Page 65 of Save the Date
When he sat down at the worktable, he sipped from his mug and began leafing through the morning’s phone orders. His hair was mussed, his beard unshaven, and it looked as though he’d slept in his clothes—either that, or he’d been rolled by a mugger.
He caught her watching him. “What?”
“Late night last night?”
“Maybe,” he said, running his hands through his hair, which only made it worse. He stared her down. “And no. I haven’t been drinking. Because I know that’s what you’re thinking. But I haven’t.”
He had her there. She had wondered. He’d worked so hard for his sobriety. She knew too well how it was with an alcoholic, though. They were always just one drink away from a fall.
“Would have been nice if you’d called to let me know you’d be in late.” She kept her voice deliberately mild. It was unlike Bert to be late, or to fail to let her know he’d be late.
“Sorry,” he said, looking contrite. “It won’t happen again.”
He mopped his forehead with one of the pink message slips. “Jesus, it’s hot in here. What’s going on with the air-conditioning?”
“It’s been out since Friday night. I had to sleep with all the windows open over the weekend. I’ve left half a dozen voicemails for the Bradleys, but they haven’t bothered to return any of them. I’m thinking of running over to their house. In fact, I was waiting for you to get here so I could go.”
“Oh,” Bert said. “Oh, crap. I forget you don’t get the paper. Um, there’s actually a pretty good reason you haven’t heard back from Bernice.”
“Such as?”
Bert flipped theSavannah Morning Newsopen to the obituary page, and trailed a bony finger down the listings until he came to a block of type.
“Oh damn,” Cara said. “That’s awful. I didn’t even know she was sick.”
Bradley, Bernice, 91, of Savannah. Joined the band of heavenly angels Friday, after a brief illness. Predeceased by husband Alvin P. Bradley. Survived by faithful daughter Sylvia Bradley, 73, of Savannah. Funeral services, Tuesday, at Fox & Weeks Hodgson funeral chapel.
“Now I feel just terrible. I’ve been cussing Bernice all weekend. The last message I left on their machine, I even threatened to buy a window unit and subtract it from next month’s rent.”
“You shouldn’t feel bad about that,” Bert said. “That old biddy was so cheap she squeaked when she walked. And her daughter’s just as bad. There’s a reason Sylvia’s a dried-up old maid. She’s just as mean and stingy as her mama. The two of them have been living in that big house on Forty-fourth Street in Ardsley Park for decades, and even though everybody knows they’re rolling in the dough, the place looks like it’s falling to pieces.”
“Still, it’s not nice to talk bad of the dead,” Cara insisted. She was still reading Bernice Bradley’s obituary, the details of her membership in the United Daughters of the Confederacy, the Eastern Star, her thirty-year employment with J. C. Penney’s.
“Bernice was my landlady, not a friend. I mean, I don’t even think she liked me,” Cara mused. “So I think it would be bad taste to show up at the service. We’ll send a nice arrangement instead. One of those old-timey ones on stands. Do we have any of those metal easel thingies left in the back, from Norma’s?”
Bert got up to check the stockroom, but then Cara read the last line of the funeral notice. Out loud.
“‘In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to charity.’”
“Hold it,” she said, grabbing Bert’s shirtsleeve as he passed. “That nasty old bat! In lieu of flowers, my ass!”
“She’s dead, and she’s still managing to give you the finger,” Bert laughed.
***
By late afternoon, Cara had Bloom’s front and back doors propped open and a large box fan positioned in the doorway, both as a ventilation aid and to keep Poppy from making another escape.
She printed out a photo she’d taken of Brooke’s wedding dress, and had it taped to the wall just above her computer, while she leafed through online catalogues and sketched out ideas for the bride’s bouquet and the other arrangements for the wedding and reception.
“That’s Brooke’s dress?”
“Yes. Thank God she finally went to Atlanta and bought one before her mother and stepmother took matters into their own hands.”
“Pretty plain,” Bert said, a note of disdain in his voice.
The gown, of heavy duchesse ivory satin,wassimple. Sleeveless, with a deep V-neck, it was fitted close to the body, flaring out into soft folds just below the knees. Cara pointed a finger at the detail at the waist. “This is antique lace, reembroidered with seed pearls. No other lace, no sequins or flounces, or any of that. Brooke’s a natural beauty, with a great figure. She doesn’t need anything more than this. No veil either. I’m just going to make a hair ornament with flowers, and she’ll use that to pin her hair back behind one ear.”
The shop phone rang; she glanced over at the caller ID, and made a face before answering.
