Toss the Bride (7 page)

Rolling my eyes, I pat her icing-caked hand. “Just a baker. Yeah, that's why you were on the cover of
Atlanta Bride
last summer. And why there's a six-month waiting list for your Christmas pies, and people fly your cakes in their own private jets to Bora Bora.”

“That only happened once, and it was to Hilton Head Island, not Bora Bora. You're stretching things. Just a bit.”

I glance around the studio. Iris's pans stand neatly stacked on stainless-steel racks. Her huge sacks of flour wait in plastic bins near the white and brown sugar. Black-and-white photographs of her wedding cakes hang on the plaster walls in black metal frames. I like this space. She has it all together. I know that I do not.

“So, speaking of weddings, when am I going to bake for you?”

This is Iris's favorite question. She teases me because she knows Avery is no closer to walking down the aisle today than he was six months ago. I get tired of explaining my boyfriend to my family—which is safely in Cutter and, thankfully, not in town to harass me—and to friends like Iris. About the only person who doesn't hassle me is Maurice. He has enough brides on his hands, I figure.

Just the other day, I found a brochure for a pricey Italian resort in Avery's car. I picked it up and read about the sandy beaches and lagoonlike pool and all of the spa treatments. I put down the brochure and got very quiet. Avery will probably go there with his parents or by himself—he likes to travel alone (which I think is strange)—and I just decided to have a pout about it. It might sound a little weird, but lately, as I get closer and closer to wanting to marry Avery, I imagine us traveling together. And when I do, it's as a married couple. Jetting off in our current boyfriend/girlfriend status holds little attraction for me. I want things to be permanent with Avery. It's daring but I'll say it: I want to be his
wife
.

But when I get right down to it, I'm not even his fiancée. We don't plan vacations together. Plus, the trip would have to be on his tab because wedding director's assistants can't afford lagoon pools. So, with all that said, I guess I just wanted Avery to gush, “Macie, guess what? I found this great resort and I want you to come with me. We'll get married by the sea and honeymoon to the sounds of the ocean. Where's your wedding dress?” Harrumph, I groan to myself. That will be the day.

“What are you thinking?” Iris asks. She is the nicest friend I've ever had, and I know I am lucky to have her. In high school, I never really ran with a gaggle of girlfriends because I was always clutch-ing a boyfriend. It's nice to be more grown-up and have a woman friend with whom I can talk about issues bigger than lip gloss and good brands of hair product. I met Iris at a wedding, right after I started with Maurice. I had to go to a country club outside of the Perimeter—that's the highway loop around Atlanta—and I was lost. I was driving on a traffic-choked side street and starting to panic when Iris's van cut in front of me. I was steamed at first. There I was, lost, and edgy because I wanted to make a good impression on Maurice, when this big, white van marked “Cake Cake” cut me off. Driving poorly in Atlanta is a public art, and I was turning that over in my head when it hit me: Cake Cake. That was the wedding-cake baker for the wedding I was trying to find. I figured the odds were good that the van was going to the reception site, so I followed it through fourteen yellow lights and in no time was at the door of the country club, exactly one minute early. Iris drives like a maniac, but I didn't tell her that when I met her.

The sunlight in Iris's studio, combined with the smell of cake, is making me sleepy. I try to give her the “I don't want to talk about Avery” look, but that doesn't deter Iris. Nothing does. When she was applying for a business loan for Cake Cake, the bank turned her down. Not at all ruffled, Iris returned to the bank the next morning, dressed in a cute purple suit, and passed out cake to all of the employees and bank customers waiting in the lobby. A few minutes later, a vice president invited Iris back to her office and Cake Cake was officially launched.

“Don't give me that look. I'm just concerned about you,” Iris says, and I know she is. Her brown eyes are kind, and I soften just a bit. Maybe I can tell Iris about my Avery concerns. I just don't know if they will make sense. I've joked about Avery with Iris, but I probably have not been too honest. It's hard to talk about the things in life that aren't going exactly the way a person would like them to go. She is my best friend, though, so I give it a try.

