Toss the Bride (15 page)

Without a doubt, Eliza will be one of the “rogue” brides who really throws us for a loop. Rogue brides do things differently; they buck our careful system. It's not that I can't handle a challenge. Like all jobs, this one has its dull points. One can only hear so many renditions of “Trumpet Voluntary” and see so many bouquet tosses. So, a different kind of wedding with a different timetable could be something new. And new is good, almost all of the time.

But this wedding challenge is falling on the heels of Avery's transition to worker bee, which has already given me a wee bit of stress. I know I encouraged him in his pursuit of a job, but I didn't know how it would all unfold. What has happened is much more perplexing.

It turns out that Avery likes to work. He really, really likes to work. I should have figured it out, I suppose. He pursues tennis with a single-minded determination. And he certainly pursued me when we met at my apartment building two years ago. It could stand to reason that he would attack a paying job with similar gusto.

Avery gets to the Chattahoochee Chocolates plant around seven in the morning. Some days, he will not leave until seven o'clock in the evening. Ever since he started, he has been given more and more responsibility at the company. Not only does he test candy bars, work on marketing strategy, and develop consumer focus groups, but he's also been dabbling in something called “presscake production schedules” and is pulling together a competitive analysis for the new candy-bar rollout. He also goes on and on about something called “conching,” which I gather is a type of chocolate kneading.

I'm not sure what's really bugging me, but I do know one thing: Avery has not brought up our future since he took the job at Chattahoochee Chocolates. Since it was his idea to find a career, I am decidedly not mentioning it, but I wonder where his passion has flown for moving things forward with us. Have I been replaced by a chocolate confection?

“It's addictive, Macie,” Avery tells me over a late supper. I have just had my first meeting with Eliza and I'm exhausted. We set up flowcharts, “to do” lists, and wrote her wedding plan for the next fourteen days.

“What is?” I ask idly, playing with my napkin. We are on his parents' veranda, where the menu is pork tenderloin and a green salad. It's too hot for me to eat something warm. I play with my salad and gulp down ginger iced tea.

“The candy industry. Haven't you been listening, Mace?”

I smile guiltily. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Avery reaches over for my hand. “I was just going to bore you with how much sugar the average American consumes, but I can see that you won't be impressed because you are off in wedding world. Am I right?”

“Wedding world it is. You would not believe the latest,” I say.

“Try me.”

I take a sip of tea and then press the cold glass to my forehead. “Okay, sit-down dinner for two hundred, imported Belgian dress, and twelve-piece orchestra.”

Avery drops my hand and helps himself to another piece of tenderloin. “So? You could do that with your eyes closed.”

“Did I mention she wants it in two weeks?”

Avery's laughs and then looks thoughtful. “That would be like rolling out the new Chattahoochee chocolate bar and getting it on the shelves in fourteen days. Can't be done.”

“Well, Maurice says we can. And he's willing to share his bonus with me if we do.” I frown slightly. “I mean, when we do.”

“It seems to me like there are less stressful jobs you could have,” Avery says. “Like maybe air-traffic controller? Brain surgeon? Just some ideas.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. But Maurice has been giving me more and more responsibility lately. He seems to trust me. And I haven't let him down. Yet.”

“Speaking of responsibility, did I tell you that Ted wants me to go on some sales calls to big distributors next month? We need to build momentum for the new bar.”

“That's great! They really like you, Avery.”

He sits back in his chair and crosses his legs under the table. “Well, Ted's a really smart guy. I've learned a lot from watching him. Did you know he started his first business in high school? He had a lawn service and bought his first truck and trailer the month before he could legally drive.”

“Wow, I was working at Happy Hams at his age.”

Avery looks glum. “I think I was at tennis camp then. Or vacationing with my folks.”

I try to cheer him up. I reach for the tea pitcher and pour both of us another glass. “What's important is that you are doing something now. You have a job that you're good at.” I lift my glass in the air, faking a bit of lightheartedness. “To the future.”

Looking only slightly less depressed, Avery raises his glass as well. “To us, and to the future.”

