Save The Date Part 3

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Cara said. She moved behind the bride and began fastening the b.u.t.tons. "You look amazing, Torie," she said, her voice low and soothing. It was the same voice she used to coax Poppy to take her heartworm meds. It usually worked well on dogs and neurotics.

"Truly. You're my most beautiful bride ever," Cara said.

"The dress isn't too tight? I think that f.u.c.kin' seamstress took it in too much." Torie inhaled sharply as Cara tugged at the last satin b.u.t.ton, praying that it would close the gap.

"Oh my G.o.d. I can't breathe," Torie croaked.

"Perfect," Cara a.s.sured her. "You don't have to breathe. You just have to look amazing. And you do."

She placed her hands lightly on Torie's shoulders and spun her slowly around. She lifted the bouquet from its nest of tissue and handed it to her.

"Now. Isn't this worth the wait?" Cara crossed her fingers, waiting for Torie's reaction.

She'd chosen the most spectacular flowers from Lamar's bucket truck, all in Torie's wedding palette of purples, greens, blues, and pale coral. Hydrangeas, tea roses, and tiny white lilies of the valley and stephanotis made a dinner-plate-sized bouquet, wrapped in hand-dyed watery lavender silk ribbons, fastened with an exquisite platinum brooch with diamond and pearl lilies of the valley.

The bride's expression softened. The shadow of a smile appeared. Torie turned the bouquet this way and that. She touched the delicate tracery of the antique brooch with her finger. "This is pretty. Where did it come from?"

"It was Ryan's grandmother's," Cara said. "And yes, the diamonds and pearls are real. It's a signed Cartier piece. He thought of it all by himself, and he told me it was perfect-the sweetest flower for the sweetest girl in the world."

Which was a big, stinking lie, of course. One of Cara's trademark touches was to include a piece of family jewelry-a little surprise from the groom to the bride-in every bridal bouquet. She'd called Ryan weeks before the wedding to ask him to find a suitable jewel to gift Torie. And she had to admit, he'd come up with a winner.

Torie burst into tears. "That's so like him. He is so thoughtful. And I'm such a b.i.t.c.h! I don't deserve somebody as wonderful as Ryan."

The wedding planner's right eye twitched three times in rapid succession. She patted Torie on the shoulder. "Come on, dear, don't cry. You'll ruin your makeup."

Cara gave Torie a fond pat on the arm. "You're not a b.i.t.c.h. You're just a little emotional. Perfectly natural."

Another lie. Well, it was an occupational hazard. Lying to brides and their mothers.

Cara tucked a stray lock of raven's-wing hair behind Torie's ear. "All right. You're ready. Take a deep breath and try to relax. I've got to go get the rest of the flowers handed out and check on the church. You're calm now, right?"

Torie sniffed and nodded.

"Your bridesmaids' flowers are all right there too," Cara said, pointing at the box she'd put on a nearby tabletop. "Is everybody here?"

"They're here," the wedding planner volunteered. "They're just in the bathroom, touching up their makeup. I'll give them their bouquets."

"Great," Cara said. "I just want to run through the church and check on everything."

She hurried through the side door to the church and took a deep breath. The sanctuary was cool and quiet-and blessedly still for the moment. Her altar arrangements looked magnificent, spilling out of the church's own tall chased-silver urns. The candles in the Fanning family candelabras were definitely white, but she could only hope Lillian would not notice the difference. Cara buzzed up and down the aisles, straightening pew bows and picking up errant rose petals from the white satin runner.

After picking up the box with the boutonnieres, she knocked on the door of the vestry.

"It's open," a male voice called.

The scene here was the opposite of the one in the bride's room. Half a dozen men were attired in tuxes, but with vests unb.u.t.toned and ties untied. They were puffing on cigars and handing around a silver flask, and from the slightly glazed eyes of the a.s.sembled company, it was evident that everybody had already had more than a sip of k.n.o.b Creek.

"Hey Cara, how's it goin'?" Ryan Finnerty was as calm and laid-back as his bride was overwrought. He was tall with a blocky build, with strawberry-blond hair and the Tom Sawyer freckles that went with hair that color, and a square jaw and an easy, gap-toothed grin. Ryan wasn't cla.s.sically handsome, but Cara had developed just the teensiest crush on him during all the pre-wedding planning. He was friendly, down-to-earth, impossible to dislike. She wondered if he knew what, exactly, he was getting into with a high-maintenance girl like Torie.

"Goin' good, Ryan," Cara said. She handed the boutonnieres around to all the groomsmen.

"How's Torie?" Ryan stubbed out his cigar and began fastening the flower to the lapel of his jacket.

"Fine," she lied. "Excited that the big day is finally here. How are things going in here? Everybody present and accounted for?"

