Save the Date by Mary Kay Andrews Page B

what looked like a whole greenhouse full of blooms: peonies, tulips, hydrangeas, orchids, roses, ranunculus, lilies, and more.
    “That!” Cara said, pointing. “That’s what you promised me.”
    “Sorry, like I told you, it’s all spoken for. Allen’s new customer.”
    “Wow. All that for one client?”
    “He’s got two shops. Been open in Charleston for a while, and now he’s moved over to Savannah too. And he’s just as particular about his flowers as you.”
    Cara felt a twinge of jealousy. “Are all these flowers for Cullen Kane?”
    “Sure,” Wendy said. “You know him?”
    “Just of him,” she said. “I guess he has some pretty fancy clients.”
    “I’d say so,” Wendy said.
    Cara was still looking at all those flowers by the loading dock. “Wait a minute, Wendy. He’s got tons of pink tulips. But I didn’t get any. And I specifically ordered three dozen.”
    Wendy shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it, Cara.”
    “Since when?” Cara asked. “You’re the owner. Come on, Wendy. You know this isn’t right. I might not order as many flowers as this new guy, but I’ve been a good customer. You can’t just short me like this. At least split the order with me.”
    “Oh, Cara,” Wendy sighed.
    Cara could sense she was softening.
    “Wendy? Don’t do me like this. Please? I need those tulips.”
    She shook her head, then gestured toward the buckets of flowers, looking furtively around the warehouse. “I can spare a dozen of these pink tulips.”
    “Two dozen,” Cara said, not too proud to beg. “I’ve got all these tabletops at the golf club.”
    “Eighteen,” Wendy said. “Take ’em, but be quick about it. I don’t want Allen to catch me raiding his customer’s order. I’ll adjust your bill. Now shoo, before I change my mind.”
    *   *   *
    Cara spent all Tuesday morning scrounging up enough greenery to fill in for the missing flowers for her centerpieces—snipping asparagus ferns from one friend’s garden in Ardsley Park, Meyer lemon leaves from a client’s courtyard, and silvery-gray lamb’s ears from the hip-pocket-sized container garden she tended behind the shop. She made a trip over to Whole Foods and bought four fat pots of pink hydrangeas, wincing at the cash register while she paid retail prices for the flowers.
    She’d even made a quick trip out to Wilmington Island, where she knew of a thick patch of blue plumbago growing in the Publix shopping center parking lot. She’d parked her car right by the patch, snipped a big batch, then fled like a thief in the night. It wasn’t really stealing, she’d told herself. The plumbago needed trimming.
    All that foraging put her behind schedule—she’d intended to get to the golf club by ten. She had her arms full—a huge cardboard box containing eight square glass centerpieces, plus the corsages in their clear plastic clamshell boxes. She looked around the nearly empty lobby, wondering where the party was being held.
    Lillian Fanning hurried toward her. She wore a sleeveless coral sheath, matching sling-back heels, and a necklace of twined turquoise, coral, and seed pearls. “Cara!” she called. “We’re back here, in the grill.” Lillian looked pointedly down at the thin gold watch on her wrist.
    “Hi, Lillian,” Cara said. “Sorry to be a little late.“
    Lillian glanced over at the box. “Those look nice,” she said. “I’m so glad you could do this. I know it was short notice, but after seeing all the beautiful centerpieces you did for Torie, I just couldn’t settle for those dreary little half-dead flower sprigs the club puts out for luncheons.”
    “Happy to do it,” Cara said, struggling to keep up in Lillian’s wake.
    The tables in the grill had already been set for luncheon. Pale pink cloths covered the rounds, and somebody, Lillian, she assumed, had placed tiny wrapped boxes at each place setting. Cara hurried around the room, depositing the centerpieces where Lillian directed.
    They heard