Uh-oh, Cara thought. Once again, Patricia Trapnell had managed an end run around her.
“When I set up the tasting with Layne today, I was under the impression that it was just going to be the bride and groom and mother of the bride.” Cara chose her words carefully.
The door opened again, and Brooke Trapnell rushed in, a tall strawberry-blond man right behind. “Hi everybody. Sorry to be late!”
Brooke Trapnell wore pearls, white running shoes, and a crisp seersucker power suit, straight out of a Brooks Brothers catalogue. Her fiancé was dressed more casually, in khakis and a blue button-down dress shirt.
Marie gave her daughter an exasperated hug. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
“I tried, Marie,” Brooke’s fiancé said ruefully. “I even fibbed and told her we were supposed to be here half an hour earlier.…”
“Sweet boy!” Marie Trapnell beamed her approval, then kissed him on the cheek and turned to Cara.
“Cara Kryzik, this is my future son-in-law, Harris Strayhorn.”
“Hey there.” Harris’s handshake was firm, his smile genuine. He looked a lot like his mother, with fair hair, blue eyes, and the same ruddy complexion. But he was half a head taller than Brooke, long-limbed and gangly, like a colt whose legs had outgrown the rest of his body.
Harris’s eyes widened as he took in the food table. “Oh man, is that all for us? Awesome!” He turned to Brooke, tugging at her sleeve. “Honey, check out this spread!”
Brooke laughed. “He is always hungry. Always. You wouldn’t believe he just came from a breakfast meeting, right?”
“I happen to enjoy good food,” Harris said. “Is that a crime?”
“It’s a good thing you know how to cook,” Marie said. “Because if it’s up to Brooke, you might starve to death.”
“That’s not true. I can fix oatmeal, and scrambled eggs, and grits, of course,” Brooke protested.
“Do you ever eat any of that yourself?” Layne asked dubiously, taking in the bride’s slender figure.
“No,” Marie said, frowning now at the way Brooke’s jacket hung loosely from her shoulders.
“I eat,” Brooke said.
Harris raised one eyebrow. “What? What have you eaten today?”
“Well … nothing, but that’s just because I knew we would be pigging out at this tasting, and I didn’t want to spoil my appetite.”
“She has no appetite,” Marie said flatly. “Except for work.”
“And me,” Harris said, wrapping an arm around his fiancée’s waist.
Obviously ready to change the subject, Brooke pointed at the food table. “Okay so can we get started? This all looks great, but I’ve got a two-o’clock meeting back at the office.”
Layne gave Cara a questioning glance.
“Yes. Let’s go ahead and start tasting and comparing notes,” Cara said. “I gather we’re expecting Gordon and Patricia to join us, but I don’t want to hold you two up.”
Brooke had picked up a slice of roast beef from the carving station, but she dropped the fork now, with a clatter.
“Mom?” She stared at Marie. “You didn’t tell me Dad and Patricia were coming.”
“I didn’t know myself, until just now. It’s fine though. Really. I can deal. Let’s just go ahead and begin.”
Harris stepped over to the table and began loading a plate with food. He popped a shrimp in his mouth and chewed, nodding his head in approval.
“Can we have the shrimp? What, are they cooked in beer or something?”
“Boiled in beer, actually,” Layne volunteered.
Harris dropped one on Brooke’s empty plate. “Try this. We gotta have this for the wedding.”
But Brooke ignored the food. “I can’t believe she just invited herself today. I told Daddy she keeps trying to run things.…”
Marie put her hand on Brooke’s sleeve. “Let’s just let it go for today, okay? Layne has fixed all this beautiful food for us to try. You can have another discussion with your dad later.”
“It’s so not okay,” Brooke said, stony-faced.
“Honey?” Harris said, soothingly. “C’mon. Just eat something.”
* * *
They worked their way around the table. For as skinny as he was, Harris Strayhorn’s appetite and enthusiasm knew no bounds. He was every mother’s dream, every caterer’s dream. He loved it all.
