“Close the door!” Cara hollered. “Don’t let the dog get…”
But it was too late. Sensing an opening, the seven-month-old goldendoodle, Poppy, streaked toward daylight.
“Grab her,” Cara called to the startled stranger who’s just entered Bloom. He paused for only a split second, pivoted, and lunged toward Poppy, managing to grab on to her collar. But Poppy, an obedience-school dropout who was as determined as she was undisciplined, easily wriggled out of the collar and was out the door in a flash, joyously running full-tilt down West Jones Street.
“Shit!” Cara cried.
“Not again,” Bert echoed. “Not today.”
“Sorry,” the stranger said, turning from Cara to Bert, still holding the collar in his right hand. “I wanted to get some flowers sent to my sister in the hospital…”
“Can you help him?” Cara gave Bert a pleading look. “I’ll go after Poppy. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, start loading the van without me.”
Cara sprinted out of Bloom without looking back.
* * *
“Poppy!” she called, cupping her hands over her mouth as a makeshift megaphone. “Poppy, come back!”
She passed the restored nineteenth-century town houses and elegant storefronts in her block, and dashed across Barnard Street, dodging cars as she ran.
Three tourists with cameras strung around their necks and unfolded street maps stood on the corner, arguing loudly about where to have lunch.
“No more barbecue,” snapped a twenty-something girl in a tie-dyed shirt and white shorts.
“Did you see a dog run past just now?” Cara interrupted. “Curly white hair, maybe thirty pounds?”
“That way.” The girl’s middle-aged father pointed east. “She sure can run.”
Cara continued east down Jones. She paused by the line of people still queued up for lunch outside Mrs. Wilkes’ boardinghouse. “Did you see a dog run past here?” she asked breathlessly.
“Thataway,” volunteered a bespectacled senior citizen with a plastic tour-company lanyard around her neck.
Cara ran on, crossing Whitaker, Bull, Drayton, and Abercorn. Her thin-soled sandals flapped against the steaming concrete sidewalks. Her face was sheened with sweat, her T-shirt glued to her chest.
“See a dog?” she asked, pausing beside a college kid locking his bike to a utility pole in front of a classroom building on the art-college campus.
“Huh?”
Twenty minutes had passed. But nobody else had spotted the puppy. Reluctantly, she started jogging back toward Bloom, breathing heavily and sweating profusely.
Bert had the van pulled around to the front of the shop by the time she got back. “Anything?”
“No,” Cara said, near tears. “Look, just wait here. I’m going to take the van and see if I can spot her.”
“Cara? Lillian has called back twice, and now Torie’s started calling. And her wedding director wants to know why we aren’t already out at the church. You know it’ll take us thirty minutes to get out to Isle of Hope.”
“Stall ’em,” Cara said. “I can’t let Poppy just wander around downtown. She’ll get hit by one of those tour buses, or run over by one of the horse-drawn carriages. And even if somebody does find her, they won’t know who she is, because she’s not wearing her collar. Please, Bert?”
Bert shrugged and went back inside the shop to try to mollify their clients.
Cara drove east and north this time, trolling the side streets, leaning out the window of the pink-and-white-striped van, calling her puppy’s name, straining for a familiar glimpse of curly white fur, but to no avail. While she cruised, her cell phone rang and pinged and buzzed, with incoming calls, texts, and emails, all of which she ignored.
She was backtracking toward the shop, turning up Habersham at East Charlton, when she saw a tall, bare-chested man dressed in nylon running shorts and expensive-looking running shoes, tugging a medium-sized, furry white dog by a piece of rope. He was walking down the lane behind Charlton.
“Poppy!” Cara cried. She veered left and into the lane.
“Hey!” she called to the man. She leaned out the open window of the van. “Excuse me, that’s my dog.”
He was in his mid thirties—the man, not the dog. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead and his chest gleamed with perspiration. Even in her extreme distress, Cara noted that he was seriously ripped. The man glanced down at the puppy, then back up at Cara.
He frowned. “The hell it is. This is my dog.”
“No.” Cara put the van in park. “Honestly. That’s Poppy. My goldendoodle.”
