Save the Date

Chapter 13

13

Somebody, at some point in the Strayhorn family history, had a puckish sense of humor. Cabin Creek? Cara drove slowly down the bumpy crushed oyster-shell drive. Age-blackened live oaks dripping with thick curtains of Spanish moss shaded both sides of the roadway, their trunks dotted with clumps of dark green Resurrection ferns, and the trees were underplanted with hedges of azaleas, past blooming, but still lovely. A rail fence separated the drive from a vast green pasture, and a trio of horses grazed outside a weathered barn. At the end of the quarter-mile drive, a weathered cypress sign was nailed to one of the trees.

SLOW DOWN. SMALL CHILDREN. LARGE DOGS. OLD MEN.

The house loomed ahead. Cara had read up on Cabin Creek in a book about low-country plantation homes. The property had been a land grant from King George III, but the original homeplace, described as a two-story wood-frame cabin, had burned in the early 1800s, and the Strayhorns, who’d done well with cotton, rice, and indigo, built themselves a showplace to display all that wealth.

Cabin Creek was no longer a cabin. Not by any stretch of the imagination. The main house was a three-story Greek Revival beauty, with a two-story-tall portico supported by four thick Doric columns. A widow’s walk topped the portico. Large wings sprouted from each side of the main house, and the estate was set on an expanse of deep green lawn, with foundation plantings of carefully clipped boxwoods.

Cara followed the drive around to the right side of the house, as Gordon Trapnell had instructed, where she found a gravel car park adjoining a low three-bay garage. She parked her own car next to a sleek silver Jaguar, and walked around to a smaller side entrance marked by a pair of miniature versions of the front columns.

Before she could ring the doorbell, the door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman dressed in faded blue jeans and a grubby T-shirt pushed open the screen door. An army-green ballcap with an embroidered Cabin Creek logo shaded the woman’s round, ruddy face.

“Are you the florist?” she asked.

“Uh yes,” Cara said, taken aback. Funny way for a butler to dress.

The woman extended her hand and opened the door wider. “Great! So glad to meet you. I’m Libba Strayhorn. Come on in. I was just getting ready to go out to the stables, but Gordon and Patricia are inside. I’ll show you the way, then let you all talk.”

They were in what was obviously used as a mudroom by the Strayhorn family. It was high-ceilinged, with a marble floor, but simple wooden benches lined each side, and wall-mounted hooks held jackets and coats. Muddy boots were lined up beneath the benches, and a pair of shotguns rested casually in one corner.

Libba walked quickly, the soles of her riding boots clacking against the marble floor. Cara followed her through a pair of double doors into a formal parlor with an immense fireplace mounted by a fancy gilt-framed mirror. Stiff brocade-covered Empire-era settees and armchairs faced the fireplace. Libba didn’t slow. Instead she led Cara through yet another doorway, into a cypress-paneled library.

Gordon Trapnell and his wife were sitting at a felt-topped game table near the fireplace. “Cara?” he asked, standing to shake her hand.

He was short, maybe only an inch or two taller than Cara, with thinning dark hair, carefully combed across his high-domed head, and a neatly clipped mustache. He wore silver wire-rimmed glasses, a pale pink logoed Polo shirt, and dark dress slacks.

“Yes, hello, Mr. Trapnell.”

“Call me Gordon.” He turned toward the woman seated to his right and beamed. “And this is Patricia, my wife.”

Cara had only caught a glimpse of Patricia Trapnell at the golf club earlier in the week, just a blur of blond hair and cheekbones.

Patricia’s silicone-plumped lips widened into what she probably thought was a smile. But her skin was stretched so tightly over the high cheekbones, it really resembled more of a grimace. Her pale blue eyes had an almost Asian tilt. Her face was skillfully made up, and her blond hair gleamed in the low light of the library. She was dressed in a cobalt-blue silk blouse.

“Hello, Cara,” she said, her voice husky. “We’ve heard so much about your work. And of course, we loved what you did for Torie Fanning’s wedding last week. Please sit, and tell us about your ideas for Brooke and Harris.”

“I’m going to leave you experts to it then,” Libba Strayhorn said, and she hurried out of the room.

***

Cara took a deep breath and opened her iPad. “These are a few ideas I came up with for the church, and the reception,” she said, tapping an icon on the screen that read “Trapnell Wedding.”

“Of course, everything is very preliminary,” she said. “I was able to find pictures on the internet of the ballroom and the chapel here at Cabin Creek, but it would still be helpful for me to see them in person, just to get a sense of the scale of the spaces.”

“Of course,” Gordon Trapnell said. “We can walk around and show you the layout after we chat. Libba has graciously given us the run of the place.”

“I forgot to ask Marie—how many guests?”

Patricia sighed deeply. “That’s been a matter of controversy. Brooke and her mother have some quaint notion about a small, intimate affair. But they totally overlook the fact that with Gordon’s and my extensive social and business contacts, not to mention the Strayhorns,’ we’re talking about three hundred people minimum—and that’s cutting the guest list right to the bone.”