For her part, Brooke merely picked at the offerings, despite her mother’s urging.
Marie was busily taking notes and conferring with Layne. “I love the little new potatoes with the caviar and sour cream. Brooke?”
“I’m not really into fish eggs, but if you like them, that’s fine,” Brooke said.
They were ten minutes into the tasting when the shop door opened and Patricia Trapnell swept in.
“Shit,” Brooke said under her breath. Marie shot her a warning look.
Patricia didn’t offer a greeting, or an excuse for her lateness. “You’ve started already?” She glared accusingly at Cara.
“Yes. We did, Patricia. Harris and I have jobs. We can’t wait around all day for you.” Brooke glowered at her stepmother. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Something came up.” Patricia picked up a plate and started down the line, but frowned when she saw the roast beef.
“Layne? I thought we discussed tenderloin, not steamship round. It’ll be so hot that day, and honestly, I think that presentation is so passé. It reminds people of being on a second-rate cruise ship.”
“Well,” Layne began.
“I asked for this cut,” Brooke said. “It’s Harris’s favorite. His dad’s too. And it’s not passé, but even if it were, nobody but you would care.”
“Fine.” Patricia’s lips pursed and she moved on to the next dish. She pointed with her fork at one of the chafing dishes.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
Layne dabbed a bead of perspiration from her forehead. “That’s the roast asparagus you requested.”
“But it’s wrapped in bacon,” Patricia said, her nostrils quivering. “We’re supposed to have prosciutto. Cold-smoked prosciutto. Don’t think I don’t know the difference.”
“For the reception, we’ll use prosciutto,” Layne assured her. “But I have to special-order it from my supplier, and he only delivers on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“We’re going to want to taste the prosciutto before the wedding,” Patricia warned. “It’s an entirely different taste.”
Brooke snorted, and this time, Patricia decided not to let it pass. She whirled around to confront the bride.
“You may not care about these things, Brooke Trapnell, but I can assure you your father and I do care. We’re paying eighty dollars a plate for this reception. And that does not include the bar. So please excuse me if I happen to object when somebody expects me to pay for prosciutto when it’s clearly only bacon. Is that too much to ask?”
Marie hesitated, then stepped between her daughter and Patricia.
“We all want a beautiful wedding, don’t we, Brooke?”
Brooke rolled her eyes, then looked away.
“Hey, honey?” It was Harris’s turn to referee now. He had a smear of chocolate icing on his upper lip, and a glob of coconut on his shirt collar. He grabbed her hand and towed her toward the opposite end of the table. “Come down here and check out the desserts. Cupcakes! I freakin’ love ’em.”
“Cupcakes?” Patricia’s surgically stretched face registered her horror. She stalked down to the dessert offerings. “Are we having a 4-H picnic, Layne? Really?”
“No!” Layne hurried over. “These are just all the different cake types and frostings and fillings we do. I thought Brooke and Harris could taste everything and decide, and then, of course, we’ll do a proper cake.…”
“Forget it,” Brooke said, her eyes blazing. “Just let Patricia decide. After all, she’s the one running this show.”
Brooke reached over and snatched the lemon-iced cupcake he’d just b
itten into from Harris’s hand. She set it down on the table.
“Aww, man…” he groaned.
“We’ve got to get back to work,” Brooke announced. She turned and walked rapidly toward the door.
“Harris! I’m leaving.”
Harris looked at Layne, then at Cara, then at Marie. He shrugged. “Sorry. Gotta go.”
He was halfway to the door when he turned, returned to the table, picked up his cupcake, and hurried back to the side of his one true love.
Somehow, after Brooke had gone, the women managed to work out a menu that suited Patricia as well as Marie. When everybody was gone, Layne went to the door of Fete Accompli and locked the deadbolt. Wordlessly, she went to the big walk-in cooler in her catering kitchen. She took out a half-open bottle of chardonnay, tipped it to her lips, and swigged for at least a minute. Then she handed it to Cara. “Be my guest.”
