Save The Date Part 13

18.

Cara was on the phone with a customer when she heard the shop door open. It was only 8:30 a.m., but Bert was out on a delivery, so she was manning the store by herself. She placed a hand over the receiver and addressed the visitor. "Be with you in a minute."

While her phone customer droned on and on about the exact right shade of red she wanted for the roses she was sending her recuperating granny, Cara sized up her visitor, who was wandering around the shop, examining some of the "make and take" arrangements in the walk-in cooler.

She was a bride, obviously. In her late twenties, tall and slender, with skin so pale it was nearly opaque, and fine, dark hair gathered into a hastily styled ponytail tied with a scrunchy. A scrunchy? Cara didn't even know those still existed. The bride wore very little makeup and was dressed in a navy-blue suit and white silk blouse that fairly screamed job interview. The earpiece from her phone dangled from one ear, and she clutched a briefcase under one arm. Every once in a while, she glanced furtively down at her watch. The diamond solitaire on her left ring finger was impressive, at least two carats, Cara thought, and her pulse quickened. She needed to finish up with the sixty-dollar red rose order and get with this bride.

When she'd finally managed to persuade her caller that she'd only use the very freshest, loveliest, long-stemmed roses for her arrangement, she put the phone down with a sense of relief.

"Good morning," she said, hurrying around from behind her worktable. "Is there anything special I can help you with?"

"No. Well, yes, I mean, are you the owner? Cara? I think my mother's already been in to see you. I'm getting married in July, and we thought, I mean, well Vicki Cooper raved about the flowers you did for their wedding and..."

"I'm Cara. And you must be Brooke Trapnell. Is that right? Marie's daughter?"

"That's right." Brooke nodded. A faint blush crept over her face. "I understand you met with my father and stepmother too?"

"Yes," Cara said. "Just last week. I met them over at Cabin Creek. What a beautiful spot for a wedding. You must be very excited."

Brooke was busy looking around the shop. She traced the tip of a white phalaenopsis orchid with her fingertip. "This is so pretty. What kind of flower is it?"

"It's a phalaenopsis," Cara said. "Do you like orchids?"

The girl was still concentrating on the orchid. "Hmm?" She looked up at Cara. "I'm sorry. What were you saying before?"

"Just that you must be getting excited. With your wedding only a few weeks away."

The girl nodded, her face serious. "Patricia printed out this timeline thing from one of the wedding websites, and according to it, I'm already hopelessly behind schedule. On top of everything else, I've got a big trial scheduled a week before the wedding. I'm actually starting to feel pretty panicky."

"Oh, no. Don't be panicky," Cara said. "That's my job. Your job is to look beautiful and enjoy your special day."

Brooke gave her a dubious look. "Half the girls I know have gotten married this past year. I've been a bridesmaid six times just since September, and it's been h.e.l.l. Every single time. Have you ever seen a bride who wasn't panicky?"

"Well, there was this one girl this past weekend," Cara admitted. "But she was probably the exception to the rule."

"One of my friends, Melanie Eaves? Maybe you know her? Her caterer went out of business two weeks before the wedding. Mel got so stressed her hair was falling out in big clumps. She lost so much weight they finally put a feeding tube in her stomach."

"Oh my."

"And this other girl? She was a year ahead of me in law school at Georgia? Samantha Epstein? She ended up going so far over budget, her parents were fighting like cats and dogs, and they ended up filing for divorce. Like, the week before Samantha's wedding. Her father refused to go the reception."

"That's too bad," Cara said.

"Yes, well, at least that won't happen with my parents. Patricia already took care of that, didn't she?"

"Ummm," Cara said, stalling.

"Anyway." Brooke stole another glance at her watch. "Oh, G.o.d, look at the time. I promised my mom I'd come by and see you. About the flowers. She said you'd need to talk to me?"

"Yes," Cara said. "Usually I like to spend some time with the bride, to talk about what type flowers you like, color preferences, style. Maybe you have a Pinterest board, or some pictures from the wedding magazines you've been clipping, something like that?"

Brooke shrugged. "Not really. I guess I'm not much into that kind of stuff. Whatever you and Mom come up with, I'm sure I'll like."

