Toss the Bride (14 page)

Inside the main exhibition area, we both pause, momentarily stunned. The room is a few football fields long and is crammed with booths, chefs, appetizer-laden trays, and thousands of people. Almost everyone is eating something or leaning over a booth to grab something to stuff in their mouths. Servers pass by carrying cheese trays, petit fours, and arugula wraps.

“I think I've never seen anything so beautiful,” Avery says in a shaky voice.

“We can eat later. We've got to find that booth.”

Weaving in and out of people working their jaw muscles, we quickly decide that the booth numbers are based on a highly classified system not meant to be understood by nonfoodies. Luckily, I spot a familiar slice of polka-dot cake being carried by a portly man who also is devouring a plate of hot wings.

“That cake. Where did you get it?” I ask, pointing.

“Over there, about halfway down the aisle,” the man replies without stopping his chewing. “These wings are good. Want to try them?”

We politely decline and race toward the Cake Cake booth. Within seconds, we are outfitted with white aprons emblazoned with Cake Cake's name and logo. Iris straps little cake hats to our heads, shoves trays of samples in our hands, and we're off.

It takes a while to get used to strangers lunging at me with outstretched hands, but after a while, I go with the flow. Free cake is free cake. I start to feel extremely popular. I chatter, “Cake Cake, Atlanta's Best” and circulate fairly close to the booth. I send several interested people to Iris, who always appears to be chatty and friendly. I am proud of her.

I lose track of Avery. Only when he comes back to load up with more samples do I catch his eye. He rubs a speck of frosting off my chin and dashes back into the crowd. I have a warm feeling inside. Loving someone else has to be the best thing a person can do. I take a deep breath and return to the samples before I think too much about Avery and his job situation. Somewhere out there is a solution to his problem. We just have to find it or make up something brilliant.

*   *   *

After the final bell, Iris, Avery, and I sit on the rented tables in the Cake Cake booth. To either side of us, workers pick up used napkins and empty plates of food. It all starts over again tomorrow. I am exhausted, so I can't imagine how tired Iris must be. I chide her for not asking for help.

“Right. Like you need anyone else telling you what to do after spending your days and nights with Miss Medieval?” Iris drops her black cooking clogs to the floor and rubs her feet. “I have a heart, you know.”

“Please call me milady if you don't mind, wench,” I say.

Iris reaches for a water bottle. “You know, Mace, I don't know why I haven't thought of this before, but ‘Devin' is one letter away from what word?”

I drop my mouth open in mock horror. “Could she be? Might this wedding be an elaborate disguise for the forces of darkness?”

Iris takes a sip and nods gravely. “We need to face the facts. Devin is in league with Satan.”

“'Tis true, saucy harlot,” Avery says. “Aye, I've always suspected such.”

We laugh at Avery's bad English accent. “Hey, maybe we've found your calling. You can work at Ye Olde Thymes and toss pheasants to people.”

Avery says, “They really do that?”

“Yup,” Iris nods. “When you sit down, your waiter stands at the end of the table and throws food at you. There's no silverware, so your hands just get dirty.”

“It's pretty gross,” I say, “but you would look cute in those tunics the guys wear.”

Rubbing her neck, Iris asks, “What's this about Avery working? I thought Rich Boy was above that.”

“Very funny, Cake Lady, but I've been searching for a job. A real career,” Avery says. He sits up straight and tightens an invisible tie.

Iris gives me a look only a best friend can and then flashes Avery a bright smile. “I think that's great. What are you thinking of doing?”

I start to launch into a quick speech about his many prospects, but Avery says something quietly I cannot hear.

“What was that?” I ask.

“I said, I have a job. It starts tomorrow.”

“How can you? I mean, that's great.” I sputter like a broken faucet. “But why didn't you say anything before—at my apartment—when we were talking—”

“Macie, why don't you let him tell you about it?” Iris gives me the look again.

“Thanks, Iris.” Avery stands up from the table and puts his hands in his pockets. “It's nothing, really, but I met a man tonight who makes those gourmet Chattahoochee Chocolates. You know, the ones with bits of peaches in them and everything?”