"We're good," Ryan drawled. "But we're waiting on my lame-a.s.s best man to show up."

"Oh?" Cara tried not to sound alarmed. But it was getting close to showtime. "Has anybody heard from him this morning?"

The door to the vestry opened and a dark-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt strolled in.

"About d.a.m.n time, Jack," one of the other groomsmen muttered.

"Aw, chill out," the newcomer said. "We got plenty of time."

Cara gasped. "You!"

He turned and his expression darkened. "You! Did you follow me out here?"

Ryan looked from Cara to the latest arrival. "You two know each other?"

"She's been stalking me all afternoon," Jack said, shaking his head.

"He stole my dog," Cara countered. "He's a dognapper."

"Ignore her," Jack said, pulling his T-shirt over his head. "She's clearly deranged."

"Dude," Ryan said. "You're late."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Jack said, looking around the cramped room. He pointed to a garment bag hanging from the back of the door. "Is that mine?"

"h.e.l.l yeah," Ryan said, glancing at his watch. "And you better get into it too. You guys are going to start hauling people down the aisle pretty soon. You're getting Mom and Grandma, right?"

"Taken care of," Jack said. He had kicked off his Topsiders and was pushing his arms through the sleeves of the starched white shirt.

The door opened again and the wedding planner coughed and waved aside the smoke. "Um, gentlemen, we've got guests arriving."

Ryan waved them out of the room. "Come on, guys. Get going. We don't need any hitches today. You know how Torie gets."

Cara saw two of the groomsmen roll their eyes, and she grinned despite herself.

If you only knew.

As the men filed past her, she checked and adjusted their ties and boutonnieres. Then she turned to the best man. He was tall and rangy, with the weather-beaten look of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. His hazel eyes had flecks of gold beneath thick brows, which at this moment were drawn into an uncompromising frown.

"You mind?" he said pointedly, fastening the studs on his tux shirt. "I'm trying to get dressed here."

"And I'm trying to get my dog back," Cara said. "I'm not leaving this room until you agree to hand over Poppy."

"Suit yourself," he said. He unzipped his jeans and nimbly stepped out of them.

Cara blushed and looked away quickly, but the impression was made and it caused an involuntary fluttering in her chest. The starched shirttails hung just low enough to reveal an inch or two of black briefs and tanned, well-muscled thighs. This dognapper was a very, um, well-proportioned man.

"See anything you like?" Jack asked. He turned and reached for his pants, and Cara's face grew hotter as she appreciated the back view almost as much as the front. She mentally chastised herself. Stop leering at this man. He has your dog!

He turned around and with deliberate leisure stepped into his pants, pulling the suspenders over his shoulders, leaving the fly unzipped, she was sure, in a deliberate attempt to embarra.s.s her. His eyes met hers, and she forced herself not to look away as he finally zipped up. Cara blushed even deeper, but stood her ground. "Please give me back my dog."

"I don't have your dog."

Restrained organ music floated from the direction of the sanctuary. Cara clenched her fists on her hips and stared at him.

He stared right back, his jaw clenched tightly. He was smooth-shaven now, his dark wavy hair brushed back from a high forehead.

"Looks like a stalemate," he said, his hazel eyes unblinking. He picked up the c.u.mmerbund, buckled it, then slid the buckle to the back.

There was a brief knock at the door. "C'mon, Jack," Ryan called impatiently. "Don't make me send Mom in there after you."

"Gotta go," Jack said, gesturing toward the door. "There'll be h.e.l.l to pay if I screw up this wedding. I'm already on the bride's s.h.i.t list for keeping little brother out all night at the bachelor party."

"Wait. Did you say Ryan's your brother?"

He looped the bowtie under his collar. Cara felt an irresistible urge to reach up and tie it for him, even though all she really wanted to do was strangle him with it.

"Ryan is two years younger than me. He's the nice one. I'm the a.s.shole."

The door opened and an older woman in a floor-length peach-colored gown stuck her head in the door. "Jack! For G.o.d's sake-get a move on! Everybody's waiting on us."

Jack plucked his tux jacket off the hanger. "Keep your shirt on, Mom."

The woman gave Cara an appraising look. "Who's this?"

"The owner of the dog your son stole from me earlier today," Cara said. After a moment of hesitation, she held out her hand. "I'm Cara Kryzik."

The woman's dark hair was flecked with streaks of gray, and her head barely met her son's shoulder. Her hazel eyes crinkled in amus.e.m.e.nt. "So nice to meet you. I'm Frannie Finnerty. But why on earth would Jack steal your dog? He has a dog of his own."

"Ignore her. She's just the florist. And she's crazier than a s.h.i.t-house rat," Jack said. He tucked his mother's arm through his own and steered her nimbly toward the door.

