Save The Date Part 25

Cara introduced Layne and Marie, and Marie looked at her watch and frowned. "I can't believe the kids aren't here yet. Brooke texted me they were leaving her office fifteen minutes ago." A faint chirp sounded from the direction of Marie's pocketbook. She dug it out, read the text message, smiled, and held it up for the other women to see.

On way. There in 5.

"Wow!" Marie walked over to the buffet table. "This looks wonderful. Are we really going to have all this?"

Layne glanced at Cara for an answer.

"Not necessarily all of it. When I talked to your husband..."

"Ex-husband, actually," Marie said quietly.

"Oh. Right. Sorry, of course. Anyway, Mr. Trapnell said he and his wife wanted to sample everything we offer, so they could get..."

Marie's face paled. "Are you saying that Gordon's coming today? And Patricia too?"

This was news to Cara. And not happy news.

"Um, well, I think that was the plan. Isn't that the plan?" Layne asked Cara.

Uh-oh, Cara thought. Once again, Patricia Trapnell had managed an end run around her.

"When I set up the tasting with Layne today, I was under the impression that it was just going to be the bride and groom and mother of the bride." Cara chose her words carefully.

The door opened again, and Brooke Trapnell rushed in, a tall strawberry-blond man right behind. "Hi everybody. Sorry to be late!"

Brooke Trapnell wore pearls, white running shoes, and a crisp seersucker power suit, straight out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue. Her fiance was dressed more casually, in khakis and a blue b.u.t.ton-down dress shirt.

Marie gave her daughter an exasperated hug. "I was afraid you weren't coming."

"I tried, Marie," Brooke's fiance said ruefully. "I even fibbed and told her we were supposed to be here half an hour earlier...."

"Sweet boy!" Marie Trapnell beamed her approval, then kissed him on the cheek and turned to Cara.

"Cara Kryzik, this is my future son-in-law, Harris Strayhorn."

"Hey there." Harris's handshake was firm, his smile genuine. He looked a lot like his mother, with fair hair, blue eyes, and the same ruddy complexion. But he was half a head taller than Brooke, long-limbed and gangly, like a colt whose legs had outgrown the rest of his body.

Harris's eyes widened as he took in the food table. "Oh man, is that all for us? Awesome!" He turned to Brooke, tugging at her sleeve. "Honey, check out this spread!"

Brooke laughed. "He is always hungry. Always. You wouldn't believe he just came from a breakfast meeting, right?"

"I happen to enjoy good food," Harris said. "Is that a crime?"

"It's a good thing you know how to cook," Marie said. "Because if it's up to Brooke, you might starve to death."

"That's not true. I can fix oatmeal, and scrambled eggs, and grits, of course," Brooke protested.

"Do you ever eat any of that yourself?" Layne asked dubiously, taking in the bride's slender figure.

"No," Marie said, frowning now at the way Brooke's jacket hung loosely from her shoulders.

"I eat," Brooke said.

Harris raised one eyebrow. "What? What have you eaten today?"

"Well ... nothing, but that's just because I knew we would be pigging out at this tasting, and I didn't want to spoil my appet.i.te."

"She has no appet.i.te," Marie said flatly. "Except for work."

"And me," Harris said, wrapping an arm around his fiancee's waist.

Obviously ready to change the subject, Brooke pointed at the food table. "Okay so can we get started? This all looks great, but I've got a two-o'clock meeting back at the office."

Layne gave Cara a questioning glance.

"Yes. Let's go ahead and start tasting and comparing notes," Cara said. "I gather we're expecting Gordon and Patricia to join us, but I don't want to hold you two up."

Brooke had picked up a slice of roast beef from the carving station, but she dropped the fork now, with a clatter.

"Mom?" She stared at Marie. "You didn't tell me Dad and Patricia were coming."

"I didn't know myself, until just now. It's fine though. Really. I can deal. Let's just go ahead and begin."

Harris stepped over to the table and began loading a plate with food. He popped a shrimp in his mouth and chewed, nodding his head in approval.

"Can we have the shrimp? What, are they cooked in beer or something?"

"Boiled in beer, actually," Layne volunteered.

Harris dropped one on Brooke's empty plate. "Try this. We gotta have this for the wedding."

But Brooke ignored the food. "I can't believe she just invited herself today. I told Daddy she keeps trying to run things...."

Marie put her hand on Brooke's sleeve. "Let's just let it go for today, okay? Layne has fixed all this beautiful food for us to try. You can have another discussion with your dad later."

"It's so not okay," Brooke said, stony-faced.

"Honey?" Harris said, soothingly. "C'mon. Just eat something."

They worked their way around the table. For as skinny as he was, Harris Strayhorn's appet.i.te and enthusiasm knew no bounds. He was every mother's dream, every caterer's dream. He loved it all.

For her part, Brooke merely picked at the offerings, despite her mother's urging.

Marie was busily taking notes and conferring with Layne. "I love the little new potatoes with the caviar and sour cream. Brooke?"

"I'm not really into fish eggs, but if you like them, that's fine," Brooke said.

They were ten minutes into the tasting when the shop door opened and Patricia Trapnell swept in.

