Toss the Bride (4 page)

The cute guy kept watching me. It did not make me nervous, because he had a friendly, as opposed to a creepy hide-'em-under-the-stairs, type of look. I figured it couldn't be me he was checking out. After all, my faded red T-shirt and old hiking shorts were not the highest in Atlanta fashion. I decided to give him a smile the next time I emerged outside to grab another box.

I was heading down the uneven stairs back to the truck when I looked through the glass front door. Next on the list was bringing up my computer, a gift from my aunt who always hoped I would head to community college. That's when I saw the cute guy pulling the computer box out of the truck as he balanced a bit dangerously on the edge of the tailgate. I stared for a second, too angry too move. This was my welcome to Atlanta? A handsome guy stealing my stuff? A yell started somewhere in my throat, and I pushed through the glass door and ran across the front porch. I leapt the front stairs in one bound, heading for the back of the truck. Dry pine needles crunched underfoot.

“Hey! Get out of my truck!” I stood at the end of the tailgate, looking up into the U-Haul. My voice, never very forceful in most situations, sounded pretty wimpy.

The guy glanced up, startled, and looked into my eyes without blinking. He held the monitor box in both hands, and that's when I realized he was not alone. A grizzled man with a gray beard and hair wrapped in a bandana crouched inside the truck, trying to pull the box loose. I looked at both of them, confused.

The two men struggled harder, each pulling and pushing on the monitor box. After one aggressive shove, the cute guy nearly fell off of the tailgate. The other man grunted, then made a low growling noise.

“Let go. It's mine,” the man cried, breathing hard. A stain of sweat soaked the bandana on his forehead and he bared his teeth. “I saw it first.”

“This isn't yours,” the cute guy said.

Things were starting to make sense. I smelled the sweat and dirt of the man, who I assumed was homeless. I immediately felt stupid for leaving the truck open and unlocked. This isn't Cutter, I chided myself.

“Look, give the police a call, miss. I'm sure they will see our side of things,” the cute guy said, addressing me for the first time. I noticed his face was tanned and lined just enough to let me know we were about the same age. I also noticed he had really nice manners for a man wrestling with a computer and a homeless guy.

“The cops?” I said. Where was I going to find a phone? I didn't even have electricity in the apartment yet. A few cars drove by on the street, a few feet from my truck, but none seemed to notice that we needed help.

“Yeah,” the guy said, grunting a bit this time as the would-be thief tried again to push him off of the truck's tailgate. “Use your cell.”

“Um, yeah, my cell,” I said, patting my pockets as if I weren't sure where my nonexistent cell phone could possibly be at this moment.

The guy was quick, because he picked up on my confusion. “Here, take mine.” He reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out a silver phone with one hand, while keeping a grip on the computer box with the other hand. Then he tossed the phone to me. I was impressed. “I'm Avery, by the way,” he said.

I was feeling really weird but happy to have someone sharing my moving-day disaster. Since he was looking in my direction, I tried to give Avery a smile. I hoped he wasn't too disgusted by my independent-girl sweat. “Hi. My name is Macie.”

“Ah, dial 911,” Avery said. Back to reality. There was a crime in progress here.

I tapped some buttons, too nervous to see if I was dialing correctly. That, apparently, was enough for the homeless man, because he let go of the box and hopped off the tailgate and ran down the street. When he got to the corner of Virginia Avenue, he yelled back at us, “I saw it first!”

Avery laughed and set the box down on the wooden floor of the truck. I wiped the sweat off his phone and handed it back to him.

“You know, I was watching your truck all morning. I could tell you'd left it open,” he said.

“Apparently not a wise move.”

“Not in this neighborhood.” Avery nodded.

“Guess I stick out just a bit?” I suddenly felt self-conscious in my wilted summer outfit. Avery, in comparison, looked like spring in a pressed cotton shirt, crisp pants, and leather sandals.

“Nah,” he replied. “You're just a trusting soul. Not much is wrong with that, unless you like giving away nineteen-inch monitors.”

