Save the Date

Chapter 12

12

The courtyard garden behind the little shop on Jones Street was what convinced her not to leave when Cara was considering moving the shop after she inherited it from Norma.

Cara told herself that she stayed out of convenience. Plus, there was the space itself—high-ceilinged and airy, with a wide front window looking out on the street, a serviceable office nook, and a nice-sized workroom that could be curtained off from her showroom. There was space in the showroom for her flower cooler, and shelves that held the various unusual and vintage containers and knickknacks she sold in addition to her flower arrangements. There was a dedicated parking space out back for the delivery van. And the block itself was a good one, on tree-shaded West Jones Street, surrounded by private residences as well as a handful of discreet businesses: a trendy women’s boutique, a gift and card shop, and a pair of antique shops.

On the downside, she’d had to put hours and hours of sweat equity into transforming the place from Norma’s to Bloom: sanding and refinishing the floors, painting the exposed brick walls, and having display shelves and tables built. It was only when her costs began to mount up that she’d had to go to her father, hat in hand, to beg for a loan.

She might have been okay after that, if life hadn’t happened. If the van hadn’t needed a whole new suspension. If the computer hadn’t died, if she hadn’t had to pay for expensive photography to showcase her portfolio on her website. If. If. If.

Still, most days, she was at peace with the decision to stay on Jones Street and live above the shop. And the thing that that made her heart really sing about her new home was that pocket-sized courtyard garden. It was surrounded by a high wall of aged Savannah gray bricks, and the design was simple, two narrow rectangular planting beds outlined with more brick and a border of dwarf boxwoods.

A brick walkway bisected the space, and there was a small brick-paved patio.

When she’d inherited the lease from Norma, the beds were overgrown with chickweed, privet, wild onions, and morning glories that spilled over the borders and onto the basketweave brick walkway. A ginormous wisteria vine with a trunk the size of her waist had taken up occupancy in the right rear corner of the courtyard, and its tendrils had wound their way clear around the brick walls and up a neighbor’s two-story-high camellia.

Busy with remodeling the downstairs, she’d had no time to spend on that garden, until her marriage crumbled and she’d retreated to the apartment on the top floor of the building.

Cara had barely unpacked her clothes before starting her assault on the garden. Every morning at daylight she had donned jeans and work gloves and headed out to the courtyard to do battle for a couple of hours before going to work in the shop. She hacked down most of the wisteria and weeded the borders for what seemed like weeks. Her hands were left blistered, and callused, and every night when she soaked in the claw-foot bathtub in her upstairs apartment, she got a kind of grim satisfaction from viewing what she saw as the battle scars from a failed marriage.

Leo called. He texted. But when he dropped by the shop, Bert gave him the cold shoulder and glared at him with undisguised loathing. Leo suggested counseling. That’s when Cara suggested he get their house listed and sold, because she needed her share of the equity to grow her business.

Leo gazed at her with his round blue eyes—the ones she’d gazed into on her wedding day, when he’d promise to love her forever. “It was a mistake. All right? How many ways can I tell you I’m sorry? Didn’t you ever make a mistake you came to deeply regret?”

“Yes,” Cara said gravely. “Marrying you. Believing you would be faithful was a mistake. That’s my big regret.”

***

When she’d cleared out the invaders in her courtyard, she’d been thrilled to find the bones of a lovely old garden. Hiding in the shadow of the wisteria she found a beautifully mottled marble birdbath with a bowl shaped like a sunflower. With Bert’s help, she’d dragged it into the center of the courtyard and dug out a circular bed and planted lavender, rosemary, creeping thyme, and three different varieties of scented geraniums at its base.

As the weather warmed up and spring arrived in Savannah, she was thrilled when an unnamed heirloom rose she’d pruned back sprouted new canes and brought forth a froth of delicate white blossoms with orange-tipped centers.

When one of her elderly spinster Jones Street neighbors died, Cara went to the estate sale and bought two huge old terra-cotta pots, which she dragged home in a rusty little red wagon she’d found in a trash pile down the lane. She dumped out the hideous cast-iron plants that had filled those pots for decades, and in their place she planted a pair of lemon trees.

She planted banana trees in the far corner of the beds and underplanted them with hostas, ferns, and ruffly bicolored caladiums.

Leo called one day to tell her the house was under contract. The next day, when she knew he’d be at work, she drove the van over to the house, and let herself into the back gate. With Bert’s help, she loaded up the only furniture she really wanted from her previous life, a pair of teak Luytens benches that had been a wedding gift from her father.

She doubted Leo would notice they were missing. The only time he went into their backyard was to mow the grass or practice his backswing.

Cara searched the Savannah Craigslist ads for weeks before she finally found a square teak outdoor table. She added a market umbrella and placed her benches on either side of it.

When spring came, even if it was raining or storming, Cara stole away to her courtyard garden for an hour or two. She’d light one of the red-currant candles she sold in the shop and then have her dinner sitting at the table. She sipped wine while she plucked weeds or snipped herbs, or just sat, with Poppy at her feet, watching the stars, listening to the rustle of the birds in the treetops.

Sometimes Bert would join her. He’d donated a pair of weather-beaten Adirondack chairs to the garden. They would sit back on the chairs, not talking. Cara would sip her pinot grigio and Bert, a recovering alcoholic, would occasionally sneak a joint—although this was not something she actually approved of.

“Gimme a break,” Bert would say, closing his eyes, tilting his head skyward and blowing smoke through his nostrils. “I quit drinking. You can’t make me give up all my vices.”

***

Thursday night, after putting together dozens of Mother’s Day arrangements for delivery, Cara and Bert were sitting in the courtyard garden. Bert slapped at a mosquito and sighed. “Here it comes. Skeeter season. Makes me want to move to Maine. I hate those little fuckers.”

“They have stinging black flies in Maine, Bert,” Cara pointed out. “And mud. Months and months of mud. Not to mention snow.”

“Never mind,” he said lazily. “So—did I hear right? You’re actually going to interview for the privilege of doing that Trapnell wedding?”

“Yessss,” she said, already regretting what she thought of as her capitulation. “I really like Marie Trapnell. And Vicki Cooper tracked me down at the golf club Tuesday and begged me to at least consider taking the job if they offer it. Brooke’s father, Gordon, called me today to set up an appointment for ‘a chat.’ He wants me to see the Strayhorns’ plantation house, so I can get an idea of where the wedding is being held. So yes, I’m going over to Cabin Creek tomorrow, hat in hand, to present my ideas for the wedding.”

“Want me to tag along?”

“Normally, I’d love to have you accompany me. It looks pretty fancy, don’t you think, to introduce you as my assistant and have you carry my photo book and bow and scrape like a minion?”

“Bowing and scraping? Not in my job description.”

“Anyway, I need you at the shop tomorrow to finish up with the Mother’s Day orders. And don’t forget, we’ve got Laurie-Beth Winship’s wedding Saturday. But don’t worry, I promise to bring back a full description.”