"s.h.i.t," Brooke said under her breath. Marie shot her a warning look.

Patricia didn't offer a greeting, or an excuse for her lateness. "You've started already?" She glared accusingly at Cara.

"Yes. We did, Patricia. Harris and I have jobs. We can't wait around all day for you." Brooke glowered at her stepmother. "Where's Daddy?"

"Something came up." Patricia picked up a plate and started down the line, but frowned when she saw the roast beef.

"Layne? I thought we discussed tenderloin, not steamship round. It'll be so hot that day, and honestly, I think that presentation is so pa.s.se. It reminds people of being on a second-rate cruise ship."

"Well," Layne began.

"I asked for this cut," Brooke said. "It's Harris's favorite. His dad's too. And it's not pa.s.se, but even if it were, n.o.body but you would care."

"Fine." Patricia's lips pursed and she moved on to the next dish. She pointed with her fork at one of the chafing dishes.

"What's that supposed to be?"

Layne dabbed a bead of perspiration from her forehead. "That's the roast asparagus you requested."

"But it's wrapped in bacon," Patricia said, her nostrils quivering. "We're supposed to have prosciutto. Cold-smoked prosciutto. Don't think I don't know the difference."

"For the reception, we'll use prosciutto," Layne a.s.sured her. "But I have to special-order it from my supplier, and he only delivers on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"We're going to want to taste the prosciutto before the wedding," Patricia warned. "It's an entirely different taste."

Brooke snorted, and this time, Patricia decided not to let it pa.s.s. She whirled around to confront the bride.

"You may not care about these things, Brooke Trapnell, but I can a.s.sure you your father and I do care. We're paying eighty dollars a plate for this reception. And that does not include the bar. So please excuse me if I happen to object when somebody expects me to pay for prosciutto when it's clearly only bacon. Is that too much to ask?"

Marie hesitated, then stepped between her daughter and Patricia.

"We all want a beautiful wedding, don't we, Brooke?"

Brooke rolled her eyes, then looked away.

"Hey, honey?" It was Harris's turn to referee now. He had a smear of chocolate icing on his upper lip, and a glob of coconut on his shirt collar. He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the opposite end of the table. "Come down here and check out the desserts. Cupcakes! I freakin' love 'em."

"Cupcakes?" Patricia's surgically stretched face registered her horror. She stalked down to the dessert offerings. "Are we having a 4-H picnic, Layne? Really?"

"No!" Layne hurried over. "These are just all the different cake types and frostings and fillings we do. I thought Brooke and Harris could taste everything and decide, and then, of course, we'll do a proper cake...."

"Forget it," Brooke said, her eyes blazing. "Just let Patricia decide. After all, she's the one running this show."

Brooke reached over and s.n.a.t.c.hed the lemon-iced cupcake he'd just bitten into from Harris's hand. She set it down on the table.

"Aww, man..." he groaned.

"We've got to get back to work," Brooke announced. She turned and walked rapidly toward the door.

"Harris! I'm leaving."

Harris looked at Layne, then at Cara, then at Marie. He shrugged. "Sorry. Gotta go."

He was halfway to the door when he turned, returned to the table, picked up his cupcake, and hurried back to the side of his one true love.

Somehow, after Brooke had gone, the women managed to work out a menu that suited Patricia as well as Marie. When everybody was gone, Layne went to the door of Fete Accompli and locked the deadbolt. Wordlessly, she went to the big walk-in cooler in her catering kitchen. She took out a half-open bottle of chardonnay, tipped it to her lips, and swigged for at least a minute. Then she handed it to Cara. "Be my guest."

33.

Bert met her at the door of the shop, and the look on his face telegraphed the bad news. "I've looked everywhere," Bert said, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. "Honest to G.o.d, Cara. Every single stop I made Friday, I retraced. I showed everybody the picture of the epergne. I even crawled around in the gra.s.s and the bushes at the Shutters. Since it was low tide, I even looked around that dock, thinking maybe somebody got drunk and chunked it in the water for a joke. But nothing. It ain't there."

"Oh G.o.d." Cara thumped her forehead on her desk. First Lillian Fanning, then Patricia Trapnell. Now this. What was wrong with her karma?

"What now? Will you call her and tell her?"

Cara popped three aspirin in her mouth and dry-swallowed them.

"I can't deal with Lillian right now. I think I might have heat stroke." She pulled her sticky shirt away from her chest.

"Did you call Sylvia Bradley again?" Bert asked.

"Yes, I called her. She doesn't pick up the phone, because she doesn't want to deal with me. I've sent her a registered letter, too." Cara reached into her desk drawer and got her pocketbook.

"Let's go," she told Bert.

"Where to?"

"To wherever they sell air conditioners. I can't spend one more hour living like this."

The salesman at Lowe's carefully explained the merits and options of all the room-size air conditioners the store carried.

"Which one is the next to cheapest?"

The salesman looked startled. "Next to cheapest?"

"My father taught me never to buy the cheapest model of anything. Or the most expensive," Cara explained. "I sure can't afford the next to most expensive, so I guess I'm buying the next to cheapest."

"Most affordable," the salesman said gently.