The Bridesmaid
Authors: Hailey Abbott
Table of Contents
• 1 • - Something Old, Something New
• 2 • - Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace
• 9 • - You May Now Kiss the Bride
• 11 • - In Sickness and in Health
• 12 • - Who Gives This Woman?
Mr. and Mrs. David Beaumont
Request the honor of your presence
At the total disillusionment of their daughter
Abigail Lynn
Beginning June fifteenth
At the Dove’s Roost Chateau
Watertown, Massachusetts
And lasting until Abigail’s sister, Carol, gets married
Or Abigail loses her mind
Whichever comes first
Please use the enclosed RSVP
Prologue
This is the story of a girl who believed in love—love at first sight and love that lasted until the end of time. She believed every person in the world had one person they were meant to
be with forever and always. She even thought that maybe, one
day, she would find the very person meant for her.
But there was one tradition of love that Abigail Lynn
Beaumont could never get into . . .
Weddings.
Abby was surrounded by evidence that love could last. Her
parents, David and Phoebe Beaumont. Happily married family friends. And her favorite tried-and-true couple, Kermit the
Frog and Miss Piggy. (Although that one, she knew, was ify,
she really hoped those crazy Muppets could make it work.)
But our heroine was also surrounded by evidence that
weddings were the source of all evil. Her parents were the
proprietors of the Dove’s Roost Chateau, one of suburban
Boston’s most popular catering halls. There, young men and
women came together to vow to love one another forever and
ever. And there, mothers of the bride threw hissy fits over
flower arrangements; fathers of the groom shook their groove thangs on the dance floor until their pants rode down.
Grandmothers and great-aunts and first cousins once removed drank exceptionally large amounts of pink champagne
and went onstage to deliver very, very embarrassing speeches.
But none of them, not the mothers or the fathers or the
grooms or the maids of honor or even the little flower girls,
were half as bad as the brides.
Brides.
Before she had even graduated from kindergarten, Abby
had seen a bride slam a door in her father’s face for suggesting that his daughter might want to powder her nose before
the pictures. She had seen a bride reduce her mother to tears
over the positioning of napkin rings. She had seen a bride
throw a vase at her soon-to-be husband because he messed up
her makeup when he kissed her. Abby couldn’t stand brides.
She couldn’t stand the way they acted like the world revolved
around them. She couldn’t stand the way they’d be smiling
sweetly and preening for pictures and then seconds later be
screaming at a waiter about the temperature of the miniquiches. She couldn’t stand the way all of them,
all of them,
seemed completely awful. But since it was unlikely that
all
of
these brides were just naturally terrible people, Abby knew
that meant only one thing—weddings turned ordinary
women into Bridezillas.
Abby is, at this very moment, attending one of these infamously awful weddings with her older sister, Carol. We join
her on a cool evening in the autumn of her seventh year. . . .
Abby and Carol Beaumont scurried under the gift table in the main dining room of the Dove’s Roost Chateau catering hall, otherwise known as their home-sweet-home, and peeked out from under the white linen tablecloth. That night’s wedding was in the process of unraveling and Abby’s heart pounded in anticipation.
Already a big man had gone up to a skinny, dorky man and ripped off his bow tie. And the bride’s mother had stormed out.
Abby watched her father get in front of the big man in an attempt to stop him from rushing the smaller man, who was red and sweaty and waving his arms like a cartoon character.
“What’s going on?” Abby asked her sister, Carol. Carol was six years older and pretty much knew everything.
“The fat guy is mad at the skinny guy because the skinny guy won’t pay for all the liquor the fat guy’s family is drinking,” Carol said sagely.
“How do you know?” Abby asked.
The bride was now crying in the corner.
“I listened.”
Suddenly the fat guy reached past Abby’s dad and grabbed a delicate china plate. Both Mom’s and Dad’s eyes widened as he pulled his arm back. Abby’s dad made a last-second grab, but it was too late. The plate sailed by the skinny man’s head and smashed against the far wall.
Why do they always throw plates?
Abby wondered.
