Save The Date Part 29

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.

"Sounds like things got a little tense back there when you were on the phone with your dad," Bert said.

Cara shot him a look. She found a length of the white satin ribbon Lindsay had chosen, measured off three yards, and cut it.

"Yeah. He as much as told me it's a good thing my mom is dead, since I'm such a big disappointment and all."

Cara began stripping the soft, velvety leaves of the stocks. "He never mentions my mom. Well, hardly ever. So today he brought out the big guilt guns. That's how the Colonel plays the game. Pile on the guilt. Your mother's dead, and I'm all alone. You're a failure. At marriage and at business. You're a bad daughter. And a lousy credit risk."

Cara picked up her scissors and carefully trimmed the bright orange stamens from the Stargazer lilies, sweeping them off the tabletop and into the trash can at her feet. She selected four stems of glossy green lemon leaves, arranging them around the perimeter of the bouquet, like a ruff.

Blinking back tears, she picked up the ribbon. Twirling the bouquet with her left hand, she began wrapping the ribbon around the flowers. She felt a sharp stab on her right thumb and looked down to see a single huge droplet of crimson blood drip down onto the flawless white satin of Lindsay Crawford's bouquet.

Cara tossed the ruined bouquet onto the worktable. She'd forgotten to trim the rose thorns. The Colonel was right. She was a hopeless f.u.c.kup.

Bert busied himself with the altar flowers, stuffing long stems of gladiolus, ferns, roses, and lilies into the trumpet-shaped vases provided by Lindsay's church.

He glanced over at Cara.

"What are you going to do about the d.a.m.ned epergne? I mean, Lillian can't prove anything. Maybe she lost it herself."

Cara shrugged. "The problem is, it was my responsibility. And I can't prove we didn't lose it."

"In other words, you're saying it's my fault."

Cara stood up from her chair. Her head was throbbing, her back hurt, and she was about sick of her a.s.sistant's att.i.tude.

"For the last time, I do not think that you're a thief. Okay? But something is going on with you, and it's affecting your work. You won't tell me what it is, so what am I supposed to think?"

"It's just some personal stuff I'm dealing with."

"You've got personal stuff? Seriously? Look around you, Bert. This shop? I'm about to lose it. Literally. Yeah. Sylvia Bradley sold the building right out from under me. And the new owner is already breathing down my neck to get me out. So I don't give a hairy rat's a.s.s about your personal stuff. Just do your job, okay?"

He got up, shaking his head. He put the altar arrangement on the bottom shelf of the cooler and slammed the door.

"I'm taking lunch. Back in an hour."

"You just got here."

"Dock my pay. I'm gone."

Cara watched through the front window as Bert strode quickly down the sidewalk. She wished she could run away, too. Instead, she picked up Lindsay's bouquet and began cutting away the blood-spattered ribbon.

38.

Bert was giving her the silent treatment. And Cara was slinging it right back at him. Throughout the day the phone rang, customers walked in and out of Bloom, and they conducted business. But commerce was the only conversation that day. If she asked Bert a question he answered in clipped monosyllables.

Their normal easy work rhythm was out of sync, and as the day wore on, Cara's anxiety increased. Arrangments for delivery backed up, and without Bert's cooperation, she realized she'd have a long night of work ahead.

Even Poppy sensed the tension in the shop. The dog stayed directly beneath Cara's feet while she worked, moving only to follow her owner every time Cara moved.

At five on the dot, Bert stood up. "I'm gone." Cara glanced over at him, and then at the cooler, where only one of the six boutonnieres for the next day's wedding was completed. She had to bite her tongue to keep from suggesting that if he left for the day, he should stay gone.

"See you," she said.

At six, her cell phone rang, but she didn't bother to see who was calling. She still had Lindsay's bridesmaids' bouquets to make, the boutonnieres, and two large table arrangements for the buffet table at the reception. Poppy paced around the shop, but there was no time to take the dog for a walk.

Her phone rang three more times over the next two hours, and she let it roll over to voicemail, all the while cursing her absent a.s.sistant, and also cursing herself for letting him get away with slacking off.

She was so lost in her work the first soft knock at the shop door barely registered. At the second knock, she frowned. "We're closed!" she called out.

"Cara, it's Jack."

He had a huge brown paper bag with grease spots in one arm, and Shaz's leash looped around his wrist.

"What's this?" Cara asked, as he walked in and set the bag down on the worktable.

"Dinner. I've been calling and calling, but you didn't answer. I rode by an hour ago to see if you were here, and I could see you working through the window, so I figured the only way I was going to see you tonight was if I brought dinner to you."

She sniffed the bag. "Chinese?"

"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I kinda got a variety. Moo shu pork, shrimp with lobster sauce, chicken with snow peas, beef and broccolis, egg drop soup..."