We both nod. Chattahoochee Chocolates are really tasty. Named after the river that runs north of Atlanta, the candy bars fall into the luxury chocolate category. I had a bride once who gave each guest one as a party favor.

“Anyway, Chattahoochee Chocolates just lost their number-one candy-bar tester. He burned his mouth and had surgery, and well, it's a really sad story.”

“Avery, you are going to taste candy bars? For a living?” I wave my hands in the air. This is not part of the plan: Boyfriend ingests loads of sugar, gains fifty pounds, and becomes too consumed with eating to marry his long-suffering true love.

“Well, that's not all it is. I have to help brainstorm new flavors, develop marketing strategies, and do consumer research. The company's going national next year.”

I am still speechless. Almost. “I still don't understand how a chance meeting with a candy-bar maker could lead to a job offer. That's not how it's supposed to work.” Iris gives me a withering look. I know I'm not going to win Supportive Girlfriend of the Year for acting like this, but Avery needs to get serious.

“Right, right. I know that, but Ted and I really hit it off. Turns out he's a fraternity brother from the Clemson chapter and we're about the same age. I gave him some cake and we started talking. I told him the last few Chattahoochee Chocolates I ate were a little dry or something. So he gets all interested and asks me lots of questions. Apparently, they had switched cocoa-liquor suppliers, so I said, ‘Man, you gotta switch back.' And now I'm going in tomorrow to taste test the production line.”

“Won't you get sick? That's a lot of candy,” I say.

“You chew and think about the flavors on your tongue, and then you spit it out. After that, I enter my comments into a laptop that transmits to the floor supervisor. If at any time I don't think the product is up to snuff, I can shut down production,” Avery says with a flourish.

It is beginning to dawn on me that Avery is excited about this new job. Although I had thought he would find something more traditional, I decide to let it go. The cleanup crews move in to get everything ready for the next morning. A floor sweeper walks by pushing a broom, capturing used Popsicle sticks and discarded business cards. I feel a heaviness watching the trash pile move slowly past us.

“So, this is legitimate, right? Candyland's not a scam or anything?” I ask. So much for letting things go.

“That is ridiculous, Macie, and you know it. Give me some credit,” Avery says and looks away from me.

“Ah, I think I've got to get a thing over there, down that hall,” Iris says, quickly grabbing her purse and keys. She gives me a hug and disappears toward the front doors.

I sit on the table, angry and hurt. Part of me is mad because things come easy to Avery. But candy-bar tasting? Give me a break. It sounds like something only an eight-year-old would dream about late at night. I thought Avery wanted a real job; one with an employee manual and a confusing menu of health plans. I don't care how much money he makes or what his title is, but his new job should be something where he can grow, learn new things, and be promoted—in short, a real job like everyone else. What does the head candy-bar taster shoot for? More chocolate sprinkles?

“So, are you going to let me in on your sulk or do I have to guess what is wrong with you?” Avery walks over to the table.

I lift my head and look over at him. “You just don't get it.”

Avery's mouth is set in an unhappy line. “No, I suppose not.”

My mind whirls. I think of Avery in Italy, watching the married couples. I see us playing tennis or walking down Peachtree Street in Midtown. I picture our hike last year in the mountains of north Georgia. These are all good memories. Why doesn't he want to make them permanent by finding something more mature, something with a future? I thought Avery wanted to get ready for marriage by starting a career. This seems like a backward way to go about it.

“Well, if you aren't going to talk, I gotta get going. I have to be at the Chattahoochee factory at eight in the morning.”

I slide off the table and glumly follow Avery down the almost deserted aisles of the expo center. The smell of fried grease and sugar sticks to everything. I want to gag. I am tired of food. I'm even tired of cake.

We are halfway back to my apartment when I try to say something, anything, to break the silence between us. “I hope you have a good day tomorrow, I really do. But I guess I was thinking that you were looking for a more, um, grown-up job. You seemed so serious about finding a career—something that you could really sink your teeth into. No pun intended.”

