Page 34 of Save the Date
“They have stinging black flies in Maine, Bert,” Cara pointed out. “And mud. Months and months of mud. Not to mention snow.”
“Never mind,” he said lazily. “So—did I hear right? You’re actually going to interview for the privilege of doing that Trapnell wedding?”
“Yessss,” she said, already regretting what she thought of as her capitulation. “I really like Marie Trapnell. And Vicki Cooper tracked me down at the golf club Tuesday and begged me to at least consider taking the job if they offer it. Brooke’s father, Gordon, called me today to set up an appointment for ‘a chat.’ He wants me to see the Strayhorns’ plantation house, so I can get an idea of where the wedding is being held. So yes, I’m going over to Cabin Creek tomorrow, hat in hand, to present my ideas for the wedding.”
“Want me to tag along?”
“Normally, I’d love to have you accompany me. It looks pretty fancy, don’t you think, to introduce you as my assistant and have you carry my photo book and bow and scrape like a minion?”
“Bowing and scraping? Not in my job description.”
“Anyway, I need you at the shop tomorrow to finish up with the Mother’s Day orders. And don’t forget, we’ve got Laurie-Beth Winship’s wedding Saturday. But don’t worry, I promise to bring back a full description.”
13
Somebody, at some point in the Strayhorn family history, had a puckish sense of humor. Cabin Creek? Cara drove slowly down the bumpy crushed oyster-shell drive. Age-blackened live oaks dripping with thick curtains of Spanish moss shaded both sides of the roadway, their trunks dotted with clumps of dark green Resurrection ferns, and the trees were underplanted with hedges of azaleas, past blooming, but still lovely. A rail fence separated the drive from a vast green pasture, and a trio of horses grazed outside a weathered barn. At the end of the quarter-mile drive, a weathered cypress sign was nailed to one of the trees.
SLOW DOWN. SMALL CHILDREN. LARGE DOGS. OLD MEN.
The house loomed ahead. Cara had read up on Cabin Creek in a book about low-country plantation homes. The property had been a land grant from King George III, but the original homeplace, described as a two-story wood-frame cabin, had burned in the early 1800s, and the Strayhorns, who’d done well with cotton, rice, and indigo, built themselves a showplace to display all that wealth.
Cabin Creek was no longer a cabin. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The main house was a three-story Greek Revival beauty, with a two-story-tall portico supported by four thick Doric columns. A widow’s walk topped the portico. Large wings sprouted from each side of the main house, and the estate was set on an expanse of deep green lawn, with foundation plantings of carefully clipped boxwoods.
Cara followed the drive around to the right side of the house, as Gordon Trapnell had instructed, where she found a gravel car park adjoining a low three-bay garage. She parked her own car next to a sleek silver Jaguar, and walked around to a smaller side entrance marked by a pair of miniature versions of the front columns.
Before she could ring the doorbell, the door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman dressed in faded blue jeans and a grubby T-shirt pushed open the screen door. An army-green ballcap with an embroidered Cabin Creek logo shaded the woman’s round, ruddy face.
“Are you the florist?” she asked.
“Uh yes,” Cara said, taken aback. Funny way for a butler to dress.
The woman extended her hand and opened the door wider. “Great! So glad to meet you. I’m Libba Strayhorn. Come on in. I was just getting ready to go out to the stables, but Gordon and Patricia are inside. I’ll show you the way, then let you all talk.”
They were in what was obviously used as a mudroom by the Strayhorn family. It was high-ceilinged, with a marble floor, but simple wooden benches lined each side, and wall-mounted hooks held jackets and coats. Muddy boots were lined up beneath the benches, and a pair of shotguns rested casually in one corner.
Libba walked quickly, the soles of her riding boots clacking against the marble floor. Cara followed her through a pair of double doors into a formal parlor with an immense fireplace mounted by a fancy gilt-framed mirror. Stiff brocade-covered Empire-era settees and armchairs faced the fireplace. Libba didn’t slow. Instead she led Cara through yet another doorway, into a cypress-paneled library.
Gordon Trapnell and his wife were sitting at a felt-topped game table near the fireplace. “Cara?” he asked, standing to shake her hand.
He was short, maybe only an inch or two taller than Cara, with thinning dark hair, carefully combed across his high-domed head, and a neatly clipped mustache. He wore silver wire-rimmed glasses, a pale pink logoed Polo shirt, and dark dress slacks.
“Yes, hello, Mr. Trapnell.”
“Call me Gordon.” He turned toward the woman seated to his right and beamed. “And this is Patricia, my wife.”
Cara had only caught a glimpse of Patricia Trapnell at the golf club earlier in the week, just a blur of blond hair and cheekbones.
Patricia’s silicone-plumped lips widened into what she probably thought was a smile. But her skin was stretched so tightly over the high cheekbones, it really resembled more of a grimace. Her pale blue eyes had an almost Asian tilt. Her face was skillfully made up, and her blond hair gleamed in the low light of the library. She was dressed in a cobalt-blue silk blouse.
“Hello, Cara,” she said, her voice husky. “We’ve heard so much about your work. And of course, we loved what you did for Torie Fanning’s wedding last week. Please sit, and tell us about your ideas for Brooke and Harris.”
“I’m going to leave you experts to it then,” Libba Strayhorn said, and she hurried out of the room.
***
Cara took a deep breath and opened her iPad. “These are a few ideas I came up with for the church, and the reception,” she said, tapping an icon on the screen that read “Trapnell Wedding.”
“Of course, everything is very preliminary,” she said. “I was able to find pictures on the internet of the ballroom and the chapel here at Cabin Creek, but it would still be helpful for me to see them in person, just to get a sense of the scale of the spaces.”