“You know how Avery is kind of sweetly drifting through life?”

Iris nods in a noncommittal manner. I think she is warily agreeing.

“Well, I feel like I've been caught up in that. Like a tidal pool and, oh, I don't know, the moon or something.”

“That's a lame nature simile,” Iris says with a smile.

“You're not helping.”

“Sure I am. I like Avery, even though he lacks a certain sense of direction. Well, you can thank that boozy mother of his.” Iris will never forget the Lelands' first Christmas party she attended. Mrs. Leland was a bit soused and started reciting poetry no one had ever heard. Avery was mortified, of course. She's usually sort of dippy, but that was extreme.

“Iris, it's not his mother. Well, it could be. She is kind of bizarre.” I pause for a moment. “Avery is so nice and funny and loyal—all qualities that I love about him—but he's never really had to think about the future. No one ever really pushed Avery to do something or be anything.”

“How so?” Iris says and rubs her face. She still has a lot of work to do today. I should wrap this up.

“Okay, name three jobs you had by age eighteen,” I say.

Without missing a beat, Iris ticks off landscaper, waitress, and stationery-store clerk. “So?”

“I was a baby-sitter, worked in a ham store, and I did a stint as a knife seller. That didn't last.”

Iris says, “And your point?”

“My point is, you and I were asked to do something, be something. Whether we wanted spending money or more freedom, whatever—we went out and got jobs. My mother waited in the car when I walked into the ham store right before Thanksgiving to apply for the job. I told the manager, ‘I'm honest and I will work hard for Holiday Hams.'”

“You really said that?”

“Back off.” I laugh. “They paid one whole dollar more than the other part-time holiday jobs in town, and I got a free ham for my Christmas bonus. My mother was thrilled.

“Anyway,” I go on, rushing my words a bit, “Avery never had that experience. If he wanted something, he had an allowance. When it came time for him to drive, a butler or some type of servant taught him how, and then his father bought him a brand-new car.”

“My first car had a rust hole in the floorboard, but it was great,” Iris says.

“Exactly. Avery wasn't asked to do anything or be anything. No wonder he has no plans. And that includes me.” I cross my arms and shut my mouth. I've probably said enough.

“Macie, do you love Avery? I mean, really, really love him?”

I turn the question over in my head. I do love him, like I've loved no one else. And I like him, too. I like the way he adores gum-ball machines and always carries an extra quarter or two for a sour-apple surprise or a tropical blast. I like going to restaurants with him because no matter what I get, he will have to try it and declare it tastier than what he ordered. I like his eyes and the way they laugh when I say something that is only kind of funny.

“Yes, I do,” I say. It's more of a sigh.

“Well, then, I think it's time for Avery to decide what he wants. He needs to be a man, make some decisions, and plan for your future. You would do that for him, so he needs to do that for you—if he loves you as much as you love him.”

Exhaling, I give Iris a tight smile. I want to be mad and try to explain Avery to her in another way, but she is right. Avery needs to make some decisions. I have made mine, deep inside, to this man who makes me laugh and smile. I want him to propose. I guess I could do the asking—plop down on one knee and offer to spend the rest of my life with him, but I don't want it that way. I want Avery to want me, and for it to be real and serious and perfectly right.

Iris stands and stretches. She has a big pink cake to get out the door. I give her a hug, say good-bye, and make my way home.

*   *   *

Gwendolyn's wedding is set for 10:00
A.M.
Saturday. While I adore morning weddings in theory, because of the freshness of the hour and the whole garden-party theme that brides go for these days, it's a beastly thing to get together. For Gwendolyn's wedding, I had to wake up at four in the morning. I have been at the church for what seems like ages. Gwendolyn has been with me, too. I like her a lot. I would make a fervent wish that all brides were like Gwen—easygoing, funny, and real—but I know it's not going to happen.

We're in the bride's room arranging little pots of beaded flowers that Gwen made herself. She created several eye-catching items for the reception, such as the large scarf that will be draped around the pink cake. She also made the party favors each guest will take home: delicate little pillows filled with lavender. When I asked her if she dried the lavender herself, Gwen just smiled. I think that means she did. I guess these things come naturally to a fashion designer.

