Toss the Bride (11 page)

Maurice nods. Then he tells me to invite Carolina there in two hours. “Send them out on errands. Make something up. I don't care.”

There isn't time to drink our lattes, so we leave the two women and jump in Maurice's sports car. Maurice drives fast, talking on his cell all the way. He lets the Rent-A-Gown people know we have a sticky situation. He calls it a “bridal emergency.” Meanwhile, I call Café Suite and speak with Elise. She breaks into French once or twice, saying she is
trés
happy to accommodate us. She says she'll even place a few vases of flowers in the room for us. I've always suspected she has a thing for Maurice, and this just confirms it.

When we get to Rent-A-Gown, I am speechless. I had heard of the store, of course. No one in Atlanta could miss their frequent commercials on late-night television: “Cinderella rented her dress here, and so should you!” followed by a close-up of a teenage beauty queen climbing into a carriage.

Nothing could have prepared me for what seems like acres of dresses in all colors, sizes, and really awful styles. Luckily, Marge, the special dresses manager, meets us at the door. “You must be the famous Maurice. Charmed,” she says, offering her hand. I groan inwardly. Maurice's reputation has extended even to this dress barn.

But Maurice kills me. He takes her hand and kisses it. Right there inside the store as the automatic doors swish open and shut with a whoosh. Marge, all gray hair and bifocals, eats this up. I think she even blushes.

We start in Pageant and quickly make our way through the first few sections: Prom, Quinceañera, Funeral. This last section sounds like a joke to me, but I guess there are women who die without a good dress in the closet. When we get to Bridal, I feel stirrings of hope. Here is rack after rack of dresses, many of them in multiple sizes.

Maurice flings the dresses left and right. Poor Marge brings him gown after gown that he rejects. “Too polyester. Too horrible. Too 1987.” She doesn't seem to mind, though. I guess with that many dresses under one roof, she knows people will eventually find what they need.

And we eventually do. The winning dress is a deep blue organza that Maurice likes because it “hides the Third-World stitching.” One shoulder is bare, and it comes with a wrap Maurice regards as something nasty in a communicable kind of way.

After making polite conversation and posing for a picture with the Rent-A-Gown day managers, Maurice and I make a break for it. We stuff the dresses into his tiny trunk; our favorite dry cleaner will press them tomorrow. Then we careen over to Café Suite, arriving at the snotty little French café just in time. I really do not care for this place because I remember having Darby's shower here, and every memory about that woman stings like an ice-cream headache.

Elise meets us at the hostess stand and kisses Maurice on both cheeks. I am toting a bridesmaid dress in my size, a tiara, a veil, and a box of shoes, so I just smile nicely. Elise ignores me. They carry on in French, which I find rude.

In the bathroom, I tear off the rental agreement pinned to the blue dress and slip the garment over my head. I apply some deep red lipstick and try twisting my hair up quickly. Unfortunately, the humidity is making every hair on my head act a little nutty. I cram the loaner pair of heels from Rent-A-Gown onto my feet and take a deep breath. This had better work, or Maurice and I are going to be in big trouble. Sure, it's Carolina's fault that there are no dresses, but it will make us look bad. I think of snoozing old Aunt Gretchen and wonder if she's dreaming about being a seamstress to the stars.

Maurice lurks outside the women's room holding a bouquet of lilies. I don't even ask him where he got it, because I've learned that things just work out for Maurice. Some people are just like that. Everything works out for them, and mere mortals like me have to stand back and watch.

You could say Avery is like that, too. Thinking of him while Maurice hooks some kind of pearl necklace around my throat gives me pause. I miss him, I really do. I check my watch reflexively. I haven't missed any calls and there's no voice mail. After this little fashion show, I will give him a call.

When I enter the private room in the back of Café Suite, Carolina and her mother are nibbling on little fruit tartlets and sipping chamomile tea. They look refreshed and content, like there isn't anything more important in the world than this moment in time. I, on the other hand, wear a rented dress, carry over-perfumed hothouse flowers, and list a bit to one side in the loaner shoes.

“This is a sample dress I was lucky to steal away from one of our designers,” Maurice says in a secretive voice. He motions for me to walk along the edge of the room. “Note the empire bust, how it flatters, and the sheer cap sleeves. I like the hint of whimsy in the satin cording, here and here.”

