Page 151 of Save the Date
“My dad?”
“Yup.” Bert got up and handed her a stack of pink message slips from the console table. “He tried calling your cell phone too, but said the calls wouldn’t go through.”
“Thank God for crappy reception on that island. I don’t think I could have dealt with talking with the Colonel today. Wait a minute. How’d he get my cell number?”
“Not from me,” Bert said.
Cara shook her head, then held up the other message slips. “Who are all these people? I don’t recognize the names.”
“Ahhh. Well, it seems your former nemesis Lillian Fanning has transformed herself into your own personal patron saint. The top three slips are all from brides or mothers of the brides wanting an appointment to talk wedding flowers, and two of them said Lillian referred them. The third girl, Taylor Vickers, and her mom, you’re seeing tomorrow at eleven because she just had a tragic breakup with her former florist, and the wedding is only three weeks away.”
“What florist did she break up with?” Cara asked.
“Some old mean queen named Cullen Kane.”
“What! Bert, I appreciate your trying to make things up to me, but I do not want to be poaching Cullen Kane’s clients.”
“It’s not poaching,” he assured her. “I met Taylor while I was um, seeing Cullen. You know he wines and dines all these brides when he’s trying to get them to commit, but she just discovered he’s doing another big wedding the same date and time as hers, at a church across town, and when you meet Taylor’s mama, you’ll understand that she isnothaving a florist double-book on her date. I ran into Taylor at Whole Foods this morning, and she remembered me and told me the whole sad story. I might have slipped her one of your business cards. Not an hour later, her mama called here.”
“You are shameless,” Cara said.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I told the other two brides you’d call them in the morning. This one”—he plucked the top slip and waved it in front of her—“is from the general manager of that new boutique hotel that opens at the end of July in the old Kresge’s store downtown on Broughton Street.”
“The Ibis? Did he say what he wanted?”
“Shewould like to discuss your developing a signature floral look for the hotel. I told her Wednesday noon would be good for you.”
“Here? She can’t come here. The shop is going to be all torn up. We’ve got to be of here by Friday. And we’ve got to finish up all the stuff for that beach wedding Saturday.…”
“Relax,” Bert said. “Deep, cleansing breaths. In, out. Release the tension. You’re meeting her at their new lobby restaurant. She’d like you to bring along some concepts, which I told her you’d be pleased to do.”
“Concepts? I can’t just come up with a whole look out of thin air by Wednesday. I don’t know anything…”
Bert grasped her by the shoulders. “I got this. Okay? I went online and looked at the chain’s website. There are seventeen Ibis hotels, all over the country, mostly out West, in California, Oregon, Washington, and Colorado. This is their first property in the South. Each of the hotels has a different name and theme, keyed to the location. I printed out photos I found of their hotels in Portland, San Francisco, and Seattle. I think they go for a pretty eclectic, bohemian look.”
“You did all that? Today? On top of packing up my stuff?”
“I also finished off one of the oyster-shell chandeliers for Saturday.”
“How many do we have left to do?”
“Two.”
Cara groaned. “Then I guess I better go fire up the glue gun, huh?”
62
Jack found Libba in the barn Wednesday morning. She’d left the big sliding doors open, and she was standing in front of one of the windows, staring out at the pasture, where a mare and her foal drank from a galvanized watering trough.
She turned at the sound of his footsteps. It seemed to him that Libba Strayhorn had aged ten years since he’d seen her last. Her gray-streaked hair was pushed behind her ears, and the sunlight revealed the network of fine lines and creases radiating out from her warm gray eyes and downturned mouth.
“The wedding is off, Jack.”
“I heard.”
“Already? Yeah, what am I saying? The gossip mill in Savannah must be working overtime.”