“No,” he said impatiently, starting to walk away. “This is Shaz. Unfortunately, this is my goldendoodle.”
Cara climbed down out of the van and hurried after him. “That’s impossible. There aren’t that many dogs like this in Savannah. I had to go all the way to Atlanta to find mine. And that one is mine.” She searched in the pocket of her shorts and held out one of the doggie treats she always carried. “Here Poppy.”
The puppy looked up at Cara and wagged enthusiastically.
“Shaz!” the man said loudly. The puppy looked at him and wagged her tail even harder.
“See?”
“She does that with everybody,” Cara said, desperation creeping into her voice. “She’s never met a stranger.”
“If she’s yours, where’s her dog tag?” the man demanded.
“Back at my flower shop, on West Jones. A customer came in, and he tried to grab Poppy as she made a break for the door, but Poppy managed to wriggle out of her collar.” She waved the treat under the dog’s nose. “Here Poppy,” she coaxed. “Come to Mama.”
The puppy’s ears pricked up, and she lunged toward Cara, but the man pulled her back.
“See?” Cara said triumphantly. “That’s Poppy.”
“No,” he said, wedging the now wriggling puppy firmly between his calves. “That’s a cheap trick. And this is Shaz. She’d kill her grandma for a dog treat.”
“If that’s your dog, where’s its collar?
“In my truck, back at my house. I was just taking her to the groomer, whom she hates, and the truck window was open, and she jumped out the window and took off. Come on, Shaz.” He started walking away, and the puppy trotted obediently at his heels.
“Poppy,” Cara called, near tears. “Come here, girl. Time to go home.”
“Nice try,” the man said, glancing back over his shoulder. “But I don’t have time for this. Good luck finding your dog.”
The puppy gave one backward look, but the man was jogging again, and the dog followed right on his heels.
Cara jumped back behind the wheel of the van. “Hey,” she hollered out the open window. She beeped the horn. “Come back here.”
The man jogged on down the lane, and she crept along right behind him, honking her horn every few minutes, and hollering out the window. “Stop! Come here, Poppy.” She knew she looked like a lunatic, and she just didn’t care.
Poppy, the little traitor, seemed quite content to follow along behind her new friend, never straying or yanking at the makeshift leash as she sometimes did when Cara took her for her morning walk.
Finally, they reached a block on Macon Street. The houses here were simpler than the grand brick and stucco townhomes farther west in the historic district. Mostly single-story wood-frame homes, they were known as freedman’s cottages because they’d originally been built after the Civil War by newly emancipated slaves.
The runner paused in front of one of the least distinguished cottages on the block. Paint was peeling from the dingy white clapboards, a shutter at the window was missing several slats, and the faded aqua door seemed to be held together with duct tape. There was a wooden window box beneath the double window, but the plants were dried up and shriveled beyond recognition. The man propped his foot on the top step of the stoop and retrieved a key from a pocket in the tongue of his running shoe.
That’s when he looked ov
er and spotted Cara, parked at the curb, the van’s motor idling.
“Beat it,” he called.
She held her cell phone up for him to see. “Give me back my dog or I’ll call the cops.”
“Get away from my house or I’ll call the cops myself,” he retorted. He picked Poppy up in his arms and climbed the rest of the steps to the doorway. He unlocked the door. Cara jumped from the truck and ran for the minuscule porch, but he was too quick. He stepped inside and slammed the door in her face. A moment later, she heard a deadbolt lock slide into place.
“Dognapper!” Cara pounded on the door with her fist. “Give me back my dog!”
“Crazy stalker woman, go away,” came the muffled reply.
She banged on the door, and looked around to ring the doorbell, but it was defunct, dangling by a single frayed wire from the dry-rotted doorframe.
Cara gave the door an ineffective kick, resulting only in a badly stubbed big toe.
“I’m calling the cops,” she screamed, her lips plastered against the doorframe.
“I already called ’em,” came back his voice.
She paced back and forth in front of the cottage, waiting for the police. Bert called, and she instructed him to load as many of the flowers as he could into his own car, and start ferrying them over to the church. Torie and Lillian Fanning called, too, but she let those calls go to voicemail.