I stop walking and stand beside my boss. He twirls his finger in the air. I turn again and again. Carolina has not uttered a word.

“What I adore about this frock is how it will complement the bride but not take away from her glamour. All in all, Margaret did a wonderful job with this one. I am sure it will be quite the rage next season.”

I almost choke when I think of Marge—or Margaret—from Rent-A-Gown actually designing a dress. The closest she got to making this gown was stuffing it into a plastic bag and handing it across the counter.

Then Carolina is smiling and giving Maurice a peck on the cheek. Her fat diamond solitaire sparkles in the sunlight coming in through the cafe windows. The mother rises and gives the dress an appraising scowl but goes along with it. Then there are appointments to be made with the five bridesmaids and discussions about matching shoes. I slink away to change and call Avery. Maybe we can meet for an early dinner. I am starving.

After trying his cell and hearing his voice-mail recording, I hang up and call Avery's house.

“Well, hello, Macie. We haven't seen you much this week,” Avery's mother says.

“I know. I've been really busy with a wedding,” I reply.

“Of course, dear. You should drop by. I'm having a cocktail on the veranda.”

“That sounds nice. Maybe I will. Is Avery around so that I can speak with him?” My voice sounds a little high. I am suddenly worried. Avery's mother is usually not this chatty.

“Oh, Macie. Avery's not here, didn't you know? I thought you'd know. Of all people.”

My dumb voice betrays me and I waver, “Where did he go?”

“Italy, darling. He left the other day. I'm surprised he didn't tell you.” Mrs. Leland's voice is flat through my phone. I hear the clink of glasses and the mumbled words of Mr. Leland. And then the phone is silent.

6

The Vegan Bride

It is only six o'clock in the morning, but I have been up with the seagulls much longer. The scruffy gray-and-white birds dart this way and that, wheeling over the almost deserted sands of the beach before landing and immediately engaging in a dedicated show of preening. As I shake out another tablecloth over a rented round table, it occurs to me that our bride is probably inside her beach house preening like the seagulls. It is her wedding day, after all.

Hilton Head Island at daybreak is beautiful. The rich and cloistered people are all parked inside their rich and cloistered houses, leaving the beach a place for the serious jogger or shell collector. The sun creeps over the horizon in a well-behaved manner, leaving me to think the day will be perfect for a sun-splashed outdoor wedding. I am working side by side with Taylor, the caterer's assistant. It really is not my job to help set up tables, but I've learned from Maurice that the more we are involved, the better.

Travel pains Maurice, but the fee for this wedding was apparently too good to pass up. Tallie St. Claire is old money, and her family is sparing no expense for her wedding to a prominent attorney. Of course, all the brides spare no expense, but Tallie is different. She simply has no clue as to how much cash it takes to buy something. And she never carries a dime on her willowy, five-foot-nine frame. I've probably shelled out about thirty bucks in smoothies downed by a woman who says, “I left my purse at home.”

I don't mind bailing Tallie out; I've sort of become used to it, like she's my little sister. Last week, before we left Atlanta, Tallie made a final stop at the exclusive gift shop where she selected the wedding-party gifts. Tallie and her fiancé had picked out top-of-the-line putters for the guys and delicate gold-and-diamond bangles for the women.

“Macie! I need help,” Tallie breathed into the phone.

“What's up?”

“Well, I'm at the gift shop and they won't let me take the putters or the bangles.”

My heart quickened. Was something wrong with the order? We were getting close to the wedding date. “Why?”

“They want me to pay for them before I take them,” Tallie said, lowering her voice.

I swallowed a giggle. I like Tallie, but I have to remember that she grew up with the St. Claire name behind her. Down in Hilton Head, that detail would have been enough for the gift-store owner to hand over the merchandise. Up in Atlanta, though, things were a little different.

“Well, let's get this straightened out, Tallie,” I said. “Do you have any credit cards on you?”

Tallie inhaled so sharply, I could hear it over the phone. “Oh, Macie, I didn't even think to bring one. What am I going to do?”

“Don't worry another minute over it. Give the phone to the salesclerk and I will take care of it.” Luckily, I had a platinum card just for occasions like this. Maurice would reimburse me.