“To the bone,” Gordon said, nodding agreement.

“And do you have a budget in mind?” Cara asked.

“Not really,” Patricia said. She gave Gordon a warm smile, then reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand. “How do you put a price tag on a father’s love for his only daughter?”

“Exactly,” Cara replied.

Really? This is about demonstrating love for Brooke? Not about showing your “extensive business and social contacts” just how much money you have to throw around on an overblown wedding your kid doesn’t even really want?

Cara tapped an icon marked “Centerpieces.” “Since it’s a July wedding, I thought we might stick to cooler colors, blues, greens, white, cream, maybe some lavenders and silvers.” She glanced from Brooke to Gordon. “Are those colors Brooke likes?”

Gordon glanced at his wife for guidance. Patricia rolled her eyes. “Brooke doesn’t really have much of a sense of color at all, bless her heart. Or style, for that matter. As far as I can tell, she wears navy blue or black suits to work, and she lives in running clothes on the weekend.”

“Oh.”

“We thought, that is, Gordon and I thought, it might be exciting to do something really dramatic with the tables. We were at a wedding in Charleston last month, that was simply stunning. The designer had spent time in India, and he designed these amazing pierced brass vessels and low tables, with piles and piles of cushions and Oriental rugs, and there were no flowers at all, just flickering lights, and piles of exotic fruits, pomegranates and what have you, and the tablecloths were embroidered, with mirrors…”

“No flowers?” Cara said blankly.

Then what the hell am I doing here?

“But we wouldn’t want to copy that look, not exactly,” Patricia added hastily. “And anyway, that was just to give you an idea of the kind of emotions we’d like to elicit with our event.”

It’s a wedding, Cara thought. And it’s not actually your wedding. It’s Brooke’s and Harris’s.

“What we’re looking for, Cara, is something absolutely original,” Gordon said.

“Something that hasn’t been done in Savannah. None of those tired old post-deb looks you see all the time,” Patricia added. “And to be perfectly honest, Cara, we have looked at a presentation by another designer which was beyond amazing. So I guess what Gordon is asking from you, is to be amazing.”

Cara looked down at her iPad. Screw this. Be amazing? That’s your design mandate?

She willed herself to smile. “Would you like to look at some of my ideas now?”

Patricia scrolled rapidly through the photos and sketches Cara had assembled, and five minutes later, handed the iPad back.

“Interesting,” she said. “Lots of silver vases and such. Very traditional though, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, yes. I assumed that since the wedding and reception were being held in a historic home, you’d want the flowers to fit in with the setting. But I’m not necessarily tied to any one look. We do lots of cutting-edge weddings. In fact, tomorrow, we’re doing the décor for a wedding in an old cotton warehouse down on River Street, and the bride requested an industrial, steampunk look, with some goth elements mixed in.”

“Goth?” Gordon looked to his wife for interpretation.

“Oh, you know, Gordie. Those kids who wander around with their faces made up with white powder and black-lined eyes and lips, like something out of a Halloween fright show.”

“People do that at weddings? Adults?” He shook his head. “Thank God Brooke was never into that sort of thing.”

Cara couldn’t help herself. There was no way these people were going to hire her, so why not have a little fun with them? “Instead of tablecloths, we’re topping the tables with long sheets of rusted corrugated tin, from old farmhouses. And we’re doing centerpieces with all black flowers, and animal skulls.”

Patricia’s pale eyes bugged out slightly. “Not… real animal skulls.”

“Oh sure,” Cara said cheerfully. “The groom is a big hunter, so he’s collected things over the years from his own kills and walks in the woods. I’ve managed to incorporate rattlesnake rattles in the bride’s bouquet, strung on strips of deer rawhide. Plus, I’ve been buying additional skulls and antlers online for months now.”

“Dear God,” Patricia said faintly. She looked a little ill.

“And we’re having a tattoo booth,” Cara added. “I’ve designed a custom tattoo that combines the bride’s and groom’s initials and their wedding date. It’s the first one I’ve designed, and I’m really very proud of how it turned out.”

“Who in hell are these people?” Gordon demanded.

“Laurie-Beth Winship?” Cara said. “She’s marrying Payton Jelks.”

“That’s not Frank and Elizabeth Winship’s child, is it?” Patricia asked. “I know they have a daughter, but Laurie-Beth was in Brooke’s debutante class. Surely they wouldn’t sanction something like that.…”

“It is,” Cara said. “Do you know the Winships? I just love them. So adventurous. Elizabeth has already promised that she’ll get tattooed tomorrow night, but I think Frank is a little squeamish about needles, so he’s just going to do the henna thing. You wouldn’t think a radiologist would be, would you? Squeamish, I mean.”

“Dear God.” This time Gordon and Patricia said it as a duet.