Page 93 of Save the Date
Cara had to stop and think. “Maybe a year. A little more? Look. Is it cancer? Do I need to call him and get him home?”
“It’s not cancer, and it’s not life-threatening. Unless she ignores my advice and keeps on drinking.”
Cara still remembered that sensation—that she’d been kicked in the stomach.
“Drinking?” she’d said stupidly. “My mom doesn’t drink. I mean, not that much. Maybe some wine at dinner.”
“Are you sure?” His voice was so gentle, almost a whisper. “Aren’t you away at college?”
“Yes, but…”
“She’s drunk right now,” the doctor had said. “It’s a good thing you drove, because her blood alcohol is sky high. Her liver function, everything, points to acute alcoholism. The weight loss—that’s a side effect. She’s malnourished. And dehydrated. We’re giving her fluids, and we’ll keep her overnight.”
Cara was mesmerized by those sea-green eyes. “And then what?” she heard herself ask.
“That’s up to you and your father,” the doctor said. “But if it were my mom, I’d want her to go to rehab. Because if she doesn’t stop drinking, she really will kill herself.”
The colonel had come home from Turkey, and Barbara had cried and apologized and begged for forgiveness, and willingly gone to a very expensive private facility in Florida that her father insisted on calling “the hospital.” He’d somehow managed a transfer, and gone right back to work at the base an hour from “the hospital.”
Her mother had emerged from rehab proclaiming herself a new woman. And then she’d died six months later from liver failure.
Sometimes Cara wondered if, had her mother lived, she and the Colonel would have stayed married. She wondered whether her father’s attitude toward his only child would have somehow softened. Sometimes, and these were the times she was most ashamed of, she wondered what life would have been like if her father had died and her mother were the survivor.
She’d returned to college after her mother’s funeral, and at a roommate’s insistence, had seen a therapist for grief counseling.
When Cara mentioned her father’s career in the military, the therapist had frowned. “If you’re looking for your father to fill the hole your mother’s death has left in your life, you’re going to be disappointed. To say that all career military men are distant and forbidding is a cliché, but from what you’ve told me about your father, in this case, the cliché fits.”
Despite the therapist’s warning, Cara had hoped her mother’s death would bring her closer to her father. And just as predicted, she’d been disappointed. And her father, in turn, had been disappointed in her. Continually, it seemed, since the day Cara announced she’d left Leo.
Now, it appeared, the Colonel was out of patience with her, and her numerous failings.
“Here’s the point that seems to be escaping you,” he said irritably. “Your business is not a success. I’m sorry to be blunt, but since you refuse to face facts, I will. I know you’ve worked hard, but nevertheless, you’ve run up debts, and it’s admirable that you want to pay them off, but there comes a time when it’s foolish to sink good money into a bad idea. That’s what I want you to realize. I don’t intend to let you keep running away from the truth. I can’t keep underwriting a doomed enterprise like this flower shop of yours. I think now would be a good time for you to face the truth.”
“And come home,” she said dully.
“Exactly,” the Colonel said.
“Dad?” Cara’s temples were throbbing. “My business is not a bad idea. I’ll send you the rest of your money as soon as I have it.”
She hung up and placed her phone facedown on the tabletop.
37
Bert swiveled around in his chair to face her. “The Colonel really wants his money, huh?”
“He wants me to throw in the towel and admit that I’m a failure,” Cara said. She shook her head, as if by shaking it she could shake loose the image of her mother, and her real or imagined disappointments.
From a file folder on her desk Cara picked up her notes about tomorrow’s bride, Lindsay Crawford.
She studied the photo of Lindsay’s gown. It was the look of choice this season, strapless, of course, with a heavily beaded bodice, asymmetrical shirring at the waist, and a long fishtail train.
Cara held up the photo of the dress for Bert to see. “This dress? I know for a fact Lindsay paid six thousand dollars for it. Six thousand dollars! For a dress she’ll wear for what? Four hours, tops? I’ve had at least five other brides this year with this dress. That’s thirty thousand dollars. Do you know what I could do with that kind of money?”
“Tell me about it,” Bert said. “And I don’t even like their chances that much. She hates his mother, and the word on the street is that he’s got a wandering eye. I’m thinking less than a fifty percent chance for those two.”
“You’re probably right,” Cara said. She went to the cooler and gathered the flowers she needed for Lindsay’s bouquet: orange tulips, red and yellow roses, and yellow stocks.
Cara gathered all the flowers in her left hand, held them up, then snipped all the stems to the same length.
