Toss the Bride (28 page)

I continue on my walk, totally dispirited. Weddings float through my head like a current of bad memories. Devin, Carolina, Darby. The names of some brides I have trouble recalling, but I can see their faces in my head. Other thoughts are just snippets of bad behavior. At the end of this sad parade is a lone, little bride who just wants to marry and live happily ever after. It has to have happened to someone out there, I am sure.

Suddenly, as I round the corner to my apartment, I think of Gwen, my sweet pink-haired bride. She seemed so content and ready to marry her fiancé, Jake. That I even remember his name is amazing because we never know the fiancé's name. Rule number one: The day is all about the bride.

I will call Gwen. Hopefully, she won't think it weird that her former wedding planner is calling for love and marriage advice. From what I know about Gwen, my questions will fit right in with her freewheeling, slightly offbeat sense of things. I feverishly hope that she is in town and able to take my call. I sprint up the stairs to the apartment, almost tripping on the last, uneven stair.

I have deleted Gwen's phone number from my cell, but I still have her file. It is pink, of course. I added a few pictures after the event and I reminisce for a moment with the glossy prints. There is the tiny park next to the church where we moved the wedding. This picture shows the wilted fancy flowers so out of place in the outdoors. The last photo is of Gwen and me at the Fox during the reception. She looks beautiful and I wear a huge smile. It was one of our best weddings, but boy, I was nervous down to the wire.

I dial nervously, but when Gwen hears my voice, she acts like we just spoke yesterday. She even invites me over to her loft for tea and “whatever else I can dig up.” I tell her that I will be right over. I turn to replace Gwen's file in my desk drawer, but then I stop. I remove the picture of the two of us and I place it on the bulletin board, where it will give me hope.

*   *   *

Gwen and Jake live in a trendy, developing area of Midtown near Tenth Street. I have driven past their glass-and-metal tower before and even eaten in the restaurants on the ground level, but I have never been inside. I take the ultracool metal-and-blond-wood elevator to the eighth floor, sharing the ride with a tattooed mother and her little boy.

Gwen meets me at the door and gives me a big hug. Her hair is strawberry blond now, and she still wears the cutest clothes. Complimenting her on her striped skirt and matching belt, Gwen just smiles. I know that means she designed it. Oh well, I grimace to myself, there are other things I do well like create color-coded files.

Gwen gives me a tour of the loft, mentioning that Jake is at his studio working on a new series of paintings. The loft is warmer than most I have visited. A honey-blond wood covers the floor and some of the walls. There are the prerequisite floor-to-ceiling columns and metal accents, but the entire place feels comfy. I try to picture living here with Avery, but I have my heart set on something with a backyard for a future dog.

After the tour, I ask Gwen about her clothing business.

“I have a lot of orders for my wedding dress, would you believe?” she says as we curl up on the modern blue sofa that sits on a natural jute rug. “It's been in a few magazines, and I am sort of leaning toward doing just dresses for now.”

“Does that mean your store opening has been postponed?”

Gwen nods. “I think I should go with what is big, for now. I can always do retail later, you know?”

I picture Gwen's dresses adorning movie stars at award shows. Having an obvious talent like hers makes me wonder if life is any easier for her. I have seen it with Maurice and Iris—once they found what they liked to do, they seemed happier. Avery, too, perked up a million degrees when he stumbled onto Chattahoochee Chocolates and his tennis lessons. Feeling a bit down, I decide to focus on Gwen and try to forget about my problems.

“Can I see your wedding album?” I ask.

“I know every bride likes to show off her pictures, but I can tell something is bothering you, Macie. I can always bore you with my pictures some other time.” Gwen walks over to the kitchen and grabs two bottled teas out of the refrigerator.

Now that I have come all the way over to Gwen's loft, bothered her in the middle of a Saturday, and made myself at home on her couch, I have a sudden case of shyness. Maybe I could have figured this thing out on my own.

By just looking at the facts, it is entirely possible that Avery and I do not belong together. We grew up on different rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. I had a dog, he had a pony. My family went to flea markets, his went to antique fairs.