"Wait!" Cara called.

He wheeled around. "Now what?"

She grasped the ends of his bowtie and quickly tied it. The top of her head barely reached his chin, and he smelled like Irish Spring soap. Magically delicious? Or was that Lucky Charms? Make that maddeningly delicious. Then she plucked the last boutonniere from the cardboard box, grabbed the black satin lapel of his jacket, and jabbed at it violently with the long pearl-headed pin.

"Ow!" He jerked away, opened his jacket, and looked with disbelief at the tiny spot of blood blooming on his starched white shirtfront. "You did that on purpose."

"Serves you right," Cara said, jabbing again, until the flower was securely fastened to his coat.

"Jack!" His mother tugged at his arm. "Come on. Everybody else has been seated. Torie's bridesmaids are all lined up. We have to go!"

Jack narrowed his eyes and gave the florist his long-practiced stink-eye. It was wasted on her, he knew. She was a head shorter than he, but she stood her ground without flinching. Her hair wasn't quite blond and wasn't quite brown, more of an in-between caramel color, he decided. She had large, liquid brown eyes with surprisingly dark lashes that dominated her heart-shaped face. He was pretty sure she was wearing no more makeup than a little pink lipstick, and even that was wasted, since she was scowling up at him, returning his stink-eye measure for measure.

Finally, she took a step backward. "This isn't over," she said softly, under her breath.

"That's what you think," he said. And then he allowed his mother to drag him out of the vestry and into the wedding melee.

5.

Cara didn't stick around the church to watch Torie Fanning pledge her troth to Ryan Finnerty. She rarely did. Weddings were her business, not her pleasure, she told herself.

Instead, she raced for the van, pausing only to give the sky an anxious look. She and Ellie Lewis, the wedding planner, had done their best to talk Torie out of an outdoor reception. It was already hot in Savannah, and tornado season to boot. Cara had witnessed way too many weather-related wedding disasters, including one memorable reception where a sudden lightning storm had pinned seventy-five black-tie and c.o.c.ktail-gowned guests huddled together in terror under the Victorian wooden gazebo in Whitfield Square.

But Torie was determined to have her reception at home, on the back lawn at the Shutters, her parents' gracious old home on the bluff at the Isle of Hope, facing the Skidaway River. And amazingly, it looked as though the weather was going to cooperate. A fresh breeze was blowing in off the river, and the humidity was actually bearable.

Cara pulled the van into the long driveway at the gray-shingled Fanning house, relieved to see Bert's car already tucked beside the carriage house, in front of the caterer's trucks. The brilliant blue sky had faded to a pale lavender-one of Torie's wedding colors, of course. The setting sun sparkled on the pale green water (also one of Torie's colors) lapping at the long dock opposite the Shutters.

The Fannings' dockhouse had been torn down and rebuilt just for the wedding, and now green-and-white-striped canvas drapes fluttered from its open corners, and a large wrought-iron chandelier hung from its peaked ceiling. This was where the guests would mingle and sip c.o.c.ktails to watch the sunset while waiting for the wedding party to arrive from the church.

Cara hurried across the wide expanse of front lawn, her boot heels sinking into the gra.s.s. She crossed the road and found Bert standing in the dockhouse, directing a helper who was fastening baskets of flowers to the tiki torches dotting the corners of the dock.

"Well?" he asked, turning to face her. "Is the deed done?"

"The soloist was just starting when I left. Everything at the church looked great. And Torie actually cried when I handed her the bouquet with Ryan's pin. I'd say we have twenty more minutes before the first guests arrive."

Bert nodded. "You didn't try to talk the groom into making a run for it?"

"Hah! And foul up my biggest wedding of this season? No way. Anyway, even if I had, Ryan wouldn't have run. The poor guy is totally koo-koo for Cocoa Puffs over Torie."

Bert wrinkled his nose. "No accounting for taste. So ... what do you think?"

"I think they might just have a shot at making it for the long haul," Cara admitted. "But only because Ryan Finnerty is a total teddy bear. You?"

He shrugged. "I give them six years. Although, if she gets knocked up sooner, I could be wrong."

Cara giggled. "I've got news for you, sport. She's already preggers. That gown fit her with room to spare when it was delivered in March."

Bert's eyes widened. "You think?"

"I know," she a.s.sured him. "At the rehearsal dinner? She stuck to iced tea all night. And did you see the way her b.o.o.bs were about to fall out of the dress? I promise you, we'll be doing baby-shower balloon bouquets for her by fall."

Cara took a brisk walk around the dockhouse, straightening tablecloths on the caterer's highboy tabletops, brushing at the stray fern frond or fallen petal. Technically, this was the wedding planner's job, but Cara Kryzik never left anything to chance.