33
Bert met her at the door of the shop, and the look on his face telegraphed the bad news. “I’ve looked everywhere,” Bert said, rubbing a hand wearily over his face. “Honest to God, Cara. Every single stop I made Friday, I retraced. I showed everybody the picture of the epergne. I even crawled around in the grass and the bushes at the Shutters. Since it was low tide, I even looked around that dock, thinking maybe somebody got drunk and chunked it in the water for a joke. But nothing. It ain’t there.”
“Oh God.” Cara thumped her forehead on her desk. First Lillian Fanning, then Patricia Trapnell. Now this. What was wrong with her karma?
“What now? Will you call her and tell her?”
Cara popped three aspirin in her mouth and dry-swallowed them.
“I can’t deal with Lillian right now. I think I might have heat stroke.” She pulled her sticky shirt away from her chest.
“Did you call Sylvia Bradley again?” Bert asked.
“Yes, I called her. She doesn’t pick up the phone, because she doesn’t want to deal with me. I’ve sent her a registered letter, too.” Cara reached into her desk drawer and got her pocketbook.
“Let’s go,” she told Bert.
“Where to?”
“To wherever they sell air conditioners. I can’t spend one more hour living like this.”
* * *
The salesman at Lowe’s carefully explained the merits and options of all the room-size air conditioners the store carried.
“Which one is the next to cheapest?”
The salesman looked startled. “Next to cheapest?”
“My father taught me never to buy the cheapest model of anything. Or the most expensive,” Cara explained. “I sure can’t afford the next to most expensive, so I guess I’m buying the next to cheapest.”
“Most affordable,” the salesman said gently.
“Whatever. As long as you have it in stock and we can walk out of here with it in the next ten minutes.”
She handed over her credit card and held her breath waiting to see if the transaction would go through. She’d maxed out most of her cards, but this one, a Visa that had come through the mail months ago, was one she’d activated but never used. She thought of it as her Plan B card. And she reflected, grimly, that there was no Plan C.
Cara had sent the Colonel a check for $15,000 the minute Gordon Trapnell had paid the deposit for his daughter’s wedding. It meant letting her other past-due bills ripen a little longer, but at least, she thought, it would forestall her father for another few weeks.
But there would be no more stalling on purchasing an air conditioner. She couldn’t have brides entering a shop that felt like a sauna. And she couldn’t deal with all the crap life was throwing at her, working in those conditions after spending another sleepless night upstairs.
She and Bert carried the precious new air-conditioning unit into the shop and unboxed it immediately, fitting it into one of the front windows. Cara held out the thin plastic remote control, took a deep breath, and clicked the On button. The air conditioner’s motor hummed to life, and a stream of chilled air wafted into the room.
“Sweet blessed baby Jesus,” Cara murmured, standing in front of the unit. She ducked her head and let it blow her sweat-soaked hair, then turned around, lifted the back of her skirt, and let the cold air billow up it like a balloon.
“I should have done this ten days ago,” she said finally.
“Yeah, you should have,” Bert said. “Maybe you wouldn’t be in such a pissy mood all the time if it wasn’t so friggin’ hot in here.”
Cara clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, my friend. My expecting you to be a prompt, reliable, responsible employee does not constitute pissininess.”
“Gawwwwd,” he exclaimed. “You act like it’s my fault that damned epergne is missing. You’re totally gonna throw me under the bus on this, aren’t you?”
“I’m not blaming anything on you,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I’m going to call Lillian right now, and let her know we couldn’t find it. I own this business, and I’m taking responsibility for it.”
“Great,” he said.
“Bert?”
“Yeah?”
“In the meantime, you need to change your attitude and your performance. Or you can just find yourself another job.”
He looked her in the eye. “Are we done? I’ve got the afternoon deliveries to get out.”
“We’re done. After you finish the deliveries, bring the van back here for the night, please.”
