Save The Date Part 4

"I'm going to head back over to the reception tent," she told Bert. "All the flowers in the baskets here have water?"

"Check," Bert said.

"And you've misted the ferns with water?"

"Not my first rodeo, boss lady."

She patted his shoulder. "I think I'll keep you."

The first thing she checked at the reception tent was the compressor for the rented air conditioner. It was humming along, she noted with relief. The only thing worse than bad weather for an outdoor function in Savannah was a nonfunctioning air conditioner-or even a heater. Again, the tent and the air-conditioning were not her responsibility, but you couldn't tell that to a finicky bride who was p.r.o.ne to pitch a fit over the slightest flaw in her plans.

Cara stood quietly in the entrance to the tent, taking it all in. The temperature had cooled down nicely, and her flowers, she thought, not immodestly, looked sensational.

She'd commissioned a local gla.s.sblower to create three-foot-tall vases for the centerpieces, and these were placed in the center of each of the thirty round tables in the room. The tables themselves were covered in sea-foam-colored linen flounced cloths. Spilling from each vase were arrangements of coral tea roses, blue hydrangeas, variegated Swedish ivy, and marguerite daisies. Hanging from the metal support beams of the tent, she'd rigged up five enormous ivy-covered ten-arm wire chandeliers fitted with battery-operated candles. She pulled a small remote-control pad from her pocket, clicked a b.u.t.ton, and the candles began to flicker in the dim light of the tent.

White-coated waiters moved efficiently about the tent, polishing water and wine gla.s.ses at each place setting, adjusting and straightening the thick silver place settings and gold-rimmed dinner plates.

"Cara, hi!" Torie's caterer, Layne Pelletier, hurried to her side.

"You've outdone yourself this time, girlfriend," Layne said, gesturing around the tent.

Cara sighed. "Let's just hope our bride agrees with you."

"How can she not? It's perfection. I've been snapping pictures of the tables to put up on my own website. Your flowers plus my food-it's going to be the party of the year."

"Hope so," Cara said. "The Fannings move in some pretty lofty circles. This little clambake of Torie's could be a real rainmaker if all goes well."

"It will," Layne a.s.sured her. "Were you at the church just now? Any idea how long before everbody will start arriving?"

They heard the sound of car doors closing. "About now," Cara said. "Showtime!"

Normally, the wedding party's arrival would signal Cara's departure. If she left now, maybe she could drive back to the dognapper's house on Macon Street. Maybe there was a backyard. She could cruise down the lane and steal her dog back while Jack Finnerty was still at the wedding. Cara was heading for her van when she heard her name being called.

"Cara ... so glad you're still here." It was Ellie Lewis, the wedding planner.

"Just leaving," Cara said. "I've checked everything in both tents, and it's all good. By the way, thanks again for referring me to the Fannings."

Ellie's face was shiny pink with perspiration. "Don't thank me yet," she warned. "The photographer wants to get some candid shots of the wedding party down at the dock, and Torie is insistent that you should be there to style things."

"I'm not a photo stylist," Cara protested. "And honestly, Ellie, I'm whipped. I've been on my feet for nearly twenty-four hours. All I want right now is a shower and a c.o.c.ktail-and my bed." And my dog, she thought.

Ellie nodded glumly. "I don't blame you. I've had a bellyful of Torie and Mommy Dearest these past few weeks. I'd leave too, if I could. But you know how it goes-I'll be here till the bitter end tonight."

She turned and began to trudge back across the lawn.

Cara had her hand on the van's door handle, but when she saw the dejected droop of her colleague's shoulders, she just didn't have the heart to abandon ship.

"Ellie," she called.

"Yes?"

"Wait for me, dammit."

By eight o'clock, the big reception tent vibrated with life. Dinner service for three hundred guests was winding down and the eight-piece orchestra was just starting to tune up. Cara made a few last-minute adjustments to the flowers on the cake table and tiptoed toward the door.

"Cara!"

Torie's voice rose above the din of the crowd. Her mermaid skirts rustled as she cut a swath through the crowd. The bride reached out and grasped Cara's hands in hers. "You're not leaving already! The party's just starting to crank up."