And why do they always miss?
“Time to go,” Carol said, taking her hand.
“No! I wanna see this!” Abby begged. She pressed her fingertips into the glossy wood floor.
“You know the rule. If dishes start to fly, we’re supposed to go.”
Carol dragged Abby, fingers squeaking on the floor, out from under the table. Another dish crashed, and together they ran outside just as the bride screamed, directly into her new husband’s face, “He’s
ruining
my wedding!”
The sun was setting, and a stiff wind blew dried leaves across the freshly mowed lawn. This was Abby’s favorite time of year. Not only had soccer season just started up again, but also colder weather equaled fewer weddings. Fewer crazy strangers wandering in and out of her house, fewer creepy band guys grinning in her face and asking if she liked Mariah Carey songs, fewer crying brides with eye makeup streaked down to their chins looking like scary fancy-dressed clowns.
When they finally reached the little clearing in the woods behind the yard, Carol stopped pulling and turned toward Abby. She looked her straight in the eye and put her hands on her hips like she always did when she was about to say something serious.
“Let’s swear we’ll never get married.”
“Never?” Abby squeaked.
“Never,” Carol said. “If we ever do find our Prince Charmings, we’ll just stay boyfriend/girlfriend and spare everyone the drama.”
“So no stupid speeches and no big scary dress and no flying plates?” Abby asked.
“Exactly,” Carol said. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yes.”
Carol held her hand over her heart. “Okay, repeat after me. I, Carol Marie Beaumont, do solemnly swear that I will never get married and turn into a Bridezilla.”
“I, Abigail Lynn Beaumont, do solemnly swear that I will never get married and turn into a Bridezilla,” Abby repeated, copying Carol’s pose.
Carol reached for Abby’s small hands. “Now, remember what I told you about a promise made to a sister. . . .”
“I remember,” Abby said. “A promise made to a sister is the most sacred promise there is on earth.”
• 1 •
Something Old, Something New
Abby Beaumont was slumped in a chair in her mother’s office, trying not to look out the window. The sky was blue, the sun was bright. It was absolutely perfect soccer weather. She would have given anything to be outside chasing the ball around, but instead here she was in her mother’s froufrou office. Trapped.
On one side of the desk was today’s VIC (Vomit-Inducing Couple), Kirsten and Brock, looking very pleased with themselves in matching polo shirts. On the other side was Abby’s mom, dressed in a taupecolored suit. Her slim fingers were a blur as she excitedly described the menu options at the Dove’s Roost.
“. . . and let’s not forget about stuffed mushrooms, now those are really a crowd pleaser.” Abby stared at her mother’s Ace-bandaged right wrist, trying to heal the sprain with the power of her mind. She’d been trying all day. So far, no luck.
It was thanks to that wrist that Abby was stuck here in her mother’s office—a room she usually avoided for fear of being sucked into a Laura Ashley vortex from which she might never return. The previous weekend her mom had insisted on wrapping the bougainvillea vine around the chuppah herself instead of waiting for Abby’s dad to get home from Dell’s Wholesale Liquor Mart like Abby had suggested. Her father was nearly tall enough to do it without a step stool and loved taking care of the outdoor work. But her mother had wanted to get a head start, had told Abby to hold the ladder, had climbed up it and had then promptly fallen from the top rung while trying to reach the edge of the canopy. Abby appreciated her mother’s need to give her job 150 percent at all times, and she was glad the injury hadn’t been worse, but now she was being robbed of a perfect-for-soccer Saturday. It was just wrong.
“And then, we want our first dance to be . . .” Kirsten stuck out one perfectly French-manicured hand like a stop sign. “ ‘Lady in Red!’ ” She reached over and clasped her fiancé’s fingers, the Rock of Gibraltar on her left hand flashing in the sunlight and blinding everyone in the room.
“Even though she won’t be wearing red that night,” Brock said with a grin.
“Of course not, silly.” Kirsten smacked his beefy shoulder with her free hand.
“We danced to it the night we first met,” Brock went on.