He laughed unpleasantly. “So, what? You’re grounding me? I’m twenty-nine years old, Cara.”
“And you act like a fifteen-year-old. If I could lock you in time-out too, I’d do it.”
* * *
After he’d gone, she closed the rest of the shop windows and sat at her desk for a moment, trying to enjoy the calm before the storm.
What, she wondered, was going on with Bert? He’d been working for her for two years. They’d never had a real argument, or even a disagreement. He had a real talent for floral arranging, and when he’d come to her, directly out of alcohol rehab, he’d been so grateful to have a job, he was like a puppy, desperate for love and attention.
But these past two weeks, he’d changed. He swore he wasn’t drinking, but what else could she think, given his most recent disappearance?
Her halfhearted suggestion that she might fire him hadn’t had the effect she’d hoped for. He’d merely stared her down. The thing was, she genuinely cared about Bert. He’d been a sounding board throughout her breakup with Leo, had even given her shelter on his sofa for the first week after she’d left Leo. He was funny, generous, and mostly even-keeled.
Cara didn’t want to hire a new assistant. She wanted her old one back.
* * *
She was gazing out the shop window, trying to get up the nerve to call Lillian Fanning, when she saw a white Mercedes zoom up to the curb outside Bloom and park in the loading zone.
Her right eye twitched and she reached for the aspirin bottle again. Perfect. Speak of the devil.
Lillian was dressed in tennis whites, but not a hair on her immaculately coiffed head was mussed.
She pushed the shop door open and planted herself in front of the worktable where Cara sat. “Well?” She raised one eyebrow, expectantly.
“I’m so sorry, Lillian. Bert and I took the van apart. He retraced every stop he made last week, on his way out to Isle of Hope when he was returning the silver. It didn’t turn up.” Cara felt tears prick her eyes. She swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to say. I feel terrible about this.”
“Unbelievable!” Lillian exploded. “You feel terrible? You lose the single most valuable family heirloom I own, and that’s the best you can do? Feel terrible? Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“N-n-n-no,” Cara squeaked.
“What do you intend to do about it?” Lillian demanded.
“What would you like me to do?”
“Have you called the police?”
“The police? Why would I call the police?”
“Yes! He spent most of the afternoon looking for it.”
“And you believe him?”
Cara felt her scalp prickle. “Yes. I believe him. Bert has worked for me for two years. Why would he lie about something like this?”
“Why wouldn’t he? That epergne is worth thousands and thousands of dollars. What do you pay the man? Minimum wage?”
“I pay Bert a living wage,” Cara said, struggling to keep her temper. “He’s not a thief, Lillian. Or a liar. And neither am I. In fact, I resent your implying otherwise.”
“What do you really know about him, Cara? Do you run a criminal-record check before you hire these people?”
“I know that Bert Rosen is a decent, honest, hardworking person.”
“And how did you come to hire this decent, honest, hardworking person? Did he come to you with references?”
No, Cara thought. He came to me right out of rehab. And I hired him because I believe he deserved a second chance. And he still does.
Lillian took a step closer to Cara, and then another step. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you resent. You and your assistant are responsible for the loss of that epergne. It didn’t just get up and run away. It was stolen! And if you won’t file a police report, I will.”
“And then what?” Cara asked. She refused to take Lillian’s bait. “Is the epergne insured?”
“I’ll have to call our agent,” Lillian said. “And our lawyer.”
Cara felt first her right eye twitch, and then her left. Lawyer?
“Let me know what you find out,” she said finally. “Of course, if the epergne isn’t insured, I fully intend to pay for its replacement.”
Lillian gave her a pitying look. “How sweet. And how do you plan to come up with that kind of money?”
Cara chewed the inside of her mouth. She felt bile rising in her throat. She searched for some clever, searing retort to Lillian’s patronizing sneer. But she had nothing. Except that throbbing pain in her temple.
“Let me worry about that,” she said finally.
34
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