Gwen's dress hangs on the big hook in the bride's room. Even with the opaque garment bag covering it, the bright pink of the satin comes through like a low-wattage lightbulb. She was going to change into a kimono for the reception, but I think Gwen's grouchy mother absolutely refused even to consider it. I imagine it would be a pretty nice kimono, since I love Gwen's clothes. She wears cute skirts with bits of lace sewn on the edges and embroidered sweaters with touches of ribbon. All of the things she wears—sometimes paired with a floppy hat or chandelier earrings—are funky and feminine.

Maurice sticks his head in the room, not bothering to knock. It's so early that he knows no one will be changing clothes. In fact, the three of us are the only ones here so far. The church janitor let us in and then relocked the front doors. We're in a Midtown Lutheran church just blocks from the famous Fox Theatre, a restored 1920s movie palace. When the wedding is over, the guests will walk down the street to the Fox for the reception in a ballroom that has a huge Tiffany glass skylight. I'm looking forward to this one. I've already been down to the ballroom this morning to make sure the caterers did their thing. Two hundred white chairs are ringed around white tables decorated with pink tablecloths and set with antique china. The entire room looks lovely.

“Macie, can you come with me?”

I give Gwendolyn a smile and move quickly to the door. Following Maurice down the hall, I wonder what has gone wrong. I can tell he is perturbed about something. Usually when I'm with a bride, he leaves us alone. But this is different.

He leads me toward the sanctuary. We step from the hallway through the red wooden doors, and I gasp. I cannot believe what I am seeing. “No, no, this isn't right!” I wail.

The neo-Gothic interior of the church has been transformed. Ivy and white roses—the most traditional wedding flower combo ever—are pinned to the end of each pew. Big white looping ribbons top the staid flowers, and brass candlesticks encased in glass globes top the pews. Brass candelabrum loom from every perch near the front of the church. Ferns sit in white wicker baskets on the steps up to the altar. It is perfectly, numbingly, just like every other wedding I've helped arrange.

I am having trouble breathing. The church is decorated in every way the opposite of what Gwendolyn had ordered. In fact, this is the exact nightmare of what Gwen—my funniest, most creative, and favorite bride ever—did not want at her wedding. All over Atlanta today, brides will walk into churches and rented halls just like this one. They will love it. Gwendolyn will not.

“Where are the tropical flowers? You know, those imported hothouse blooms with the sticky thingies?” My words are coming fast. I'm not making much sense. “And the sari scarves for the ends of the aisle? The light pink candles on silver sticks?” I look at Maurice, but he seems to think I know the answer. “And who in the world put these ferns in here? There's no room for the wedding party to stand near the altar!” I forget my usual whisper-in-church voice, and my words bounce off of the stone walls. I stalk up and down the smooth, polished center aisle.

“Macie, I have no idea of what happened here. While you were with Gwendolyn, I was minding the caterers over at the Fox. At least that room looks correct. But this, this is going to push Gwendolyn over the edge.”

I stand, mouth open and heart racing. I simply do not know what to do. Gwendolyn's offbeat sense of style was going to make her day unique. That's what every bride seems to want, but few follow through with it. They say they want it to be different, but in reality they desire ferns and rented candelabrum and the fancy caterer who was written up in
Atlanta Magazine
last month. I know they will pick the same readings, hymns, and Bach tunes as the bride before them.

I've often thought that someone should open a wedding consulting business called Textbook Weddings. Brides would have a limit of three alterations to the preset schedule. Straight out of the box, each wedding would be the same. How perfect! This sanctuary would be the perfect one for Plan C—A Classy Wedding. I get chill bumps up and down my arms and look over at Maurice.

“I simply don't know what happened,” he is saying, more to himself than me.

“I confirmed everything with Stella's Blooms last week. They even told me how the tropicals were coming in on their own plane.” Gwen may be different and unique, but she is still wealthy.

“What are we going to do, Maurice?” I say, glad that he's the boss, not me.