Save the Date by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

if we don’t want to have a life. Which I do,” he added.
    “Are you referring to your new frat friend? Or the fireman?” Cara asked.
    Bert winked. “You could say things are heating up with my love life.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “And what about you? It’s been what, a year and a half since you left Leo? You have got to stop burying yourself in work, Cara.”
    “Stop and smell the roses, you mean?”
    “Something like that. Not all men are like Leo, you know. Some of us are actually faithful and caring and thoughtful. And fun to be around.”
    “All the men I know who fit that description in this town are gay,” Cara pointed out.
    “You never meet any new men. All you ever do is work. And you’ll never meet anybody nice again if you keep up like this,” Bert said.
    “Has it occurred to you that I don’t want to meet anybody new?” Cara tried to keep her voice light. “I’m done with men.” She reached down and scooped the wriggling Poppy into her arms, burying her nose in the dog’s rose-scented curls.
    “I’ve got a dog now,” she informed her assistant. “She never steals the covers. Never lies. And she would never, ever sleep with some skanky dental hygienist with short arms and big boobs. Plus, Poppy loves me unconditionally.”
    “Except when she runs away,” Bert said.
    “That reminds me,” Cara said. “When I was out walking Poppy earlier, the jerk ran right past me—with his real dog in tow.”
    “But he did go to all the trouble to track you down here and bring her back yesterday,” Bert said. “So he can’t be that big a jerk.”
    “You don’t know him like I do,” Cara said. “Look, Bert. I’ve got to get moving if I’m going to get over to Breitmueller’s for Lillian’s flowers. Will you keep an eye on Poppy?”
    “That’s cool,” Bert said. He looked down at Poppy, who was standing by the window, wagging her tail as she watched a woman walk by with a pair of dachshunds on leash. “But maybe you should think about getting Poppy microchipped. Just in case she gets out again. Right?”
    “All right, all right, I will,” Cara said. “The very next time I have a day off.”

 
    11
     
    On Tuesday, Cara used one hip to bump open the door at the Savannah Golf Club at 10:45 a.m. Her face was beaded with perspiration and she was well aware that she looked a hot mess.
    The previous day’s pickup from Breitmueller’s had been a failure.
    She’d arrived at the wholesaler shortly before noon. But the buckets of flowers holding her order were nothing like what she’d been promised.
    Gaudy hot pink dyed carnations, some sad-looking cream spray roses, a few Stargazer lilies, and loads of stiff yellowish baby’s breath.
    She marched over to the office, where Wendy Breitmueller was typing away on her computer terminal.
    “Oh, hi, Cara,” Wendy said, not looking up. “We pulled your order, it’s back out in the warehouse.”
    “That’s not what I ordered, Wendy,” Cara said sharply. “Come on! Baby’s breath? And those yucky dyed carnations? Where are my tulips? My pink spray roses? My gerberas?”
    Wendy sighed. “Look, it’s not my fault. Allen took a big phone order just before I talked to you, and he’d already promised all the stuff you wanted to another client. You know how it goes. This is our busy season, and unless you call up a week ahead of time and let us know what you need, you take what you get. First come, first served.”
    “But you promised me ,” Cara reminded her. “Not less than an hour ago. I’ve got a baby shower tomorrow for one of my regular clients, and there is no way I can show up at the golf club with that mess out there.”
    “You’re welcome to walk around in the warehouse and pick out whatever else looks good,” Wendy said with a shrug. Reluctantly, she got up from her computer and led Cara back into the chilled air of the warehouse.
    Cara saw a huge cluster of buckets lined up near the loading-dock doors, holding