Save The Date Part 38

49.

"You did what?" Cara had been about to take a bite of her sandwich, but instead she put it down on her paper plate and picked up the sheaf of papers he'd just presented with a flourish.

The look on her face was not anything like what he'd pictured. Her jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed as she skimmed the sales contract for West Jones Street. Her face paled when she got to the page with the sales price.

"Is this some kind of joke?" she demanded. "Because if it is, I don't get the punch line."

"It's no joke. I bought it. Sylvia Bradley was my piano teacher when I was a kid. I went to see her yesterday morning, and I bought this building. For you."

Cara stabbed at the contract with her fingertip. "You paid twice what it's worth! Are you crazy? Where would you get that kind of money?"

Now Jack put down his own sandwich. He was confused. Where was the jumping up and down? Where were the screams of joy and wild kisses of grat.i.tude he'd been antic.i.p.ating for the past two days?

Earlier that day, Jack and a helper arrived at Forty-fourth Street at dawn. They carted Sylvia's ancient rusted Kenmore washer and dryer down the crumbling driveway and into the back of Jack's truck for the trip to the dump. It took only a couple hours to tear down Sylvia Bradley's mud porch. He was shocked that it hadn't just fallen off of its own accord.

Even with a cane, the old lady was pretty spry, and she stood in the weedy backyard, in her flower-print blouse and old-school Keds, and supervised as they tossed the rotted timbers into the Dumpster he'd rented.

Late Wednesday morning, after she could see the yellow pine skeleton of her new porch, Sylvia finally called him into the kitchen, offered him a paper cup of warm Hawaiian Punch and the sales contract for West Jones Street.

He reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts and brought out a white envelope with the cashier's check for the earnest money inside, just as he'd offered those five-dollar envelopes from his mother every Wednesday the year he was ten. As he handed this one over to Sylvia Bradley, he halfway expected her to ask him if he'd been practicing his finger exercises.

She ripped open the envelope and studied the check, running a swollen forefinger over the embossed bank logo.

"How did you leave things with Cullen Kane?" he asked, signing the contract with a flourish.

"Never you mind," Sylvia said. She opened a kitchen drawer and rummaged around among the rubber bands, b.a.l.l.s of string, and nubs of pencils until she found a set of keys with a white plastic C&S Bank key fob. "Here are the keys. My father bought that building in 1953. He was always partial to West Jones Street."

Jack pocketed the keys. "I'm partial to it too. Thank you, Miss Sylvia."

At lunchtime, Jack picked up sandwiches and chips at a deli on Habersham Street, and he headed over to Bloom to share the good news with Cara, and bask in the warmth of her admiration.

"You must be insane," Cara said, shaking the contract, as though she might shake the numbers right off the paper. "This is a lot of money."

"It is a lot of money, but no, I'm not crazy," Jack said calmly. "The price is a little on the high side, but it's not terribly out of line with comparable prices in the district. I checked the tax records. It's a decent deal, Cara."

And it might have been considered a decent deal, if you didn't factor in the cost of rebuilding Sylva Bradley's mud porch, replacing her washer and dryer, and having his painters sand, prime, and repaint her house. But those were details he didn't feel the need to share with Cara at this time.

"Where did you get the money to buy this building?" Cara asked. "You told me that you and Ryan were struggling to keep your business afloat, just like me."

"That's right. It was a struggle. Still is. But my dad helped us out a little. In a business like ours, we're sometimes in the position to pick up a house or a building on the cheap. So that's what we did. We bought c.r.a.ppy houses and c.r.a.ppy buildings for pennies on the dollar, fixed them up, and resold for a good profit. Right now, I'm not doing a lot of flipping, so a property like West Jones, that's one I want to keep. I'm not saying we're rich, but we've done okay."

Cara tossed the papers back in his face. "I didn't ask you to do this. I didn't want you to do this."

He was dumbfounded. "I wanted to do it. For you. You were so upset the other night, about having to move and everything. And I'd been thinking about it, ever since I found out Sylvia Bradley owned your building. So I went to see her yesterday."

"Without even asking me. You just took it upon yourself to go behind my back and buy my building. Just like Cullen Kane did. And you expect me to be happy about that?"

"h.e.l.l yeah," he said. "I thought you'd be delirious. Don't you see? Now you don't have to move out. I'll start working on the building right away. Well, right after we finish up the Strayhorns' barn. We'll have to run new electrical first, and then I'll get my HVAC guy over here to see what kind of tonnage he recommends, especially if we open up the third floor."

"We'll run the electric. We'll open up the third floor? Who is this magical 'we'? You and your brother? When were you going to consult me? Or were you just going to show up here one day and start tearing down the walls?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Jack held his hands up in surrender. "Don't go getting your panties all in a bunch. It's just a figure of speech. Of course I was going to consult you before I started any work. But we talked about this. The day I helped you put in that window unit, we talked about how much work this place needed."

"No. You talked about it. And you decided what would be best for me. Just like the Colonel. Just like my ex-husband. Poor, helpless Cara is too dumb to figure out life for herself, so we'll just step in and take charge and tell her how to run her life."

