Page 27 of Save the Date
Cara’s curiosity got the better of her. “Let me see that thing.” She peered over Bert’s shoulder at the website. The opening page was an extreme closeup of a mouthwateringly beautiful all-white bride’s bouquet, featuring velvety magnolia blossoms, crinum lilies, orange blossoms, and stephanotis.
She paged over to Cullen Kane’s portfolio, which featured dozens of achingly gorgeous photographs of his flowers showcased in all kinds of settings.
Bert clicked the mouse on the About Us tab of the website, and read his bio aloud in a deeply accented Southern cartoon voice that made him sound like Foghorn Leghorn.
Cullen Kane is a native Charlestonian. He received his undergraduate degree in English Literature from the College of Charleston. Cullen spent his senior year abroad in England, where he met and studied floral design for three years under famed horticulturist Rosemary Verey. Returning to the States, Cullen settled in Napa Valley, California, where he became the in-house floral designer for Valleyview House, the largest private event venue in Napa. In 2008, Cullen returned home to Charleston, where he opened Cullen Kane Floral Design Studio.
“Here’s a photo of him,” Bert said, tapping the laptop screen.
“Oh shit,” Cara said.
The photo of Cullen Kane showed him lounging in an artistically weathered Adirondack chair, with a stretch of the low-country marsh in the background. He was dressed in an open-necked white dress shirt, with a celadon-green sweater knotted casually over his shoulders. His glossy blond hair was worn stylishly long, he had a small goatee, and his hand rested lightly on a Cavalier King Charles spaniel in his lap. He was a candy-coated cinematic version of everything a Southern gentleman should look like.
“I’d hire him if I weren’t me,” Cara said glumly.
“He’s certainly yummy-looking,” Bert agreed. “You know, if you go in for that kind of screamingly effeminate, highly overqualified overachieving type. But if he’s such a hotshot in Charleston, why would he want to open shop in Savannah?”
“To make my life a living hell,” she said.
Bert laughed. “That’s right, Cara. Cullen Kane hasn’t even met you and he’s already conspiring to put you out of business and ruin your life. Are we feeling just the teeniest bit paranoid this morning?”
***
Monday was technically Cara’s day off, but she hadn’t hesitated to schedule the appointment with Marie Trapnell.
Now Poppy was standing by the door, scratching to go out.
“I’ll take her if you like,” Bert offered.
“Thanks, but it’ll do me good to stretch my legs,” Cara said. She grabbed Poppy’s leash and clipped it to her collar, which she’d already shortened by a notch.
“Now listen,” she told the puppy, who was already straining at her leash as they exited the shop. “Slow down. Heel. We’ve really got to work on this obedience thing, you know.”
It was a spectacular late-spring morning. The sky was blue, and a slight breeze stirred the Spanish moss draping the live-oak trees.. She gave Poppy a little slack in her leash and the dog gamboled along happily down the street. Cara heard feet approaching rapidly from behind.
“On your left,” a gruff voice called out. She stepped to the right just in time to avoid being mowed down by a sweaty male jogger wearing a white T-shirt and red running shorts. He had a familiar-looking puppy on a leash.
Poppy gave an excited yelp of recognition and lunged for the puppy and the jogger, nearly yanking Cara off her feet.
“Poppy, heel!” Cara exclaimd. “Sit!”
But Poppy did no such thing. She strained at her leash, whining her disappointment at being kept from joining the jogger.
It was him! Jack the dog thief. She watched as he and his dog sped away down the street, without so much as a backward glance. It had all happened so fast she’d nearly missed it. But yes, the other puppy did bear a resemblance to Poppy. She was certainly a goldendoodle, and she shared Poppy’s creamy coloring and curly coat.
“Come on, girl,” Cara said, giving her dog an affectionate ear scratch. “Let’s get a move on before it gets too hot.”
She and Poppy continued their stroll, walking down Jones to Whitaker, and then south on Whitaker, where she happily window-shopped at the half-dozen little boutiques and antique shops that were some of her favorite local haunts. They continued on Whitaker, crossing over at Gaston Street when they got close to Forsyth Park.
It was late, nearly ten, but the park was still full of joggers, dog walkers, and young mothers with babies in strollers and toddlers in tow. Cara greeted several young mothers who’d been her brides not so long ago. She and Poppy did one circuit of the park, then walked over to the Sentient Bean, where she treated herself to a cold bottle of water and an orange cranberry scone and Poppy to a vegan dog biscuit.
When they were within a block of home, Poppy, already a creature of habit at seven months, did her business in her own dainty way, squatting in her customary spot between two huge camellia bushes, as though she required absolute privacy from prying eyes. Cara cleaned up after her pet, and walked back to the shop, keeping a wary eye out for joggers with goldendoodles.
Bert was finishing up a staid hospital arrangement of daisies and carnations.
“You’re not going to believe it,” he said, after she’d unclipped Poppy and washed her hands. “I just got off the phone with Lillian Fanning.”
“And what was her complaint? Honestly, Bert, Torie’s wedding was truly as close to perfection as I’ve ever gotten. And yet she still finds something to bitch about? I give up!”