I laughed a real laugh, the first of my big-city life. And, just like that, Avery Leland galloped into my life. He spent the rest of the day helping me move in, carrying all the heavy things. He sent out for sandwiches and fruit juice; he even returned the moving van so I wouldn't have to drive it downtown. When my phone was hooked up two days later, the first call I received was from Avery.

It has now been two years. I'm still nuts over him, and he says he feels the same way about me. I'm not the girl who pulled up in a rental truck, too naïve to know to lock it against thieves. I have changed a lot. I am now thinking about the future, a husband, the rest of my life. The question—the question I ask myself daily—is, Is Avery changing, too?

*   *   *

The morning after our walk in Piedmont Park finds me at the cathedral. Right away, I know Darby is going to be unhappy. In the intervening months since her first wedding, the cathedral has taken on an ambitious construction project. The front lawn is torn to pieces, and construction fencing surrounds the property. The lawn pictures of Darby and Trey will not be restaged—not unless they like Georgia clay and construction orange.

Inside the church, I try to be friendly to the wedding director. She works for the cathedral, and I've heard she is upset that we'll be using the house of worship for such a vain reason. I can't blame her. Darby's father probably pulled some strings, maybe donated an orphanage or something. Whatever the reason, here we are.

“Bridal people, bridal people,” Maurice says, running into the bride's dressing room. He stops short and shakes his head. It's just me and the wedding director in front of him. Maurice is all out of sorts. He's used to a room full of people listening to his instructions. The other people in the wedding party won't be here today. Darby at least had the tact not to invite them to the restaging.

When the bride enters the dressing room forty-five minutes late, I feel as if I have been thrown back in time. Darby's hair, makeup, dress, and flowers are as I remember them from March. And her hair is a perfect shade of blond with no pesky dark roots showing. For the record, I think she would look better as a brunette, but she's not asking me.

I am pretty sure that Maurice is making a nice bundle off this day. His services were long since paid for when Darby called him, crying, a few weeks ago. We'd had a bride cancel when she found out her fiancé was visiting strip clubs twice a day—for lunch and dinner—so Maurice made room in his calendar for the restaging. I am earning time and a half, something that makes Darby's demands just a little bit more bearable.

“Gracie, come get my veil. It's very heavy, so don't drop it.”

“It's Macie, Darby.” Maurice looks at her disapprovingly. He can do that.

Darby shakes her perfectly stiffened curls—“Macie, sorry”—and runs over to check her appearance in the gold-framed mirror. I hang up the hand-beaded veil, which probably took two months off the life of some poor Italian woman, and settle in to wait. The photographer and groom are missing, but that's not my problem.

“So, how's married life?” I ask for my own amusement.

Not turning around, Darby says, “Well, it's been a blast, really. We go out to our property almost every weekend. Trey likes to hunt. And I throw these rustic dinners down there. He thinks I'm just the best cook.”

I picture Darby in an immaculate kitchen, ordering servants around while Trey drags in a still-warm beast. It's a far cry from the celebrity restaurants Darby used to frequent.

“That sounds nice,” I say. “The country must be very relaxing.”

“Are you from there?” Darby says, dabbing at her lipstick. I've noticed she keeps eyeing her cell phone on the ottoman.

“What?”

“The country? Are your people down there?”

I do one of my inward, nondetectable sighs that I've learned to perfect. Because I work for a living, some brides think I must have scratched my way out of a chicken coop, kissed my brother-husband good-bye, and made my way to the Big City.

“Yeah,” I say with a bit of a twang. “We're from the country.”

“I thought so,” Darby says, and throws her used tissue onto the floor.

Maurice wanders by at about the same time and gives me a puzzled look. I know this means the photographer is here, but not the groom. I nod to him and turn my attention back to Darby. “So, is Trey on his way?”

“He's stuck in traffic.”

This is a good Atlanta excuse. Traffic is a way of life here. But it's a Saturday, the Braves aren't playing in town, and there's not a cloud in the sky to slow travel. I get an uneasy feeling and excuse myself.

I find Maurice in the narthex of the cathedral. “I don't think the groom's going to show,” I say gravely. Being inside churches always makes me lower my voice.