"Well, yes, I was," she said, a little taken aback by Torie's sudden show of friendliness.

"But, you can't," Torie said. "I mean, of course, you don't have to stay, but Ryan and I really, really wish you would stay. You've been such a big part of all the planning for the wedding, and it would really, really mean a lot to us if you would stay and help us celebrate."

Huh?

"Well, uh," she stammered.

A large hand clamped down on her shoulder. Cara looked up to see Ryan standing beside her, his freckled face beaming with happiness-and maybe just a little extra k.n.o.b Creek bonhomie.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Honey, tell Cara she needs to stay and celebrate with us," Torie cooed.

"I was just fixin' to tell her that," Ryan said. He gestured around the tent. "You made everything so awesome for us-now you need to stay and enjoy it for a while."

"Oh no, I really couldn't," Cara demurred. "You're very sweet to invite me, but honestly, my job is done here. And I wouldn't dream of imposing...."

"It's not imposing," Ryan said. He pointed across the room. "Look. Layne's gonna hang around and party."

Layne Pelletier had shed her chef's jacket and was bellied up to the bar with a long-necked bottle of Sweet.w.a.ter in her right hand. She saw Cara looking, and raised it in a salute.

"But Layne has to stay and make sure the dessert service and after-dinner drinks and the cake cutting go off," Cara protested. "That's nothing to do with me."

"That's just it," Torie admitted. "Mama and I would love it if you'd at least stay for the cake cutting. The photographer wants us all to have our flowers around the cake, just so ... and n.o.body can make things look the way you can...."

So ... it wasn't really about having her stay to enjoy the party, Cara realized. It was just one more task Torie had a.s.signed her florist. Resistance, she knew, was futile.

"Okay," she said wearily.

She fetched herself a gla.s.s of whie wine from the bar, then sank down into a vacant seat at a table near the back of the tent, and watched as the party swirled around her.

Torie and Ryan's friends and family were a fun-loving bunch. They crowded the dance floor for every song, only thinning out long enough to allow Torie and Bill Fanning to have their traditional father-daughter spotlight dance to "The Way You Look Tonight."

It was nearly nine o'clock when Cara's rumbling stomach reminded her that she'd eaten nothing since breakfast. The orchestra had packed up and departed, and now a disc jockey was playing from the makeshift wooden bandstand. While the party went on, there was still a chance she could steal her dog back. Bert could just as easily style the flowers for the cake cutting. She worked her way around the perimeter of the tent and was headed for the spot where Bert stood when Ryan spotted her.

He grabbed her by the hand and started dragging her toward the dance floor. "C'mon, Cara. They're playing our song."

"Ryan, you're sweet, but I'm the help. And the help doesn't dance at weddings."

"Sure they do," he said-just as Layne Pelletier boogied past with one of her waiters.

"Their" song was apparently KC and the Sunshine Band's "Shake Your Booty," and the next thing she knew, Cara had joined the line dance snaking its way across the dance floor, sliding, popping, and locking with the whole sweaty ensemble.

Finally, the song wound down and she began edging her way back toward Bert, but Ryan caught her by the waist.

"One more dance," he urged. The record was Harry Connick Jr.'s version of "It Had to Be You." "How're you not gonna dance to this?"

"Where's Torie?" Cara asked. "This is a song for the two of you."

"Nah. She's sitting out the next few numbers." Ryan looked around, then whispered, "She's uh, kind of, uh..."

"Pregnant?" Cara whispered back.

His grin lit up his face. "Yeah. It's pretty cool. She told you, huh?"

"She didn't have to," Cara said. "Congratulations."

For a guy who was built like a linebacker, Ryan was a surprisingly smooth dancer. He hummed along with the first few bars of the music.

"I wanted to thank you for everything you've done for us," he said, as they glided across the floor. "I know Torie's been kind of wound up these past few days. So thanks for putting up with all of us."

"All part of my job," Cara a.s.sured him.

"You mind me asking what's up with you and my brother?" Ryan asked. "He seemed pretty ticked off at you, back at the church."

"He stole my dog earlier today," Cara said.

"Yeah. You keep saying that. But that doesn't sound like Jack."