*   *   *

Eliza and I meet the next morning at Lily's Finer Dresses in Buckhead. Normally, I would not even walk through the door of a haughty dress store like Lily's and ask for the impossible, but they owe us one. About six months ago, we brought in a bride who was a tad indecisive. She ended up purchasing three wedding dresses, each costing several thousand dollars apiece. When she was done with that, she bought all ten bridesmaids' dresses from Lily, along with shoes, undergarments, and her veil. Maurice has been on Lily's happy list ever since.

Lily's shop is in an old mansion that has been covered with numerous coats of paint, making every surface rather bumpy. I grasp the knob of the old front door and pull once or twice until it opens with a groan. A simple bell chime announces our arrival. Lily emerges from one of the various rooms to meet us, walking spryly across the uneven floors.

“Ah, Macie, so good to see you again. It's been a while, no?” Lily is a woman of indeterminate age and the owner of an indeterminate accent. She kisses me on both cheeks.

“And this must be the bride? Ah, let me take a look at you, dearest.”

Eliza shyly turns in a circle and self-consciously pats her short brown hair. “Nice to meet you, ma'am.”

“The pleasure is all mine. Now, let's have a seat, shall we? I understand from Maurice that we have a delicate timing issue.”

While we settle into the flowered love seat in Lily's office, I look at the black-and-white bride photos displayed on the light blue plaster walls. Many of the brides are ours. Their gleaming teeth and perfectly sculpted hair reach out from the wall and seem to mock me. It's like a most-wanted list of bad brides. Shuddering slightly, I look away. Darby's on there, and so is Francie.

Lily's reference to the “delicate timing issue” catches me off guard. It has not occurred to me to ask why this wedding has to take place in two weeks. I am so used to brides demanding this flower shipped from Louisiana and that tartlet flown in from San Francisco, it completely escaped my attention to wonder why Eliza wanted this wedding to take place in fourteen days.

Now it all makes sense. I look discreetly at Eliza's waist, but that tells me nothing. She's as thin as a brunch crepe. They all are. I tend to gain a little poundage in my hips when I've had too many sweets, but my brides are more disciplined. Well, if Eliza is rushing a wedding to cover up a little oopsie, then maybe she's not so disciplined.

I try to imagine her fiancé. Does he want to get married? Were they planning on it and the baby speeded things up? Or did he enter this flurry of wedding planning reluctantly? Little Eliza was getting more interesting by the minute. We did not know each other very well yet. After all, she'd hired us two days ago. It would be just a matter of time before she spilled the beans. She was probably dying to tell someone about her premarital indiscretion. It might as well be—

“And I understand that she will be healthy enough to attend the ceremony?” Lily is patting Eliza's hand and offering a tissue. I snap to attention and away from my soap-opera dreams.

“Yes, his mother only ever wanted to see us married. We've been together since we were fourteen. And this might be her last chance.” Eliza sobs into her hands. “They say she could go at any time during the surgery. She's been so sick this year. We don't know how long she will be with us.”

I feel like such a jerk. I lean over to my bride and rub her back. “I'm so sorry, Eliza. I didn't know.”

She looks up and wipes her eyes with the tissue. “And the worst thing is, everyone thinks we're having the wedding so quickly because I'm pregnant.”

I shake my head sympathetically, sensing I have sunk to a new low. “People are so tacky.”

Lily puts on a bright face. “Well, let's solve at least one problem. The dress.” She stands and walks toward an antique armoire, where shoes and veils spill out in a creamy pageant of satin and tulle. A sagging rack holds five or six dresses crowded together, each one encased in a thick, plastic carrying case. I know these are dresses Lily has ordered over the years that were never picked up or paid for—a sort of gown graveyard.

We start trying on the dresses. Lily is very hands-on, unzipping and tying, fluffing and pulling in fabric, so there's not much for me to do. I sit in another flowered chair and daydream lightly. I imagine the type of dress I would select if I were getting married. Perhaps I would go for a 1920s kind of look with a Nottingham lace veil. Or I might go modern, selecting a thin, organza silhouette gown. There's always traditional, too, a strapless, silk A-line or something more sweet like the ballet-skirt look. The choices are deliciously endless.

