Toss the Bride Read online

  “He just don’t want to,” the stable hand says mournfully. A small man, he stands beside the horse, one hand on the lead rope.

  “What, exactly, does that mean?” Maurice asks with the politest gloss of rage. The sound of strings soars over the boxwood. The musicians have started the prelude without the signal from Maurice. I watch his fingers clench and release.

  “Maurice, go on. I’ll take care of this.” I motion for him to leave. The bow swings wildly. To my relief and shock, Maurice walks away. But not before he gives the sleeping Rhubarb a nasty look.

  I eye the stable hand and decide to take a gentle approach. “How long have you been with Rhubarb?”

  “It’s been about four years,” he says, relaxing his grip on the lead rope. “Ever since Miss High and Mighty went to college.”

  “He’s a thoroughbred, isn’t he?”

  Rubbing his lined face, the stable hand nods. “That’s right. His racing name was Cherries Jubilee. He retired at five. Won a stakes race at Pimlico.”

  I take a step closer and put a light hand on Rhubarb’s white neck. The warm skin twitches under my fingers, but the horse doesn’t move. Over the hedge, the strings segue into another piece. They sound slightly sour and slow. It’s hard to keep stringed instruments tuned in this humidity.

  “You know, we’ll all be in a lot of trouble if we don’t get this horse down that aisle,” I tell the stable hand.

  He nods and gives Rhubarb’s rump a playful slap. The horse’s brown eyes open and look around. They size me up, childish white dress and all. “You ready, Rhubarb?” The stable hand gives the horse a knowing look, and I realize they are two of the few genuine creatures in this sprawling garden.

  Rhubarb then does something that makes me think I am correct. He winks at me. He really does. I know it sounds crazy, but I was there. I follow the horse and the stable hand back through the maze.

  “You know, it wouldn’t be so bad if she would just visit him once in a while. He misses her. I think he was her fourteenth birthday present. These horses have a long memory, you know.” The stable hand stops talking, lost in thought.

  I watch the horse, his head dipping up and down as he walks, feet sinking into the loamy path. I wish I had a horse like this, waiting for me behind a stall door. Must be nice to be missed by such a beautiful animal. The stable hand reaches up briefly to pat Rhubarb’s neck.

  I move to take the lead rope. Rhubarb’s eyes widen as Francie appears from behind the hedge. She waddles to his side, her dress billowing out behind her like a melting wedding cake. The horse takes an uneasy step forward. His caretaker, with the help of a handy stepladder, hoists Francie up and into the saddle. Rhubarb shifts uneasily, but I would, too, if layers and layers of crinoline, silk, and beading were poured over my back. The music turns serious, the guests stand, and I know it’s our turn now.

  “Take me up there,” Francie screams. Her voice sails out over the last two rows. A few black-dress-wearing women give Francie polite, frozen smiles. I pull on Rhubarb’s halter. It’s crafted of smooth leather and topped by a brass nameplate. We start down the grass aisle. Behind me, I can feel Francie pitch and sway. The fabric of her dress spills onto my arm. Some of the netting is nudging my big, fat bow. I feel it tug at my breast.

  I think about Francie up there and wonder if she feels any sense of joy. I wouldn’t know it to look at her. Not at all. When I mull over the Francies of the world, I ask myself the question, What is her fiancé’s name? What I mean by that is most of the women we work with are obsessed solely with the perfect wedding. They want foreign chocolates, humongous diamonds, honeymoons in paradise. Running me ragged, and Maurice insane, these brides hawk over every detail until I dream about them way past their wedding dates.

  But I never know the fiancé’s name. Of course, we know it. It’s in a file somewhere. Peyton or Drayton or Tad somebody. He (or his father) has a lot of money. The bride (or her father) has a lot of money. But when she talks about the day, the bride tells me about how wonderful it will be, who will be in the audience, why her dress is the best one ever made. The man who stands at the end of the runner is nowhere to be found. Unless she is joking about how inept he is with wedding planning, the bride doesn’t bother to talk about her intended.

  Avery wonders why this bothers me so much. He tells me not to worry about people who are vapid or petty or mean. I know he’s right, but deep down, I wonder if he is on their side. He just might be.