“I guess it all starts with my fiancé's proposal,” I begin. “Well, he was my boyfriend at the time, but now we're getting married. Or not. I don't know—it's just so confusing. And I don't know what to do.”

Laughing, Gwen says, “Take it easy! Just start at the end. Or the middle. Just pick a place.”

And so I tell her all about wanting to get married, but then realizing a whole lot of things went with it—finances, moving, in-laws, Avery himself. I don't know how to share toothpaste with someone. I have no idea how to be a daughter-in-law. The worst part is, Avery seems unbothered by all of these day-to-day worries.

I tell Gwen my entire tale, up to and including today's conversation with my fiancé. Although, to tell the truth, he does not even feel like a fiancé, and that is not Avery's fault, it's mine.

“I don't have dreams anymore about our life together,” I say quietly.

Sitting still, Gwen looks out her wide windows that offer views of downtown and the hazy, late-summer day. Traffic sounds are muffled at this height.

“Why did you call me? You've mentioned your best friend, Iris. Why not her?”

“She's heard all of this before. Her advice was to figure out what I was really afraid of. I did that.”

“And?”

I throw out my hands. “Here I am!”

We both laugh, but I know I owe Gwen the truth. “Actually,” I say, “I always admired you among all our brides. You were funny, kind, and you seemed to love your husband-to-be more than a ceremony or expensive reception.”

“Thank you, Macie. That is a really big compliment.”

I place my tea on a glass coffee table. “So, if I follow Iris's advice and figure out what I am afraid of, and if one of those things is becoming a mean ol' bride, I figure a good place to start is with a bride who was different.”

Reaching for a striped pillow, Gwen says, “If you asked Jake, he would tell you I have my bad days. Several of them in a row, he would argue helpfully.”

“Avery would chime in there, too.”

“I don't know, Macie. I think Avery is getting quite a catch. The fact that you are trying so hard to really commit to him instead of just fantasizing about a wedding speaks volumes. If what you say about the brides you work with is true, then I would say you are miles above their level.”

I let this sink in. Maybe I do have my heart in the right place. Avery has not run from me—yet—and my best friend still likes me. “I am just so scared all of the time. What did you think about before you were married?”

“Mostly, how I could not wait to be married to Jake. I just wanted our life together to start. I knew the wedding planning was going to be hard, no offense, and I wanted to get through it unscathed. My mother, I'm sure you remember, was responsible for a lot of those feelings.”

I nod. “But when I think of our happily-ever-after life, I panic. In my mind, it's all about money or picking a house that suits us both or my strange mother-in-law to be. I want to dream about the future, I really do, but it just gets clouded over with all of this junk.”

Gwen stands and walks back toward the front door. She takes down from the wall a small framed picture and brings it back to me. Placing it in my hands, she says, “This was taken the day I knew I wanted to marry Jake.”

The photo shows the couple leaning jokingly over a body of water. Jake's tanned arms are wrapped around Gwen's back. She is safe; she's not going anywhere. Their faces wear expressions of mock horror at the prospect of falling into the water. I wonder where they are. Tahiti? Costa Rica?

Gwen smiles mischievously. “If you look closer, you might just recognize a famous Atlanta park.”

I peer at the small photo. “Is that Lake Clara Meer?” The small lake in Piedmont Park is a tranquil spot to read a book or enjoy a picnic lunch.

“The very one. We were sitting on the dock one afternoon, legs dangling just above the water, talking about what we wanted to do with our lives. We had been dating about a year.”

I smile, picturing the scene. I love the dock. It is wide enough for several groups of people to watch the sun setting over the city, the tall buildings behind the park a scattered palette of lighted windows. Cicadas and crickets keep up a summertime chorus to compete with deep-throated bullfrog calls.

“As we were sitting there,” Gwen says, “I thought about how we were going to get dinner and maybe dessert, and then the next day we were attending a brunch for something—I've forgotten what—but it just hit me all of a sudden that I was looking forward to all of these little events with Jake. I saw us going about our lives, together.”