Cara's stomach growled loudly, and she opened the bag and began parceling out the white boxes. "You are a lovely man, Jack Finnerty. I just now realized I haven't eaten anything today since a banana at seven this morning."

"Busy day?"

"Busy and horrible. I'd tell you about it, but it would just spoil your appet.i.te. And I'm still not done. Will you hate me if we just eat down here?"

"I could never hate you," he said.

"Hang on and I'll go get some forks and paper plates."

"Plates? I thought that's what those little white boxes were for?"

"Only if you're a lonely old maid," Cara said, heading for the kitchenette. She glanced at the back door and saw a puddle.

"Oh, Poppy," she said with a sigh.

The dog hung her head. Cara felt flooded with guilt. She hadn't taken the dog for a walk, hadn't paid her the least attention all day.

"Not your fault, girl," she muttered, fetching paper towels and spray cleaner.

Cara had to force herself not to scarf down every morsel of fried rice and moo shu pork. He'd brought a six-pack of Tsingtao beer, and Jack sipped his beer and watched with obvious amus.e.m.e.nt as she made quick work of dinner.

Finally, she set her fork down with a sigh of happiness. "Thank you for that. I feel better already. But how was your day? How's it going out at the Strayhorns'?"

"Good. We got the roof finished. Galvalume standing-seam tin, and it looks awesome. Once we finished that, Libba decided she wanted some windows to lighten the place up. We've ordered those. And we got the ductwork installed for the HVAC. We power-washed all the walls inside and out and now we've also got the floors down. Wait till you see them. We were gonna re-mill them, because of all the gouges and stains from oil and machinery, but once we took a look, we decided to leave them as is. Even Libba loved the character. We just gave the floor a light sanding, and it brought out the most amazing color, a soft gray-brown...."

"Mouse ear," Cara said.

"Huh?"

"Oh, it's a paint color I saw once. I think it's supposed to describe the color of the inside of a mouse's ear, but I like to think of it as that soft gray-brown you just described."

Jack leaned over and with the tip of his little finger removed a grain of rice from the corner of her mouth before kissing her lightly. "Mouse ear? As I remember, you're not too fond of rodents."

"No. Hate rats. And mice." She kissed him back. "But you? I kinda like you."

"Thanks. The feeling is mutual."

Jack followed her into the kitchenette and they cleaned up the dinner dishes together.

"How much more work do you have to do on the barn?" Cara asked.

"The new windows should get shipped this week, and we'll get them installed. And then Libba decided she wanted a powder room, and a kitchen, so we've stubbed in the plumbing for that...."

"A kitchen and a powder room?" Cara frowned. "I had no idea they were doing that too. This is getting pretty expensive, huh?"

"Just materials, so far? We've spent around sixty thousand dollars, and that's not including our labor."

She shook her head. "All that money just for an after-party. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad it turned out to be a good job for you and Ryan, but it just seems like a crazy expense-and all for an after-party. Not even the reception. And why? Brooke Trapnell doesn't even really care about most of this stuff."

"Libba cares," Jack a.s.sured her. "She's really stoked about getting that old barn fixed up. She's got all kinds of plans for the place."

"I know. Grandkids. Libba is such a sweet lady. I hope she gets her wish."

"Why wouldn't she? What? You don't think Brooke and Harris want kids?"

"Honestly? I'm not sure Brooke knows what she wants."

"Harris seems like a decent guy. I guess I was expecting some snotty, stuck-up punk. The Strayhorns have more money than G.o.d. But he's okay. He came out to the farm yesterday and helped us unload some materials. He asked a lot of questions. He's really interested in the old building."

"He's nice," Cara agreed.

"What? You don't like their chances either?"

Cara shugged. "Doesn't matter. It's not like I'm an expert."

"You seem pretty down tonight."

"Just a little tired. Want to go upstairs?"

He grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

Their lovemaking had a different edge this time, but neither of them could have said why.

Afterward, Cara lay with her chin on Jack's chest, and with his fingertip he traced slow circles on her bare back. "Want to talk about your day? I'm happy to listen. Are you still worried about your building being sold?"

"It's just been an all-around sucky day. And not just that. I haven't even really had time to think about calling my real-estate agent."

"Why don't you just go see this Cullen Kane? Put your cards on the table. Let him know you want to stay."

She hesitated. "The thing is-maybe I shouldn't stay."

"Hey!" He cupped his hand under her chin. "What's that mean?"

"The Colonel-my father, called this morning. He wants his money back, which is not new, but now he's taken things to an entirely new level of guilt inducement. He actually told me it was a good thing my mom was dead-so she can't see what a disappointment I've become."

She forced a brittle smile. "He never says he misses her. But I know he does, and I guess his pressuring me to come home is his screwed-up way of saying he misses me too."