"It's not like that!" Jack exclaimed. "You're twisting everything all around. I thought we could fix this place up together."

"With you supplying all the money and most of the labor," Cara said. "Did it occur to you that after you make all these amazing improvements I won't be able to afford the rent here? Or were you planning to go looking for a new tenant and move me to another building in your vast array of real-estate ventures?"

"Cara, for Chrissake-I don't understand why you're getting so worked up about all this. You know I'm not going to raise your rent or kick you out. I care about you, not the money. That's the only reason I got into this."

She felt the rage bubbling up from her gut. "Men always say that, and they always lie. Because it's always about the money. Look at my father. He loans me money, and when I run into problems repaying it, he starts with the emotional blackmail. It's not about the money, he says. It's about financial responsibility. What he really means is, it's about control. And as long as I'm in his debt, I'm in his control. We've slept together what, Jack, five times? And you're just going to give me a building that you spent three-quarters of a million dollars to buy? How do you amortize that out? About a hundred and fifty thousand per f.u.c.k? I had no idea I was that good."

"Since you seem to be keeping track, we've slept together exactly three times," Jack said quietly. He pushed away from the table and gathered up the lunch wrappers, tossing them into the waste basket. "So it looks like you've undervalued yourself. And underestimated me, and my motives."

"Guess I'm just a typical flighty female. No head for numbers," Cara shot back. She took the sales contract, shoved it into the manila folder he'd brought it in, and held it out.

"Here. You can keep your building," she said. "I can be out of here in by the end of the month. I don't want any more gifts from any more men."

"Fine." He grabbed the envelope and headed for the shop door. "But you owe me six bucks for the lunch."

50.

Ginny Best was sitting at the worktable when Cara, still bleary-eyed, got downstairs at eight o'clock. She'd made coffee, rolled the garden cart out to the street, and was already on the computer, scrolling through the day's emails.

The day was already looking up. Cara mentally congratulated herself for having the sense to offer this woman the job immediately after her interview the day before.

"Good morning." Ginny beamed. "I hope it's okay that I came in a little early. I wanted to get a jump on the hospital orders first thing."

Cara yawned. "Early is good. Early is amazing. Just make sure you write down your hours so I remember to pay you for the extra time. I'm glad you're here, because I've got a crazy day today. I'm gonna go look at a couple properties with my real-estate agent, then I've got to meet Harris and Brooke over at Cabin Creek to walk through plans for the reception and after-party. Think you can hold down the fort here by yourself?"

Ginny's serious brown eyes blinked rapidly behind the thick lens of her gla.s.ses. "How long will you be gone?"

"Better part of the day," Cara said.

Cara heard scratching coming from the back of the shop. "Back in a sec," she told her new a.s.sistant. She hurried down the hallway and opened the back door to let Poppy in from the garden.

"Good girl," Cara said, scratching the puppy's silken curls. "Come on, let's go get you a treat." The dog followed Cara back into the shop, and when she saw the newcomer standing at the flower cooler, barked happily and lunged for her.

"Ack!" Ginny stumbled backward, flailing her arms wildly. "Get off, get off!"

"Poppy, down!" Cara called. But Poppy was intent on greeting the newest member of the Bloom staff. She lunged again, planting her muddy front paws on Ginny's pale pink blouse.

"No! Bad dog, bad dog," Ginny shouted, shoving the dog violently away.

Cara grabbed for Poppy's collar. "Poppy! No." Poppy sank to the floor and looked embarra.s.sed at her outburst.

"I'm so sorry," Cara said, standing up. "She gets excited when somebody new comes in. I know it's terrible manners, and I've got to take her back to obedience school, but really, she wouldn't hurt a fly."

Ginny looked warily at Poppy, who was now crouched under Cara's side of the worktable, gnawing on a chew toy. She glanced down at the front of her blouse, brushing at the mud stains. "I'm not really a dog person," she said, frowning. "She doesn't have to stay here all the time, does she?"

"Actually, she does. Not necessarily in the shop, all day, because I let her out into the garden to play, but yes, since I live here, or wherever we move to next, Poppy does too. Is that going to be a problem?"

Ginny bit her lip. "Don't your clients think it's kind of ... I don't know, unprofessional-your having a pet in your place of business?"

"I've never had any complaints. In fact, most of my clients love having Poppy around."

"It's just that, when I interviewed, you didn't say anything about a dog." Ginny went to the kitchenette, wet a paper towel, and began dabbing at the front of her blouse.

"I"ll be happy to pay to have that cleaned," Cara said.

"No need. It'll probably come out," Ginny said. She looked over at Poppy, who, misinterpreting the moment, lifted her head, tongue lolling, tail thumping enthusiastically. "Down," Ginny said sternly.

Cara tied a pale blue satin ribbon and wrapped it around a potted azalea in a rattan basket. "Okay," she said, standing and reaching for her purse. "I'm off. You can load everything in the van by yourself and make the deliveries, right? There are just six this morning, three for St. Joe's, two for Memorial, and one for the Rose of Sharon apartments."

