.” She looked over at Patricia. “What do you say? Are you in?”
Patricia stopped typing on her Blackberry and slipped it back into her Louis Vuitton tote. “Sorry, girls. My dress is cocktail length. And Gordon thinks sheer black hose are terrifically sexy.”
“You’re wearing black to the wedding?” Libba blurted. “Isn’t that considered bad luck, or taboo or something?”
“Not for stepmothers,” Patricia purred.
Two pink spots bloomed high on Marie’s cheeks. The awkward silence was broken when the French doors opened and the bride and groom stepped inside.
Brooke’s eyes were red-rimmed, and Harris was stony-faced. He looked from his mother to Cara to Marie. “Can we just get through this, please? Brooke says she has a meeting back in town.”
“Sure thing,” Libba said. “Let’s start in the ballroom.”
