Toss the Bride (2 page)

Maurice invented my role in the ceremony because somewhere in his memory he had stashed a story I told him about Camp Sugar Dale. I don't even remember what it was, but that's Maurice. His mind traps things for when he needs them again. I've seen him pull out the scientific name of a rare orchid that a bride was trying to recall. I've been there when he remembered the perfect Brazilian vegetable dumpling sauce for a puzzled caterer. It's amazing, really.

Francie was delighted to know that Maurice had a “horse person” on staff. I got the job of wrangling the horse—bringing Rhubarb down the aisle with Francie Lydia Jane on board. When we get to her fiancé at the end of the aisle, he's supposed to help Francie down from the saddle, and I'm supposed to lead Rhubarb off to the waiting trailer. He doesn't get to hang around for the reception. Poor Rhubarb.

I'd picked out the dress Avery gave me because Francie wanted me to wear white, just like herself and the horse. I kept my end of the bargain.

Maurice has snapped on his earpiece and is rattling some directions into his phone. “Size eight? Hold on—” Maurice eyes me up and down. “No, make that a six. A little scrawny. Not much in the bust. Okay.” He clicks off abruptly. “Your dress will be here in thirty minutes.”

“Who in the world?” I say, once again impressed with Maurice's ability to get the right thing in the right place. The botanical gardens are plopped in a little rural town miles from Atlanta shopping.

“That was Melanie from Melanie's Boutique over on Main Street. I ordered the most exquisite little pin there last year for a bride. Remember Alinda?”

I shudder and nod. Best to let that memory slip away to sweet oblivion. It's been my experience that brides whose names start with
A
are more trouble. It's a pet theory of mine. I also have this other theory that there are a limited number of faces in the world, which is why people say, “You look just like so-and-so.” There are only so many faces to go around and they get recycled. I haven't met my face yet, but I'm waiting.

“Macie, are you listening?”

I nod. Maurice tells me to keep a lookout for Melanie's minivan. For the next thirty minutes, I extinguish a number of small wedding fires. A bridesmaid has forgotten her strapless bra. I show her a thing or two about masking tape. One of the groomsmen is hitting the mint juleps a little too enthusiastically. I send out for strong coffee, “light on the soy milk.” He actually tells me this with slurred speech, and then tries to kiss the bride. It is not a brotherly kiss. I walk away because there are some things for which I just don't get paid.

A few minutes later, I get a chance to chat with my best friend, Iris Glen, when she stops by the gardens to make one last check on the wedding cake. Iris is also in the wedding business. She is a pastry chef and the owner of Cake Cake,
the
place to snag an Atlanta wedding cake.

“Swamped?” Iris asks. Her assistant dropped off the towering white cake a few hours ago, and Iris wants to make sure every icing rosette is still in place.

“Yeah, but what else is new? You would not believe this bride and her crazy demands.” I make a face.

“I've worked with Francie for eight months, too,” Iris laughs. “She originally wanted her name spelled out on the cake in big, shimmering letters. I suggested that might not be the best plan.”

We share a brief laugh in the middle of wedding chaos. I adore Iris for lots of reasons. She is loyal, kind, and a blast to be around. We work together frequently because our brides naturally want to order the best, and Iris is absolutely the best.

My dress replacement arrives, so I bid farewell to Iris. When I finally wriggle into the white size-six Melanie dress, I feel like giving off a Francie snort. The cotton dress drops to my knees and is balanced on top with a big boat collar. A huge bow, stuck square in the middle of my chest, teeters back and forth with each step. I look like an overgrown eight-year-old girl from 1936. I creep out of the women's bathroom in the barn and look for a place to stash my real dress, my beautiful dress. I try to avoid the bride's room, but Francie catches sight of me and drags her enormous wedding dress—the train is ten feet long—out into the hall.

“Ah, that's better. You look like a nice southern girl.” Francie licks her pink lips. A bit of color sticks to her perfect front teeth. I don't bother to tell her. “Maurice and I thought that other dress was a little”—she pauses for effect and glances back down the hall toward the men's changing room—“trashy. If you know what I mean.”

I nod and lower my head. The bow on my chest swings dangerously. “I know what you mean. Exactly.”

Francie gathers the sides of the dress in her manicured claws and swings back around, glaring at me while she turns. She thinks I have insulted her, but she can't be sure. The train of her dress knocks over a ceramic umbrella stand, and I scramble before it dashes to pieces. Maurice arrives dressed in his suit, gives the new dress and me the once-over, and motions me outside. It's time for Rhubarb.

Back in the garden, well-heeled guests are escorted to their seats by the languid groomsmen and ushers. The heat is heat; it's something you get used to in Atlanta. My dress is a bit starchy, and I rub at the boat neck where it touches my skin.

“Don't do that,” Maurice hisses at me. We're stalking Rhubarb. He's supposed to be behind the two-hundred-year-old boxwood hedges. We turn and turn again, traveling deeper into the maze of green and brown. A sparrow skitters along the path, a twig resting in its beak. We finally find the white horse dozing and tethered to a sullen stable hand.

“Rhubarb don't want to do this today,” the horse handler informs us.

Maurice stops short in his leather loafers. I sense his persuasive charm gathering like a thundercloud for this final challenge. He wants that stable hand to lead me to the back of the garden. He wants Francie hefted up on top of the horse's broad back, and then, he wants to toss her like a sack of rice.

“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.