This was a first for Cara. A bride who didn't have pages and pages of carefully clipped or pinned wedding photoraphs. Earlier in the spring, she'd done flowers for a bride who'd actually been sc.r.a.pbooking her future wedding since the age of twelve.

"No favorite color or flower?"

Brooke flicked the phalaenopsis blossom. "This is pretty."

"That's a start," Cara said. "We can do some really pretty arrangments with orchids. Probably not just orchids though, right? I'm thinking maybe something very simple and natural-looking?"

Brooke nodded vigorously. "Yes. Definitely simple. I don't want anything too..." She waved her hands in the air. "Too fluffy. Or show-offy. Do you know what I mean?"

Yes, Cara thought, I do: the exact opposite of what your father and stepmother are envisioning.

"Anything else?" Cara asked. "Besides orchids for your bouquet? What about your attendants? And the groom and groomsmen? Any particular flower your fiance likes-or hates?"

"Harris?" Brooke shrugged. "He's a guy." Her face softened. "A sweetie, but he's probably even more clueless than me when it comes to something like this. As far as Harris Strayhorn is concerned, as long as we have an open bar and some kind of barbecue at the reception, he'll be happy."

"Like a lot of grooms," Cara said, laughing. "I can help you figure out the boutonnieres-maybe in Harris's school colors or something? And we'll need to talk about flowers for the reception, as well as the chapel at Cabin Creek. Patricia showed me the dining room, which is lovely. But Patricia wasn't clear on whether you'll be doing a seated dinner or a buffet, so that's something we'll need to talk about...."

"All that?" Brooke twisted the solitaire on her ring finger with her right hand. Around and around, looking down at it and then back up at Cara. "Just, I mean, can't you make all the flowers sort of all look like the same thing?"

Cara heard a faint ringing coming from the vicinity of Brooke's jacket pocket, prompting the girl to start patting all the pockets of her jacket, searching for her phone.

"Oh geez. I have to take this. It's the office. h.e.l.lo?" Brooke's eyebrows drew together, her narrow shoulders hunched over. "Right. Yes. Absolutely. I'm on my way in right now. I can do a conference call in ten minutes. Will that work?"

She was heading for the door, already immersed in business.

Cara cleared her throat, and Brooke turned.

"Look. Just talk to my mom, would you? The two of you can work it out much better than I could."

"What about your father?" Cara asked. "I think he and your stepmother have some ideas...."

"No!" Brooke said sharply. "Patricia already took over my dad. She doesn't get to take over my wedding too. I won't let her."

"Well okay," Cara said. "But they have another florist in mind. I'm actually not certain they plan to hire me."

"It's my d.a.m.ned wedding," Brooke said, her jaw clenched. "And my mother and I am hiring you. Period."

She threw open the shop door and hurried down the sidewalk.

19.

The siege by Trapnells descended upon Cara Kryzik at 6 p.m. on Wednesday, right at closing time.

Brooke and Marie Trapnell arrived at the door, just as she was wheeling in the old-fashioned wooden garden cart full of potted plants from the sidewalk.

Brooke wore a black lady lawyer dress with a black-and-white-striped jacket, and an expression of pure misery. Her mother was dressed more casually, but the expression was almost identical to Brooke's.

"Brooke, Marie, uh, well, how nice to see you," Cara stammered. She heard a car door slam then, and glancing over, saw Patricia Trapnell step out of the silver Jaguar parked in a no-parking slot at the curb.

Her head whipped from the stepmother to the mother and daughter.

"Hi, Patricia," Cara said. She felt her scalp p.r.i.c.kle, and wondered if this was what the sensation of fight-or-flight was like.

"You're about to close, aren't you?" Brooke said. Brooke glared at Patricia, who'd joined them on the sidewalk. "I told you, she closes at six."

"But not for you," Cara said quickly.

"Of course not," Patricia said, her voice silky, as she neatly sidestepped Marie and Brooke. "We're so sorry to catch you like this, on the spur of the moment, but as I was just explaining to Brooke, if we're going to pull off this wedding, we simply have to start nailing down the details. Now."

Patricia reached into the large buff-colored calfskin bag that dangled from her shoulder. Cara, who told herself she only read In Style magazine to keep up with wedding trends, recognized the handbag as the $3,500 Fendi bag she'd drooled over in a recent issue.

