Page 23 of Save the Date
Cara looked him over. His hair was mussed and there were dark circles under his eyes, so it was apparent he’d gotten about as much sleep as she had.
“Look.” Jack’s voice was low. “I really am sorry. Truly. Your dog looks almost exactly like Shaz. But if I hadn’t been such a prick, I would have looked closer and realized I had the wrong dog. Especially since when I got home last night, I discovered she’d peed all over my hardwood floors. Shaz is housebroken. Your dog, on the other hand, is fairly neurotic, but I guess you already know that.”
“Neurotic! She is not,” Cara said sharply. “And Poppy is housebroken. She never pees at home. She was probably traumatized by being dognapped. And then left alone in a strange house for hours and hours.”
“Whatever,” Jack said. “I better get back to Shaz. She’s been penned up in a crate at the vet’s office all night, and right now she’s probably not too happy with me either.”
“Thank you for bringing Poppy back,” Cara said coolly. “She’s home now, and that’s all that matters.”
“Have you had her microchipped?” Jack asked.
“No. I keep meaning to, but running my own business…”
“You should do it right away, especially since she seems to be such an escape artist,” he suggested.
“I know how to take care of my own dog,” Cara said, bristling. “Maybe you should do a better job of taking care of your own, especially since she got all the way to Abercorn and Victory.”
“Riiight.” Jack’s lips were clamped tightly in anger. “Anyway, see ya.”
She took great satisfaction in slamming the door in his face. “Not if I see you first, jerk,” she muttered. Poppy whined, and Cara knelt down on the floor and hugged her tightly. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me?”
Still kneeling, she gazed out the sidelights as Jack walked rapidly down Jones Street.
“Horrible man,” she told Poppy. “I feel sorry for his real dog. No wonder she ran away from home.”
She sniffed the top of Poppy’s head and scratched under her chin. In addition to her puppy smell and the special rose-scented dog shampoo Cara bathed her with, there was a whiff of something else. Cara sniffed again, and recognized the scent.
“Sawdust?” she said, wrinkling her nose and holding Poppy at arm’s length. “Really?”
9
There were days when Cara hated Savannah. No matter its lofty ambitions of being the Paris of the South, Savannah was still a very small town. Everybody who counted in the town’s complicated social structure knew everybody else—and their business.
She chafed at Savannah’s insularity, its petty small-town politics, and its collective suspicion of anything or anybody new or “from away.” She’d tried hard to lose what she thought was only a faint Midwestern accent, but whenever she spoke to a local they invariably demanded to know where she was from.
On the other hand, sometimes that economy of scale worked in her favor. It had taken months for word of mouth to spread about Cara’s flowers, and even then, it had only happened courtesy of a timid little bride named Kristin Marie Manley.
Somehow, Kristin had stumbled across Cara’s cluttered little flower shop, back when she was still transitioning from Flowers by Norma. She hadn’t even put up her pink and white awning, or changed the sign, so as far as the world knew, good old Norma Poole was still turning out big, bunchy arrangements of gladiolus and leatherleaf ferns.
Kristin was newly engaged to the son of a prominent Savannah banker. She’d been raised by her widower father, and the two of them were clueless about what was involved in putting on a big society wedding. So Cara had taken her in hand, spent hours and hours with her, and with a laughably spare budget had still managed to pull off one of the prettiest, most meaningful weddings she had ever planned.
As luck would have it, Kristin’s new mother-in-law, Vicki Cooper, loved the flowers she’d done for her son’s wedding, and absolutely adored Cara. Vicki was on the board of half a dozen Savannah charities and foundations, and within a year of Kristin’s wedding to Cason Cooper, thanks to Vicki, Bloom was finally, slowly, starting to blossom.
Vicki, bless her generous, loudmouthed soul, was the gift that kept on giving.
Torie Fanning had been a Vicki connection—and on this steamy Monday morning in May, Cara had an appointment with yet another of Vicki’s acquaintances.
Cara had heard from Vicki just the previous week. As usual, Vicki was on her way to yet another of her endless meetings.
“Listen, Cara, sugar, you’re going to be hearing from a dear friend of mine, and I just want to give you a heads-up. Marie Trapnell’s daughter Brooke just got engaged to the oldest Strayhorn boy, Harris. You know the Strayhorns, right?”
“Mmm, the name is familiar. Do they have something to do with shipping?”
“You could say that. Honey, Mitchell StrayhornisStrayhorn Shipping. And of course, the Trapnells have been around Savannah since forever. I adore Marie Trapnell, and I know you’ll be extra nice to her, ’cause she’s goin’ through kind of a hard time right now. Okay? Gotta scoot. Stay sweet, you hear?”
***
Cara fixed a pitcher of geranium-scented iced tea, filled two tumblers with ice, and arranged a few sugar cookies on a silver tray on her worktable. She placed her photo album on the table, then went over to the cooler and grabbed a handful of flowers—some daisies, a sprig of blue verbena, and some red bee balm. These she clipped and stuffed in the sterling bud vase that had been her grandmother’s.