I nod. I've had that feeling about Avery. It occurs to me that a happy moment does not have to end, but can keep going in spite of an unknown future. “I know what you mean, I really do, Gwen. I have had the same moments with Avery.”

Gwen takes the picture back to its place on the wall. “Then you have already answered the big questions. Is Avery the one? Can I see myself with him for the rest of my life? The rest of this stuff is all just sticks and stones that get in the way.”

“Even my fears of becoming a bad, bad bride?”

Gwen sits back down on the couch. “I think that's just a side effect of your job. I'll bet caterers worry endlessly about the food for their own weddings. Wedding gown designers kill themselves with last-minute redesigns. It's all part of the gig.”

I feel happy, almost giddy. “Did you really worry about your gown? It was beautiful.”

“Whipping stitches into it until the night before, I confess.”

Gwen and I hug good-bye. She is going to take lunch over to Jake at his studio and I do not want to keep her any longer. When I ride the elevator down to Peachtree Street, I feel as if I am leaving a heavy burden up in the sky, or at the very least, up on the eighth floor of a glass-and-metal tower in Midtown.

*   *   *

Avery has a funny thing about parking his car. If we parallel park on the street, the car has to be placed with mathematical precision between the other two vehicles. All parking signs must be clearly marked. No rusty or deformed signs can be trusted. If he has even a foggy notion that the car might be towed, we lurch the car out of the space and try again somewhere else. Valet parking is a nightmare with Avery. “Is it just me, or are they letting eighth-graders park cars these days?” he grumbles when we arrive at Tang for an early dinner.

Once we are seated on the outdoor patio, Avery bubbles over with excitement about the lessons with the boys. He and the two fathers sketched out some rough ideas about the tennis academy, including gathering community support. Avery thinks he could get Ted at Chattahoochee Chocolates to help sponsor a junior tournament right in the neighborhood.

“And with my father's connections, just think, I could raise some serious money,” Avery says, twisting his napkin in his lap. The air on the patio is heavy as the day's heat falls away.

“I am really excited for you. A lot of things are going your way lately.”

Avery looks up. His green eyes are sad. “Not everything.”

“Listen, Avery, there's something I need to know.” Brushing a fly away from the bread basket, I try to line up everything I want to say in my head.

“I can guess what you are about to say. That we're not ready for marriage. That we should take it slowly,” Avery says through tight lips. “Well, I think you're not giving us a fair chance. After all, we've made it this far, and we are happy. At least we were until I put that stupid ring on your finger.”

Self-consciously, I look down at the engagement ring. “It's not stupid, it's a beautiful ring.”

“Nothing has been the same since you put it on,” Avery says, tossing back a piece of bread.

“Okay, Mr. Romance, how about your little legal paper? Nothing's been the same since I heard about that.”

Our waitress stops by to tell us the specials in a singsongy voice. Avery asks for a few more minutes. We have not even opened our menus. My stomach growls, but probably more from nervousness than hunger.

“What are you talking about, Macie?”

“Remember I told you that I spoke with your mother? She called and asked me to come by the house.”

Avery leans forward. His eyes look into mine. “She told you about the prenuptial agreement, didn't she?”

I nod slowly. Avery reaches for my hand, but I pull it away.

Speaking quietly so the other diners cannot hear him, Avery says, “I have an insane uncle. I've told you about him. Remember Uncle Len? He's my dad's uncle, so he's more like a great uncle to me, but that's not really the point.”

Avery continues, his voice low. I have to strain to hear his words.

“Uncle Len is obsessed with the family money. There is loads to go around, but he has appointed himself sort of an unofficial guardian of the gold, so to speak. I really think the man counts his money all day long. It must be very lonely. When I was a kid, I never liked visiting him up in Virginia.”

“What does Uncle Len have to do with your mother and me?” I am getting angry and the heat is making me cranky.

“I'm getting to that. About three months ago, Uncle Len showed up at the house for a dinner party or something. I made the mistake of telling him I was getting serious with a girl and that I was thinking about making it official.”