  For most of our two years together, I have been happy to be Avery’s girlfriend. We play tennis, grill steaks and fish, take walks, and generally amuse ourselves with the numerous trappings of a big city like Atlanta. There is always a festival, a free movie on the park green, or a new restaurant opening. I have never, ever been bored with Avery even though he comes from a family that is totally different from mine.

  Mr. and Mrs. Leland (I haven’t yet brought myself to call them Jack and Babs) are quite a pair. They live in the type of house that makes you slow the car down to get a better look. She has glossy black hair cut into a little bob that seems hip and timeless at the same time. Fond of manicures, pedicures, and facials, Mrs. Leland is always telling me over cocktails about the latest new spa with hot gravel treatments and bouncing stone massage. Mr. Leland is friendlier. He grills for us, talks about the stock market, and maintains an intimidating collection of periodicals. As a result, Avery’s father is incredibly well versed on every current event. You name it—hurricanes, Middle East politics, poverty statistics—Mr. Leland knows something about it.

  I like sitting on the Lelands’ veranda, sipping a drink and glancing over at Avery while his father talks about the new critical biography of Shakespeare or an award-winning German documentary. It is a life unlike anything I have ever known, but I have learned to adjust. Sometimes, on nights with Avery’s parents, I watch my boyfriend. Lately, as I have begun to think more about the future, I have noticed something about Avery. I think he’s just waiting. On something.

  He’s certainly not waiting for a wedding. But Francie is, so I keep the horse moving. The standing guests smile grim little smiles to Francie and Rhubarb as we walk past. I imagine there is a groundswell of sympathy for my poor dress. Maybe not. As we approach the end of the grassy aisle, Rhubarb stops abruptly. I urge him on as he swings his gentle horse face toward me. I feel a shiver go through the wiggling mound of fabric draped over my right shoulder. I cannot imagine how Francie is going to dismount gracefully. I hear her give a little cry. I stop tugging on the lead rope. Rhubarb is not going anywhere. Before I can think to move, the horse’s big teeth protrude from his mouth, and he takes a huge chomp out of the front of my dress. I stumble backward, caught in yards of white fabric. I can’t get away. But as I struggle, I realize Rhubarb has liberated me from the blasted white bow on my dress. A guest to my left gasps.

  Glancing up and back, I see that Francie is many things: wilted, furious, embarrassed. Rhubarb tosses the bow around his gums, his long pink tongue assisting him with pleasure. Finally, the horse spits the soggy piece of fabric onto the immaculate grass beneath his feet. I seize the moment to lead him up to the waiting minister and groom. Somehow, they get Francie off of the horse and I pull Rhubarb away and back to his handler. The ceremony goes on.

  Rhubarb doesn’t wink at me again, but I could swear that as I lead him away from the crowd, he laughs like only a horse can. I pat his strong, white shoulder, and we make our way back through the boxwood hedge. Bride tossing is not always clean and pretty, but it’s what I do.

  2

  The Restless Bride

  Avery takes a shiny silver fork and reaches over to my plate, tines hovering, ready to pounce. I give my plate the once-over to see what he wants. It must be the tuna. Actually, Avery’s father called the fish something else, but to me, it’s pretty much tuna.

  “Are you gonna eat that?” Avery asks as his fork descends. He swoops in without waiting for an answer because he knows what I will say. Mr. Leland always pi
les way too much food on my plate. It’s Friday and dinner is almost finished; we are relaxing on one of the verandas on the back of Avery’s parents’ house. Avery lives there, too, in a three-room suite on the first floor.

  “You like that, Macie?” Mr. Leland asks and pours more white wine into his wife’s glass. Mrs. Leland hums a little tune under her breath and then eyes the driveway. She is waiting for her masseuse or manicurist or some other attendant. So far, in my time with the Lelands, I have figured out that Mrs. Leland is rarely without a pampering appointment. She also asks what time it is frequently. Avery told me a long time ago that she refuses to wear a watch. She genuinely seems to be grateful when you answer her. She asks, “Do you have the time?” in a small little-girl voice, and then when you produce the hour and minutes of any given day, she acts delighted, even overjoyed.