In the past few days, I have explored Tallie's Hilton Head. The island boasts huge “plantations” behind carefully guarded gates. Each plantation is nicer than the next, and, of course, Tallie's plantation is the best of the best. The family's oceanfront mansion sprawls over several acres of pricey real estate. It was designed to look like the Long Island estates of the early 1900s and it passes the test with startling authenticity. When I saw it for the first time the other day, I expected to witness Victorian carriages pulling up in the majestic front drive. The mansion's huge, squat pillars give a boost to painted cedar shakes that support grand cupolas, where white flags shimmy in the ocean breeze. Each flag is embroidered with a bold “S.C.” Horses are stabled nearby, and an assortment of pools and tennis courts waits to be used. I began to see why Tallie was Tallie.

Luckily for me, Iris has traveled to Hilton Head as well. She needed a serious vacation and decided a few days on the beach would be the best way to go about it. She's helping keep my mind off of Avery's sudden departure for Italy. When I think about how he left without telling me, without saying good-bye, I feel sick. No doubt he is having fun, going to restaurants, and traipsing all over Italy. It seems like the things I had said about us planning a future didn't matter at all.

Iris is staying with me in the St. Claire guest house, so the two of us are having a blast, talking each night until an insane hour. I cleared her staying with me through Tallie, who was impressed because Iris is well known in Atlanta. Tallie, incidentally, ordered her cake from the island's best chef. Iris isn't taking it personally, although we both know who would have been the better choice.

Our guest house is more like a mini inn. There are six bedrooms, each with its own entrance and special theme. We live in the Egret Suite, so we have pillowcases, shower curtains, and rugs embroidered, patterned, and woven with the tall, white bird. Meals are served in the dining room of the main house if we want them. The common room of the guest house is stocked with enormous brownies, gourmet tea bags, and bottled water labeled with (what else?) S.C. I know I have found heaven. I may never leave.

“I think this is creepy,” Iris said the night before the wedding. The rehearsal dinner party was finally over, and I was stretched out on one of the bird-covered beds. We had been at a trendy fish restaurant all evening. The toasts went on and on with each flushed face more verbose than the next, and the bridesmaids dancing more and more suggestively on an impromptu dance floor. I was glad when it was time to go back to the plantation. Tallie loved it, of course. The only snafu was a drunken ex-boyfriend showing up in the middle of dinner. He bellowed love poems to Tallie before swiping some shrimp off of the best man's plate. After he left crying, Tallie just smiled.

“What's creepy?” I asked sleepily. I had to get up early to meet Taylor and I was already dreading dawn.

“All of this excess. Doesn't it kind of make you feel, oh, I don't know,” Iris said, waving her hand around the room, “kind of like under the St. Claire thumb?”

“You think too much. Let's just enjoy our free room on the ocean.”

Iris laughed and pushed back her hair from her face. Away from Atlanta and without the worry of producing cakes, she was a lot more relaxed. “Yeah, I guess I should.”

As I drifted off to sleep, I had to admit that Iris had a point. This was not the real world. I was reminded a little too much of Avery's family. They had nowhere near the wealth of the St. Claires', but they were very well off. Avery was using that money to finance his lark in Italy right now, I thought to myself. A heavy feeling fell over me. I had not received any word from him since he'd left. No call, e-mail, or airmail. The distance between us was literally an ocean, but it felt like more than just water and time.

Taylor and I worked quickly the next morning, snapping tablecloths and setting out the just-arrived vases of freesia and delphinium. The wedding ceremony would take place on the beach, and the sunset supper would be on the main lawn under an enormous white tent that was special-ordered from California. Two other workers unpacked hotel pans and portable burners in the outdoor makeshift kitchen designed to crank out about four hundred hot meals later tonight. On the food end, Tallie was very bossy and specific. Where some brides care about the dresses or the flowers, Tallie was all about the nibbles. I was sweating this one a little because Maurice had given me more rope than usual. I helped Tallie pick out her menu, researched selections, and interviewed the caterer by phone. I knew Maurice was handing off more responsibility as a sort of test. I felt up to it, but I lack his natural confidence. This will be no ordinary stuffed chicken breast and imported cheese spread type of wedding reception.