Toss the Bride Read online

  And so we leave the swamp at sundown, but not before Katie Anna takes that ring and drops it into the water. Of course, it bounces right off the Plexiglas and rolls over to rest beside a dusty white heron, and her father will retrieve it later because he is mad and wants to cash it in to make his daughter pay for her treachery.

  But for now, the only one wearing white is the heron, and as we leave the swamp, Katie Anna turns to blow her a kiss. I would have put the ring on the dead bird’s beak, but I can tell that Katie Anna is the type of person who respects the DO NOT TOUCH signs posted here and there. My cell phone rings, and I know it is Maurice begging me to save the day. I know I did not.

  Later, Maurice and I will make the calls that pull the plug on something as big as a fancy-schmancy wedding and reception. It’s no easy feat. I could go on and on about all of the details: food, swan handlers, antique china rental, jewelry security. In the end, it really doesn’t matter. The caterers throw out thousands of dollars of food, the heirloom tiara is returned to the safe, the bridal programs are discarded. Everyone has been paid, so they have a night off. I wander around the Great Hall, watching the men load up the white chairs and tables. Iris arrives with the wedding cake and then turns around to take it back to her studio. I’m busy on the phone canceling the honeymoon reservations, so all I can do is give Iris a weary look. “Come over later,” she whispers. “We’ll eat cake.”

  Maurice is still in his first outfit of the day. I wonder what he will do with his evening. He looks really down.

  “One of our potential clients—Lila Stall—was going to come by tonight and check this place out for her wedding next year,” Maurice says with a weary note to his voice. He leans against a palm tree the florist has not yet removed.

  “Oh, who’s she marrying?” I sit on a folding chair. It strikes me that this is the first time I have ever sat down in a wedding rental chair. Usually, I’m working. It’s not too bad, a little on the stiff side.

  “Do we ever know their names, Macie?”

  He’s right. For most of the brides, it’s all about the day. Come to think of it, Katie Anna never even mentioned her fiancé’s name. I wonder what he’ll do tonight. Probably watch wrestling. I get a quick chill, thinking of Katie Anna’s narrow escape.

  I really hope she will be all right. Katie Anna seems like the kind of woman who is on her way to figuring out what she wants. I like that. Maybe the swamp can work its magic on me, too. I say good-bye to Maurice and head back toward the Okefenokee exhibit. I think I will stand on the boardwalk and beg the water—that deep, black water with the power to conjure a swamp-saving fire—what in the world will happen to a girl like me.

  4

  The Pink-Haired Bride

  I probably attend at least three weddings a month, and while that may sound like it’s all party-party, it actually is not. Besides the behavior of the brides and their families, there is the inevitable same slate of songs, readings, and bridesmaid dresses I saw last week. At the reception, the chunky pork tenderloin is going to rub shoulders with the same Caesar salad. Once in a while, someone will really shake things up and order a fish topped with mango salsa, but for the most part, every wedding tends to feel or look depressingly, unavoidably, exactly the same.

  I am hanging out in Iris’s studio, watching her work on Gwendolyn’s wedding cake—a cake that promises to be very different. I’m also swiping bits of cake she’s trimmed and slapping on a little of her trademark butter-cream icing.

  “This is amazing,” I say, my mouth full of cake and icing.

  “Glad you like it,” Iris says, smiling. She never gets to see people enjoy her cake because she drops it off hours before the reception. Turning her attention back to an intricate design on the bottom layer, Iris gently pipes a feather-light line of icing on the curves of the cake round. Layers two through six are lined up behind her on a stainless-steel table waiting their turn.

  Iris runs Cake Cake out of a studio filled with baking pans, cookbooks, and bins of flour. I should also mention it smells like heaven. She found the space in a converted factory that now houses hip tech businesses and restaurants. A scrappy ensemble theater operates next door, and sometimes actors come over and buy cupcakes or pies, whatever she has on hand. Iris will bake anything, anytime. She says baking is good for your heart, and I believe her. Her best customers found her for their weddings and they keep coming back. For these folks, Iris will do anything. I’ve been out with her at a bar, and at midnight she’ll say, “Gotta go bake” because one of her favorites wants a fresh kuchen by noon.