Avery laughs. There is a loosening of anger between us and it feels good. I just hope we can get through this new stage in his life without always snapping at each other. I vow silently to be more supportive of Avery. If needed, I will eat Chattahoochee Chocolates by the case.

*   *   *

Devin's day in the Middle Ages finally comes. Before the first stein of mead is even poured and every guest is given a leg of mutton to tote around, I can no longer bear the sight of our fair bride without breaking into tiny hives. The final straw comes right before the ceremony when she demands I announce to the guests that they should bow when she enters the quaint outdoor chapel we've rented about two hours north of the city.

“Devin—” I start to say before she cuts me off with an imperious wave.

“Mistress—” she hisses, the gold crown taped onto her cruel head bobbing slightly. I hope fervently that it will tumble off during her low curtsy to her intended at the end of the aisle. We hide at the back of the chapel, waiting for our cue from the lute player.

“Whatever. Mistress Devin, I don't think that would be a very good idea. Americans don't really know how to bow. It might look awkward on the video.”

The bride taps her red fingernails on her chin and thinks about it. I know Maurice is minutes away from calling for her to enter the chapel, so my stalling has a slim chance of working. I do not relish the thought of asking a chapel full of people who were forced to wear costumes for the wedding to go the extra mile and bow to this maniac.

“You know, Maidservant Macie, you have a point there. We colonialists have forgotten the ways of the motherland. Let us go forthwith unto my man.”

I help turn the bride and her heavy, embroidered dress as we leave our little spot. Rather than a veil, she wears a piece of fabric that connects to her crown. It drapes down her back, where one long fake braid sticks out. The dress, an empire waist with gold-flecked ruching, is finished at the sleeves in gold-braid frogging. Devin's breasts are pushed up so high that a costume accident is bound to happen sooner or later.

During the ceremony, I sit in the back of the chapel. Once I've adjusted my velvet-and-brocade dress and the fake braids are safely thrown over my shoulder, I reflect that there has probably never been a worse bride with whom we've worked. More selfish, probably. More vain, most likely. But all in all, people like Devin give weddings a bad name. I don't think she ever talked about her fiancé. It was all about the wedding trip to—where else?—England and Scotland. It was all about the clothes and the horse-drawn carriages, the mead, and the famous lutenist. To Devin, marriage seemed like a stage play complete with costumes, directions, and grand entrances.

I lean back in the worn pew and close my eyes. The couple repeats their handwritten vows in loud, practiced voices. I think of Avery, into his second week at Chattahoochee Chocolates, testing chocolate and helping write marketing copy. He likes the job, and he and Ted get on like brothers. I have calmed down about the whole thing. There may be a future there for him after all.

Maybe one day, we'll repeat vows to each other. But when that day comes to me in my mind, I never think about the wedding. It is always the next day that I imagine. Day number two as husband and wife. It is that day I think about now, amid the fakery, rented costumes, and forced historical accuracy. When I marry Avery, it will not be for vain show. It will be for life.

8

The Rogue Bride

Maurice is always telling me that we do the impossible. We marry off Atlanta's rich and beautiful, no matter what their strange fascinations or weird passions. And we do it with a smile on our faces, the correct fork in our hands, and our heads tilted just so. In short, we make the bride's wedding day seem like a dream when they come to us, checkbooks and date books in hand. Then, we work like mad for months to make the nightmare happen.

When Eliza got engaged on a trip to Milan last week, her first call was to her mother and then to Maurice. All was well in bridal land until Maurice asked Eliza her preferred dates. Did she want a year from now? Nine months? Six was, well, you know, pushing it but he could
try
to nudge things around.

Eliza's reply was two weeks.

Maurice told me he sputtered into his cell phone and coughed a bit. Then he asked her if she was serious. Apparently, Eliza was incredibly serious and mentioned a signing bonus that made Maurice's heart sing. If he pulls this off, he walks away with a handsome six-figure check. All for a little sweat and panic. When he calls me, I offer a silent guess as to who is going to sweat and panic the most.