  I nod to my now-empty plate and tell Mr. Leland that I enjoyed the fish.

  “There’s a secret to grilling the perfect fish,” he says mysteriously.

  Avery and I wait, expecting more. Mr. Leland returns to his grill. It’s a shiny stainless-steel number built into a little alcove on the veranda. To the side is a wood-fired brick pizza oven. A French door leads to the real kitchen inside.

  “Avery,” Mr. Leland says, “remember that chef we had out to the house when you were, oh, I don’t know—how old were you?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific, Dad,” Avery says, a smile on his face.

  “The guy who liked fish with every meal? Chef Pack-asomething.”

  “Packanac. He was written up in all the foodie magazines,” Avery says. “He taught Dad how to grill and sauté every type of fish. But if he didn’t like the way something turned out, he’d toss it into the bushes. Plop! Over the edge of the veranda.”

  “We were picking rotten fish out of the azaleas for weeks,” Mr. Leland says. “You were just in high school, right?”

  “Dad! I had already graduated from college when he was here.”

  “Ah, well, it seems like you’re still our little boy, Avery,” his mother says idly.

  A welcome breeze moves across the veranda. I tap my toes on the wooden planks under my feet. I’m restless tonight.

  Sensing my mood, Avery puts down his napkin and smiles at me. Right then, I love him in one of those perfect moments you have when you’re really lucky. His green eyes are kind and his hair lifts up a bit in the late-afternoon breeze. I think: I want to be with this man. But Avery does not talk about this kind of thing. Tennis, fish, even architecture, Avery will gab about all night long. But get him to discuss the future? Of us? Forget it.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Avery says. “Want to walk in the park?”

  We love Piedmont Park. It’s Atlanta’s version of Central Park. Tall office buildings, condos, and hotels surround the playing fields and trails. It’s hard to believe I live here sometimes. In my hometown of Cutter, Georgia, a five-story office building is a big deal.

  We zip down to the park in Avery’s convertible. From his neighborhood in Buckhead, it takes about fifteen minutes. We park on a side street and enter the park through one of the stone gates off of Piedmont Avenue. Since it’s summer, it’s still light out. Too late, I realize I should have sprayed on mosquito repellent. It’s getting on toward dusk, and my arms and legs will become a feeding ground. Avery’s wearing pants, so he’s less likely to be bothered.

  “Dog park?” he asks me, and I nod. We turn toward the old bridge.

  Piedmont Park has an off-leash area for dogs and their owners. I love to walk in through the double gates and watch all the dogs play with one another and with their humans. Poor Avery has stood in there with me for hours. I seriously want a dog, but I figure there’s no point in getting one until I’m married. I want to pick one out with my husband. Avery has never owned a dog. I find this to be a serious flaw. I grew up with them, like they were furry brothers and sisters. In fact, the last two years are the longest I’ve ever gone without a dog in my life.

  As we walk, I play a little game and count the number of weddings Maurice and I have had in the park. There, over by that fountain near the gazebo was a nice small one. I like those. Small-wedding brides usually have a sense of decency. There are no celebrity singers or hand-embroidered cocktail napkins. The outside brides are, on the whole, a little more reasonable. Sure, they have money, but they want to put it toward their honeymoon climbing in the Alps or camel-trekking in Africa. I’ve never climbed a mountain in another country or ridden a camel, but it sounds like a nice way to spend the first few weeks with your husband.

  Avery is always traveling somewhere. He doesn’t exactly work, per se, but he does explore. I’ve never asked to go with him—not even once—although I used to think I would be thrilled if he offered. But lately, I have begun to consider our future. Traveling together to foreign lands is starting to seem like something I would rather do as his wife, not just his fun, happy-go-lucky girlfriend.

  I guess I’m also touchy about traveling with Avery because I know that he would have to foot the bill for everything, right down to the cab racing down the Champs-D’Élysées or the gondola ride on a canal in Venice. In some ways, I do feel like I travel to exotic places with my boyfriend. He takes pictures of himself next to volcanoes and marble statues and sends them home to me. He buys gifts of coral necklaces and leather boots from faraway markets and then tells funny stories about shopkeepers when he returns.