"Well, he did. Poppy ran away from the shop today, and when I went looking for her, I caught him dragging her down Jones Street. Now he's got Poppy, and he won't give her back."

"Why would Jack steal your dog? He's got a dog."

"He claims his dog ran away, and he spotted mine and so he stole her. But I know Poppy. There's not another dog in this town who looks like her. And he won't give her back."

"If you gave him half a chance he'd probably give you Shaz too. He's always complaining how much time she takes away from his work."

"What's your brother do for a living? Aside from stealing dogs?"

"Torie didn't tell you? Jack works with me, restoring historic properties. We're business partners."

"I saw the historic property he lives in on Macon Street today," Cara said, with a dismissive sniff. "No offense, but that place looks like a dump."

Ryan frowned. "Yeah, well, he sort of lost his momentum when Zoey left. Anyway, we've been working night and day to get my new house in Ardsley Park finished before Torie movies in. Jack does all the carpentry work. He's really a master craftsman."

"Who's Zoey? Not that I care."

"His ex-girlfriend," Ryan said. He was about to say more, but the song ended, and the DJ was moving through the crowd with a cordless mike.

"Torie Fanning Finnerty," he boomed. "Calling Torie and her bridesmaids. And I need all the single ladies here tonight. Single ladies-to the dance floor!"

"Thanks for the dance, Ryan." Cara managed a tight smile and began to head back to her table. But the groom grabbed her hand. "Not so fast. You heard the man. All the single ladies. That means you."

"Noooo," she wailed. "It's really not appropriate...."

But her protest fell on deaf ears. Torie and her bridesmaids, eight strong, and at least sixty other women poured onto the dance floor, sweeping Cara along with them.

"Come on, Cara," Layne Pelletier coaxed, handing her an icy long-necked beer. "Time to cut loose!"

"What the h.e.l.l," Cara said, taking a long swig of the beer. It went down good. Really good. And so it was that that she found herself doing her best Beyonce moves, chanting along at the top of her lungs, "Ya shoulda put a ring on it...."

When that song was winding down, Bert found her and handed her a gla.s.s of white wine. A recovering alcoholic, Bert didn't drink, but he'd apparently decided to join the fun, too, because he'd shed his staid blue blazer and tie, not to mention his shoes, and in just another minute she and Bert were breaking it down to "Brick House."

At some point, maybe after one of the other groomsmen-his name was Matt, or at least she thought his name was Matt-slow-danced with her to Ben E. King's "Stand By Me," it dawned on Cara that she was just a tiny bit buzzed.

She didn't hesitate when Ryan pulled her into the line dance for the Electric Slide. She slid and clapped and tapped and rocked and threw herself into the rhythm of the song. The dance was almost over. She was doing a pivot-turn when she came face-to-face with none other than Jack, the dognapper. She turned again, abruptly, and stumbled badly.

As luck would have it, the dance ended, and Ryan helped steady her.

"Having fun?" he asked.

Her face was flushed and her damp hair stuck to her forehead. "I am, but it still doesn't feel right...."

But Ryan nimbly swung her into the next dance. The lights in the tent dimmed, and she heard Louis Armstrong's raspy version of "What a Wonderful World."

"You're a really good dancer," he said.

"Thanks, I used to..."

Before she knew it, Ryan was handing her off to another partner. His brother Jack.

"You!" Cara said, starting to pull away.

"Yes, me," Jack retorted. He clamped a hand around her waist, took her right hand in his, and pulled her close to his chest.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking away. Right after this dance, she would sneak over to his place and liberate her puppy. For now, though, she floated along to the music. It was a nice song, after all, a nice sentiment, for a nice wedding. She closed her eyes and almost managed to forget her partner's ident.i.ty.

Almost. But she was all too aware of his proximity. His hand in hers was deeply callused. He was an even better dancer than his brother. One time, she raised her lashes just enough to see his face. When he wasn't scowling at her, he was downright good-looking.

The song wound down, but he kept his hand on her waist. She looked up in surprise.

"My mother's watching," he murmured. "She says I'm antisocial. Do me a favor and pretend like you're enjoying yourself, okay? For just another three minutes?"