Page 68 of Save the Date
“Please?” He gave her his winningest smile. “I want to. You were right. I should have at least brought that bin into the shop and let you decide what to do with it. It was pure laziness on my part.”
“Well… if you really want to…”
The phone rang and they both reached for it. And stopped, when they saw Lillian Fanning’s name on the caller ID screen again.
“Now what?” Cara murmured.
“Hi Lillian. We were just heading your way.”
“Change of plans,” Lillian said, skipping a greeting. “I’m meeting a friend for drinks at the club. But I’ll leave a key to the back door. It’ll be under the lid of the gas grill on the patio. Just put the silver in the kitchen and leave the key where you found it afterward.”
“We can do that,” Cara said, grateful that neither of them would have to experience their client’s wrath face-to-face.
***
She quickly put together a small nosegay of pink roses to fit inside one of Lillian’s silver bud vases. Then she helped load the flower arrangements into the built-in racks in the van while Bert put the bin of silver in the front seat.
“There’s a key under the gas grill lid on the patio around the back of the Fannings’ house,” she told her assistant. “Put the little nosegay in the middle of the kitchen table, will you? Leave the rest of the silver in the bin, on the kitchen counter. And for God’s sake, be sure you’ve locked up tight when you leave.”
He nodded and hopped into the driver’s seat. Then he stuck his head out the open window. “Okay if I keep the van and use it tonight, Mom?” He cocked his head to the side. “I promise to put gas in it. Pretty please?”
Cara laughed despite herself. She could never stay mad at Bert for long, and he damned well knew it. And it wasn’t an unusual request. His own car was an unreliable seventeen-year-old Honda, which was why he mostly relied on his bike for transportation around town.
“Okay, but make sure all your homework’s done first! And no riding around town picking up strange girls.”
“No problemo,” Bert said. He backed up the van and drove slowly down the lane.
28
Shaz was sprawled on the floor in front the air-conditioning vent in the living room. When Jack came out of the bedroom Sunday morning, dressed in running clothes and holding her leash, she regarded him with total disinterest.
“Up, Shaz,” he said. She yawned and stayed put.
“Come on Shaz. Be a good girl. Let’s go for a run before it gets too hot.”
He clipped the leash to her collar and tugged gently. “It’ll be fun,” he lied.
It was nearly nine o’clock and the temperatures were already in the high eighties. But he’d worked long hours all week, returning home just at dark most nights, too worn out to do much more than take the puppy for a quick stroll around the block. A run, he decided, would be good for both of them.
Most days, he took Shaz with him over to South Carolina and Cabin Creek, where he and Ryan had started work on the old barn. After only a week, they’d already worked out a routine. He and Ryan would leave Savannah while it was still dark, and by dawn the two men would be up on the roof, ripping off the old tin, exposing multiple layers of brittle tar, and then finally the wooden subroof.
Shaz was happy to start the mornings romping around the pasture, sniffing the horses, but otherwise keeping a cautious distance. The rest of those hot days, she found a place in the cool dim of one of the old horse stalls, leaving only occasionally to drink from her bowl of water, or to investigate strange new smells and sights outside.
During the worst heat of the day, Jack and Ryan loaded up the truck with the Strayhorn family’s decades of junk and hauled it off to the nearby dump. It was hot, exhausting work, but they had a deadline, so they kept up the pace, only taking a day off on Sunday—and then only at Torie’s insistence.
Jack tugged again at Shaz’s leash now, and she reluctantly stood up and allowed herself to be led outside.
They took their usual route, loping easily north down Habersham. The street was Sunday-morning quiet. They passed Broughton, Savannah’s version of Main Street, and ran through Warren Square, where a homeless man napped on a bench, and on to Bay Street.
An early-morning breakfast crowd milled outside around the door at B. Matthew’s, and Shaz stopped abruptly, sniffing the aroma of bacon when the restaurant door was opened.
“Later,” Jack said, tugging again. They continued west on Bay Street, where tourists stood in groups on street corners, consulting their maps, or aiming cameras at the photo-ready moss-draped oaks on the far side of the street.
After only a mile, Shaz was panting, and Jack’s shirt was drenched with sweat. He slowed to a walk, crossed Bay at Bull, and escorted Shaz to the shade under an oak, where he bought a bottle of water from a street vendor, uncapped it, and let Shaz refresh herself, laughing as she eagerly lapped the glugging water. He poured the last few drops of the water into his palms and splashed it onto his face, and they set off again.
Man and dog ran up Whitaker Street, past the chic boutiques and home-furnishing stores, until they got to Forsyth Park. It was shadier here, and the sidewalks were already crowded with other runners, walkers, and skateboarders. After two laps around the park, he stopped and bought another bottle of water to share with Shaz.
He set off north again on Whitaker, telling himself it would be natural for their route home to pass by the red-brick building on West Jones Street. And if Cara and her dog happened to be out for a Sunday walk, well, that would be just fine.