  At about the time I’m bored of counting wedding sites in the park—I’m up to twenty-two—Avery and I pass under the old stone bridge and arrive at the dog park. Inside, I spot my favorite breed and migrate toward them. There’s something I love about a German shepherd. The regal head, the loyal brown eyes—it’s the perfect dog for me. Alongside the chain-link fence that surrounds the dog park, three German shepherds romp with one another. Their big paws turn over the wood chips, making little clouds of dust pop up here and there. I sit down on a rock to watch. Avery stands beside me and plays with my hair.

  “So, I guess you have another one tomorrow?” Avery asks, even though he knows that Saturday is my big workday. We’re only together tonight because there’s no rehearsal dinner for Darby’s wedding tomorrow.

  “You got it. It’s the restaging.”

  “Ah,” Avery says, nodding. He knows about this one.

  Darby was one of our biggest clients. Her father owns a ton of radio and television stations up and down the East Coast. Darby is a puffy-haired blonde who works as a news anchor in Atlanta. Her remarkable talent for mispronouncing the names of famous people and major capitals of the world has brought her some fame and even a few fans. When it came time for her to marry, she chose Maurice before she chose the groom.

  Darby’s wedding was actually three months ago. Big affair—splashy ceremony in a huge cathedral off of Peachtree Street, even bigger reception at an exclusive Midtown club. Guests took home baby magnolia trees as favors. Horse-drawn carriages brought the entire wedding party to the reception—not an easy thing to do on Atlanta’s overburdened city streets. I worked for months on this wedding. When I say we tossed her, I mean we tossed her. Maurice took a week’s vacation after that one. He even turned off his cell phone.

  I pet a shepherd who trots over to me, pink tongue practically dragging on the ground. “You’re playing hard, aren’t you, boy?” I rub his big, friendly head. Dogs tend to establish cliquish play groups at the park. The bigger dogs run with one another, while the little guys, like Jack Russell terriers and poodles, form a protective club near the front gate. Occasionally, a dopey boxer will try to crash the small dogs’ party. When that happens, one of the small fries sends the bigger dog running off with a whimper. Those small dogs are a tough lot.

  “So, what time’s the restaging?” Avery asks, rubbing another shepherd who has jealously arrived on the scene. Their owner, a middle-aged woman, smiles at us from a few feet away.

  “I have to be at the church at 10:00 A.M. That’s the earliest they would le
t us do it. And we have to be out by one because a real wedding’s coming in.”

  When Darby’s wedding pictures came back from the New York photographer (who had been flown down to Atlanta on Darby’s father’s jet and was put up in a rented private home for the wedding week), I was told she almost hyperventilated. Apparently, the tall photographer got a few too many shots of the much shorter Darby’s dark roots cresting out of her blond curls. “He was looking down on me!” she wailed to Maurice. She compared her stripe of dark roots to a skunk or a zebra. Now, according to my unscientific count, about every second woman in Atlanta dyes her hair some color of blond. It’s a southern thing, which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s tasteful. Most women let their roots show way too long before they trot into the salon for a touch-up. One would think Darby would have taken care of a little detail like this prior to the wedding.

  Other minor picture snafus ruined Darby’s “whole wedding experience,” she told Maurice, who enjoyed telling me about it later over lunch. “She wants the whole thing redone,” he said, attacking his arugula salad.

  “What does the ‘whole thing’ mean?” I was horrified. I never wanted to see this woman again. At the reception, she cornered me in the bathroom and demanded I check her honeymoon luggage in the waiting limo to make sure her kiwi face cream was packed. When I found the monogrammed luggage and the favored face cream—which I did open and sniff, nice stuff—I also found a peculiar book tucked under her makeup case. Fixing the Loveless Marriage seemed a bit premature, but I’m not nosy. Anyway, when I reported that the face cream was packed and ready to go, Darby screwed her face into a picture of long-suffering resignation. “Oh that, I know that’s there. What I really need you to do is make sure my last broadcast is cued up on the DVD player in the limo. I want to surprise Trey when we pull away from the reception. We can watch my last interview together.”