  Iris is having fun with Gwendolyn’s cake. For starters, it’s completely unlike the white, genteel, fondant icing cakes that most brides want. Not Gwen. For her, everything has to be different. She’s a pink-haired, budding fashion designer who has her own ideas. Brainstorm number one: a pink cake. I even found a little punk-rock couple to go on top of the sixth layer. Gwendolyn loved it. She said, “It’s so out, it’s in.” I think I beamed a little bit.

  “This color is really, really pink. It seems very Gwen,” Iris says, stepping back to examine her art.

  I have to agree. The cake will be pink, the bride’s hair is pink, and her wedding dress—well, that’s as pink as can be. Gwen designed the dress herself and thinks it could be a big thing next year if her wedding gets a little press in one of the local magazines.

  Gwendolyn’s mother has a bit of a problem with all of the alternative wedding arrangements. I’ve seen her go after her daughter like a yippy dog, but so far, Gwendolyn has not backed down. I can see it’s wearing on her, though. When her mother wanted to serve mimosas in crystal champagne flutes at her bridal luncheon, Gwen wearily said yes. And the bridesmaids—artists, musicians, and models, all—will be wearing bras under their dresses, thanks to Mom. I even had to order the strapless undergarments so no one could claim they had forgotten to pack them. Those were fun calls—asking complete strangers for their cup size.

  “I think this wedding will actually be exciting,” I say to Iris. She’s adding little black sugar dots in and around the pink icing curlicues. So far, the cake looks, as they say, good enough to eat. I am actually starting to look forward to the reception. Maurice is having a new Thai restaurant cater the sit-down dinner. Avery introduced me to Thai food, and now I’m a total snob about who has the best basil rolls in town. I’ve heard this new place is great.

  “How’s the bride’s mother doing so far?”

  I play with an empty icing bag. “She’s coming around. Little bit by little bit.”

  “I think it’s sad how brides’ mothers get in the way. I won’t do that to my daughter when I have one,” Iris says.

  “That’s assuming you have a daughter. You could give birth to nothing but sons. And you would have to bake gorgeous cakes for their snippy, mean wives-to-be.”

  Iris looks up from the bowl of pink icing. “Since when have you become so cynical, Mace? Not all brides are like the ones you and Maurice handle every week.”

  I fall into a canvas director’s chair near the counter. “Remind me again? How do normal brides get married?”

  Iris resumes piping. “Well, let’s see,” she says, a wicked smile coming over her face. “First, they set a budget.”

  Feigning a yawn, I say, “What’s that? I don’t know what that is. It sounds common.”

  “Well, a budget is something that tells a person what she can and cannot spend.”

  “Hold on, Iris,” I drawl in my most southern accent. “My hand is hurting from the weight of my four-carat diamond.”

  “Rest it on that shelf over there. You poor thing.”

  I sigh dramatically. “Go on, you were saying something amusing about restricting my spending?”

  Iris chokes back a laugh. “Yes, it’s true. You will have to set a budget. There is a limit to what you can spend.”

  “I would rather die.”

  Iris looks at me and makes a funny face. I start laughing so hard that my stomach hurts. Or maybe i
t is all the cake I have been eating. Iris has to put down her icing spatula for the next layer because she can’t keep her hand steady. She walks around the counter and sits down beside me.

  “Sometimes I don’t like what I do,” I tell her.

  “I know, I know.”

  “I envy you, Iris. You have a gift and you go and do it. I wish I knew what it is that I’m supposed to be doing,” I say softly. “Satisfying every spoiled bride’s whim is not my idea of contributing to society.”

  “You think I contribute to society?” she asks. “Please. Maybe people’s waistlines. But not the building of government, the arts, or religion. I’m just a baker.” Iris gives a nod toward the counter with the cakes.

  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 ha
ve 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.