Ginny nodded vigorously. "Right. That won't be any problem."

"I may be back late," Cara warned, her hand on the front door. "Alice, my real-estate agent, has several properties to show me, and I don't know how long I'll be in South Carolina. If I'm not back by five, just bring the garden cart in, and lock up, like I showed you."

"Wait," Ginny called. "What about the dog? Aren't you going to take her with you?"

"I can't," Cara said patiently. "She gets carsick unless I medicate her. Anyway, it's ninety-two degrees already. I can't leave her in a car while I look at buildings. Poppy's really no trouble, Ginny. She's house-trained, so you don't have to worry about letting her out while you run the deliveries. If you do let her into the garden, please make sure the back gate is closed and locked, and check her water bowl to make sure it's full. I'll see you in the morning."

Alice Murphy pulled her Cadillac alongside a stretch of curb on Waters Avenue. "Okay, Cara," she said, her New England accent making it sound more like "Carer." "This is the last one."

She gestured at the single-story brick building. It was boxy, with a vaguely 1960s reference, but over the years multiple owners had successfully erased any kind of architectural personality it might once have possessed. Now it was painted the color of brown mustard. The tattered remnants of a tan awning stretched over a pair of dusty plate-gla.s.s windows, which were still painted with the name of the building's most recently departed tenants-ACEY-DUECY AUTO DETAILING.

Cara eyed the building with disbelief. "Really? You think this is a good option?"

Alice sighed. "Oh, Cara, sweetheart. With your budget and the time frame we're working with, this is the best I can do."

She held up her hand, ticking off the building's many desirable qualities. "One, it's available immediately. You could move in today, if you wanted. Two, it's dirt cheap. The owner's desperate to get somebody in here. Three, it's big. Huge. You can have a big works.p.a.ce up front, and make a nice-sized apartment in the back. And four, you've got plenty of parking."

"Wait. Back up, Alice. It doesn't already have a living s.p.a.ce?"

"Well ... the owner says the last tenants were sort of illegally squatting. He thinks there were at least three families staying there."

"Great. A combination flophouse and auto-detailing shop. I can't wait to see it."

Alice held out the keys and gave her an approving smile. "That's my gal."

Ten minutes later, the two women burst through the front door, alternately gagging and gasping for air.

"Oh my Lawd," Alice exclaimed, wiping at her watery eyes. "Oh my Lawd."

Cara slumped against the door of the Cadillac. "I wish I could unsee what we just saw."

"I had no idea," Alice said. "I should call that owner. I bet he doesn't know the roof caved in."

"Or that racc.o.o.ns have taken up residence. Or that the last tenants left a year's worth of rotting garbage in the so-called kitchen," Cara added.

Alice shook her head. "We cross this one off the list. That just leaves us the dry cleaner's shop on Paulsen."

"Which is too small and has no yard for Poppy," Cara said.

"Or the duplex on Hall Street," Alice added. "It had parking, a courtyard garden for Poppy, and a nice apartment upstairs for you."

"And it's twice as much as I can afford, and I'm not crazy about that block. Other than that, it's perfect," Cara said.

Alice unlocked the Caddy, turned the air-conditioning on the polar-ice-cap setting, and rolled the windows down to allow the hot air to escape. "We rode by a dozen properties today, hon. You nixed everything except for Paulsen and Hall. What do you want to do?"

"I want to stay right where I'm at," Cara said stubbornly, dabbing at her damp forehead with a tissue. "But since that's no longer an option, I guess we should call the duplex owner. Do you think you can talk him down any on the rent?"

"I doubt it. She told me she had two other showings this week. If you think it's a possibility, we probably need to jump on it pretty quickly, or we risk losing it."

"I know, Alice. But I'm really scared. I've got a big check coming from my next wedding next week, and with that, I can just barely sc.r.a.pe up enough for first and last month's rent for Hall Street, plus moving expenses. But what if something goes wrong? I'm one wedding away from skid row."

Alice patted her arm sympathetically. "I admire you young single gals so much. Starting and running your own businesses, I never could have done anything like that when I was your age. I got married at nineteen, started having my babies. John was always the boss. Don't get me wrong. He's always been a wonderful provider, but I went from living in my father's house to being somebody's wife and mother. I never would have had the guts or the smarts to do the things you've done, Cara."

Cara smiled ruefully. "I'm not so smart, Alice. I've had a rotten marriage, my business could come crashing down around me at any minute, and in the meantime, I've been so busy trying to save the business, the one promising relationship I've had since my divorce just went up in flames.

"At least you have your kids, and your grandkids, and a solid marriage," Cara went on. "What have I got to show for the last ten years? A c.r.a.ppy van, a website, and a dog who's an obedience-school dropout. I don't even own my own house."

"You will," Alice said. "You're having a run of bad luck right now, but I know things are going to change for you. I'm Irish. We know these things."

"I hope you're right," Cara said. She sank back into the Cadillac's b.u.t.tery leathery upholstery as Alice turned the car back toward the real-estate office.