While she paced, Cara studied the house, hoping the runner would somehow relent and release Poppy. The cottage was a puzzle. It sported a jaunty new-looking red tin roof, but there were cracks in the wavy glass of the front windows, and she could see that two or three of the clapboards were perilously close to falling off the house.
Cara called the police again. This time, a bored-sounding dispatcher informed her that the police had actual crimes to solve, and that an officer might not show up for another hour.
“But he’s got my dog,” Cara protested. “And he won’t even open the door or listen to reason.”
“Ma’am?” the dispatcher said. “Try to work it out like adults, why don’t you?”
She disconnected and walked back over to the house. She climbed onto the front stoop and peered in through the dust-caked window. The room inside held a battered leather sofa and a flat-screen television squatting on a sheet of plywood stretched across sawhorses. The room was littered with stacks of lumber, tools, and paint buckets. There was no sign of Poppy. She would have cried, but she had a wedding to get to.
4
“Did you find Poppy?” Bert asked, as she raced back into the shop.
“He’s still got her locked up,” Cara said. “And the police were no help at all.” She was pulling her sweat-soaked T-shirt over her head as she raced for the back stairs to her second-floor apartment above the shop.
“Never mind,” Bert called up after her. “I’ve already taken the altar arrangements, the pew bows and centerpieces out there. But we’ve still got the bouquets and boutonnieres and the buffet arrangements here, so hurry! I’ll get the van loaded. After the wedding, I’ll help you get Poppy back.”
Ten minutes later, she was back downstairs, her still-damp butterscotch-colored hair pulled into a careless French knot, dressed in a floaty vintage flower-sprigged pink silk garden-party dress, and pink cowboy boots.
The ride out Skidaway Road to the Isle of Hope was a nail-biter, but they pulled up to the quaint, white wood-framed Methodist church at exactly five o’clock, with only an hour to spare before the wedding.
Cara toted the cardboard carton with the bride’s flowers into the back of the church, where she was met by Lillian Fanning, her carefully made-up face contorted with anger and anxiety.
“Finally!” Lillian snapped, snatching the box of flowers from Cara’s hands. “I’ve been having heart palpitations for the last hour. Where on earth have you been? Didn’t you get any of my calls or texts?”
“So sorry,” Cara responded. “The battery ran down on my cell phone. But we’re here now. Bert’s taking the rest of the arrangements over to the reception. Honestly, Lillian. We have it all under control.”
“Mama? Is that Cara with my damn flowers?” A willowy brunette in a stunning strapless cream satin Vera Wang gown poked her head out the door of the bride’s room.
“It’s me, Torie,” Cara said. “I was just telling your mom, everything’s good.”
A small, nervous woman in a pale blue dress fluttered out of the room. “Whatever you do, don’t upset her any more,” Ellie Lewis, the wedding planner, whispered in Cara’s ear. “She’s already threatened to strangle one of the flower girls.”
“I’m coming,” Cara said, scuttling into the room with the box of flowers held before her like a peace offering.
Torie Fanning was a gorgeous mess. Her glossy black updo was coming unpinned, and the tight-fitting bodice of her gown gaped in the back where the last half-dozen tiny satin-covered buttons refused to fasten. The dress fit snugly over her hips—a little too snugly, Cara thought—then flared out with multiple layers of spangly tulle that made the bride look like a mermaid. An overwrought, undermedicated mermaid.
“It’s about damned time,” Torie said.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Cara said. She moved behind the bride and began fastening the buttons. “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 fuckin’ seamstress took it in too much.” Torie inhaled sharply as Cara tugged at the last satin button, praying that it would close the gap.
“Oh my God. I can’t breathe,” Torie croaked.
“Perfect,” Cara assured 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 bitch! 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 bitch. 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 an
d 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 unbuttoned and ties untied. They were puffing on cigars and handing around a silver flask, and from the slightly glazed eyes of the assembled company, it was evident that everybody had already had more than a sip of Knob 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 classically 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.
Save the Date Page 3