“Me, either. He hasn't returned my phone calls all week. He probably doesn't want to see her. Or do this ridiculous restaging. Well, we have about one hour to get him here or the church people are going to toss
us.
”

We start with the cell numbers. Those prove useless, so I call the house where we think Trey is staying. A woman with an accent answers and I tell her who I am and what I want. I can tell the woman—probably the housekeeper, because she calls him “Mr. Trey”—is covering for him, so I try to keep her on the phone. I confide that it's my job to strongly encourage the appearance of Darby's husband. Taking a chance, I even infer that if Mr. Trey would just make an appearance, maybe he could talk Mrs. Darby out of this asinine display of wealth and vanity and—

There's silence on the other end of the phone. I hear rustling.

“Macie, it's Trey.” His booming voice comes over the phone with a note of sadness or frustration; I'm not sure which.

“Hey, Trey. Sorry to bother you. It's just that I have this little problem.”

On the other end of the line, Trey inhales sharply. A dog barks, and I hear him shush it. “Let me guess, your problem is about five feet tall and wearing a wedding dress.”

“Oh, she's no trouble, Trey. Really.” The lie is so bad, I wince. Maurice has appeared at my elbow, straightening his tie and smoothing back his hair. He gives me a threatening look but I don't take it personally.

“Look, Macie. You don't have to fake it. I know what my wife is like. That's why I'm not down there. She's just got to have everything her way. I mean, have you ever had to restage anyone's wedding?”

I admit that this is a first for me. A popping sound comes over the line. I think Trey has just opened a beer. I try another tack. “I don't suppose that you would come down here and let us have the pleasure of your company one more time, would you?”

To my relief, Trey laughs. “No, there's no chance, Macie. I liked you and Maurice all right, but that was probably the worst day of my life. Well, actually, the worst day came later.” He pauses, takes a sip. “But the wedding was pretty horrible. Do you remember the Rhett Butler impersonator at the reception? I wanted to hit him. I still can't believe Darby hired those people.”

I decide not to bring up the actress dressed as Scarlett O'Hara who tried to dirty dance with all of the married men. Lowering my voice, I go for the honest approach. “Trey, I think if you don't show up, Darby will just camp out here and wait for you. She seems very determined.”

“That's my girl,” he says with a nice flourish of bitterness. “I'm going hunting. Sorry, Macie.” He clicks off.

I hold the silent phone in my hand. I've given it my best shot and now Maurice is pacing the room, nodding, chin in his hand. I know that he doesn't give a fig about Darby, but he does care about her rich and connected friends. We can only hope that Darby will be so mortified she won't tell this story at parties.

“So, that's it? Trey is history?” Maurice pats the front of his jacket and sighs heavily. Too late, we hear a rustling in the hallway outside the narthex. Then a door opens and closes. We see a flash of white.

“Darby!” Maurice bellows and then gives chase. I am a little in shock. I didn't know Maurice could run. He's always so in control. I decide to get in on the action and push through the double doors in the front of the church.

Outside the cathedral, I catch sight of a woman swathed in white, veil flying out behind her, running with her dress bunched up in her hands. Maurice is just steps behind, his bow tie jiggling. His handmade leather loafers don't look like a good match for the grassy lawn that slopes down to Peachtree Street. I start running when I see what lies ahead.

Darby is headed for the road.

I realize then that Maurice and I aren't dealing with a vain bride or a spoiled bride; we are dealing with a deranged bride. And she's going to cartwheel into traffic because her new husband likes dogs and hunting more than he likes her.

I'm hopelessly behind the chase, but I try. The grass bends under my hasty feet. From the corner of my eye, the construction fencing that borders the long lawn is just a streak of orange plastic. To my right, a few people on the sidewalk have stopped to watch the running bride. I play tennis with Avery, so I try to summon the muscles in my legs that let me return a wicked crosscourt shot.

Maurice isn't doing too badly. As they close in on the sidewalk spanning Peachtree, he dives for Darby and misses. Her bouncing veil bobs mere inches from his fingers. The road is just steps ahead, and that's when I close my eyes. I can't believe I'm about to see a bride get hit in traffic.