But in Eliza's case, poor Eliza with the dying mother-in-law, she does not have choices. Since the wedding is in twelve days, she has to go with what she can get. And that might be the peau de soie dress with a rear inverted pleat she pulls on now.

“Oh, Eliza, what a beautiful dress,” I say, sitting up.

And it is. The bodice fits her tiny frame nicely, while the chapel-length train touches the floor in a dramatic arch. Lily adds a scalloped-edge tulle veil with pearl details. The entire effect is lovely. I quickly stand and grab a bouquet of fake flowers from Lily's armoire. Thrusting them into Eliza's hands, I grab my digital camera. Maybe we can get a few shots for her future mother-in-law.

When I am finished, Lily takes up the hem with straight pins so that her seamstress can make the final touches to the dress. This will be rushed, too, and will cost a little, but that's what we have to do. The dress itself is offered to us at a discount since it is a season or two old. Lily seems pleased to have the garment taken off of her hands and kisses us both as we leave.

As we drive to our next appointment at the caterer's, I try to figure out where Eliza gets her money. She seems nice enough, not insufferable like many of our brides-to-be. I sneak glances over at her as she flips through a bridal-planning book. Her clothes are well made, her nails tastefully manicured, and her shoes look expensive, but not in a flashy way. I decide it must be old money.

I ask Eliza about her fiancé. “It sounds like you have been together for a long time.”

“That's right. We met the first day of freshman year. It's always been just Ben and me. Ever since he asked me in geometry class if I needed a ride home and then admitted he couldn't drive yet.”

“That's cute.” I had about ten boyfriends freshman year, each one lasting no more than a week or two.

“People ask me if I ever get curious about dating other people, but it always just made sense, you know?”

“I actually do understand what you mean. Now, anyway,” I reply. “But a few years ago, I wouldn't have gotten it.”

Eliza closes her wedding planner and turns to me with a grin on her face. “Macie, are you married?”

“Um, no. Not yet, anyway. I have a boyfriend. His name is Avery.”

“Are ya'll serious?”

“We're getting there,” I answer, slowing to turn onto Northside Drive. “He's just started a new job, so when that settles down, we're supposed to, you know, move things forward.” I groan to myself. What a dorky thing to say. Why not just tattoo the word “insecure” on my forehead?

“So, this Avery is it? He's the one?”

I glance out of the car window to the posh homes lining the street. Each yard is green and perfectly trimmed and mulched. Avery's house looks much the same. My gardening efforts extend to the pair of nearly dead geraniums that have been cast out onto my tiny balcony due to their insistence in dropping leaves.

“I think so.”

We drive in silence for a minute or two, and then I decide to throw a question back to Eliza. “What do you do when you're not planning a wedding in less than two weeks?”

Eliza laughs, a surprisingly throaty, deep kind of laugh. “Well, when I'm not torturing wedding planners, I work for a nonprofit foundation.”

I am impressed. It sounds really important. “That's great. What do you do for them?”

“We have a recreation angle to our mission, so we look for ways to engage inner-city children and those without access to parks or sports. We run camps all over the country. It's a really great job.”

“What kind of camps?”

“Well, soccer, tennis, basketball—you name it. Whatever the community tells us they need. My job is to meet with community leaders and talk about what they want for their area.”

I am glad that Eliza found us. I enjoy working with her, even though she is a rogue bride. I ask her the name of the foundation.

“The Seller Foundation.”

It is only later, when I drop Eliza off at her home, that I realize her name and the foundation's name are the same. Of course, I knew her last name, but it didn't hit me until I was driving back toward home. The concern for her fiancé's mother, the ease with which she accepted the graveyard dress, the philanthropy job—it all made sense. Eliza was a rogue bride in more ways than one. Rogue does not always mean bad; sometimes it just means nice.

*   *   *