"Here," Patricia said, thrusting a doc.u.ment into her hands. "This is the game plan we've finally managed to hammer out."

"Game plan?" Cara said dumbly, glancing down at the multipage dossier.

"For our wedding, of course," Patricia said.

"My wedding. Mine and Harris's," Brooke said.

"Which her father and I are paying for," Patricia added.

Marie coughed quietly.

"And her mother, of course," Patricia said, giving Marie a curt nod.

"Does this mean you want me to do the flowers?" Cara looked directly at Brooke.

"Yes," Brooke said, nodding vigorously. "And everything else, too. Flowers, food, all that stuff. Can you?"

"Brooke, I'm flattered to be asked, but, I'm not a wedding planner-I can give you the name of several people locally who'd do a wonderful job. I work with most of them...."

"That's what I suggested," Patricia said. "What we need is a professional planner to pull together all our vendors, the photographer, the caterer, the cake baker, the band, the valet-parking people..."

"I want Cara," Brooke said. She crossed slim, freckled arms over her chest, and in that moment, Cara found new admiration for this bride who'd suddenly acquired a backbone. "She's done tons of weddings for lots of girls I know, right?"

"Well, flowers for the weddings," Cara said cautiously.

In fact, she'd been a de facto wedding planner lots of times, mostly for small weddings, as a favor to her budget-minded brides. And she'd complained, privately, to Bert, that she might as well have charged for the service, though she never had.

"See!" Patricia said. "Brooke, we're not talking about some little cake and punch affair at the American Legion hall. Your father has budgeted two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Cara was about to agree with Patricia. Why get in over her head?

But then the figure she'd just mentioned floated before Cara's eyes. A budget of $250,000. Not just a measly $10,000 for flowers. A quarter of a million smackers. Of which she, as the wedding planner, could expect to be paid twenty percent.

Suddenly, dollar signs danced merrily in the humid afternoon air. That much money could wipe out her debt to the Colonel. No more phone calls, emails, or terse text messages. No more ramen-noodle dinners. She could buy a new cooler for the shop, get a reliable car. Her mind swirled with all the possibilities.

Why shouldn't she plan Brooke's wedding?

"Look," Cara said, "we don't have to stand out here in the heat, debating this. Why don't you all come inside and sit down? I'll make us some iced tea-or we can even have a gla.s.s of wine, if you like, and we can discuss the pros and cons."

Cara found the pitcher of peach iced tea in the fridge, glancing longingly at the bottle of pinot grigio on the rack in the door. When this ambush was over, she promised herself, that bottle would be empty.

While the ladies sipped their tea, Cara skimmed over the "game plan." Brooke jiggled her foot impatiently and pulled out her phone, texting a mile a minute.

The first line of the doc.u.ment was a surprise. "Two hundred fifty guests? Really?"

"I know," Brooke said, not bothering to look up from her phone. "Crazy, right? And you should see the list. People I've never met. People I haven't seen since, like, ever. If it were up to me, we'd have fifty, tops."

"It's not up to you, though, is it?" Patricia set her tea gla.s.s down on the tabletop with a clatter.

Marie looked up at the ceiling and hummed under her breath. This discussion, Cara sensed, had been going on for hours, if not days.

"Apparently, not," Brooke muttered.

Cara read on. "Pa.s.sed appetizers during c.o.c.ktail hour. Seated dinner.... Will the dining room at Cabin Creek hold two hundred fifty people?"

"Easily." Patricia said. "According to Libba Strayhorn, they can open up the doors between the dining room and the twin parlors and entrance hall and easily accommodate that many."

"It'll be awful," Brooke said. "A ma.s.s of hot, sweaty, hungry, overdressed social climbers, all pawing at me and grabbing for the last piece of shrimp."

"Brooke..." Marie gave her daughter a warning look.

"So..." Cara did some quick math. "Maybe do c.o.c.ktails and apps in the entry hall as people are entering. We'll have scattered high-top tables around the perimeter of the room. For flowers-maybe just some bud vases on the high-tops?"

"Whatever." Brooke was texting again. Marie reached over and gently took the phone from her daughter's hand.

"Do you have a caterer in mind?" Cara asked, directing the question at Marie.

"Well..."

"Simple Elegance does all the best events in town," Patricia put in. "They did an amazing job for a dinner for us a few years ago."