Toss the Bride (12 page)

Tallie is a strict vegan. No dairy products, including milk and cheese. No honey or eggs, and, of course, no meat. She believes so strongly in this diet that all of her wedding guests are going to have to go along with her as well. “Just imagine, Macie,” Tallie had gushed to me about two months ago, “We may win some converts to our cause!” Upon hearing that, I hastily tossed my double-chocolate milk shake into a trash can. No matter what, stay on the good side of the bride.

The rehearsal dinner, however, was a different story. It turns out Tallie's father-in-law-to-be is very passionate about meat, so the menu was completely his doing for Friday night. Saturday, on the other hand, was all Tallie's tempeh, tofu, and faux salmon.

As Taylor and I step back to take stock of the tables, I see the caterer's truck pull onto the lawn and carefully roll toward the tent. I exhale with relief. I often dream of my job, and when I do, I have nightmares of caterers who forget the date of a wedding or show up a week early, stocked to the gills with salmon croquets and chicken almondine.

I walk over to the truck. Two workers in blue coveralls unload countless pans and boxes from the back. Before I can introduce myself, I notice what is hooked to the trailer hitch on the back of the truck. I feel an ice-cold stab of panic in my chest. My palms instantly water as I clench my hands.

The truck is towing a pork smoker.

The heat-battered black metal smoker gives off a tangy aroma, not altogether unpleasing to me, a meat eater, but absolutely terrifying to a bride determined to love animals, not slaughter them a few yards from her bridal party. To make matters worse, the catering crew, now joined by a white van full of more coverall-clad workers, unloads a very dead pig strung up on a stick. Its little hooves tap together as it passes by. I feel the entire wedding slipping away. My mouth is dry. I turn to my right. Maurice is strolling down the landscaped path from the guest house. His usually handsome face is pained. He can see the pig from a mile away, I am sure.

To my left, Tallie skips over the main lawn, her veil flowing behind her, although the rest of her clothes are casual. Her hair and makeup are already in place, so she will wear the veil for the rest of the day and evening. As she moves closer to the tent, I start to babble a little to myself. Just little whimpers only I can hear. This cannot get worse.

And of course, that's when it does. I watch as the caterers unload a very roasted boar's head. I've never fainted in my life, but I start to swoon when Maurice reaches my side. Luckily, Tallie's view of the meat parade is blocked by the caterer's van and truck.

“Macie! Macie!” Maurice says.

“I know! I know!” I snap back, trying not to stare as another boar's head is unloaded, followed by a tray of trussed-up pheasants. Tallie stops, momentarily delayed by an aunt wanting a picture. She tells Tallie to pause, twirl, and turn.

“Well, what do they say? What are you doing about it?” Maurice gestures toward the caterers.

I feel as if I am standing at the bottom of a very deep well. The colors and sounds of the workers move slowly past me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tallie, all white tulle, satin, and pink lipstick.

“Where do ya want the carving station?” one worker calls to another.

“I think it's over here,” bellows the worker. “Next to the baby back ribs.”

Ignoring the sick feeling in my stomach, I lunge at the nearest foil-covered pan and yell in a loud voice, “Oh, here you are. The tofu-and-lentil salad! What a fabulous vegetarian meal!”

“Are you okay, Macie?” Maurice asks, with a quick look at my sweaty face.

The picture-taking aunt moves on to another subject. I have to do something. “Maurice, stop Tallie. She's over there.” I fling my arm past his face. “Show her the water plants the florist put in the main pool. She'll love that.”

Without a word, Maurice turns to greet his cash cow, who wears a funny look on her face. “Is that a pig?” I hear her say before Maurice shushes her with low, syrupy tones and puts one arm around her waist to guide her back toward the main house.

Whirling around, I stalk over to the head meat man who is marking up a clipboard. I clear my throat and announce there must be some mistake. My hands are shaking. If this man doesn't have four hundred slices of mushroom-and-millet casserole in the back of his truck, I will fall over and start whimpering. Maybe it is a major flaw, but I do not deal well with conflict. I'd rather things just work out on their own. I want the meat to fly away. I want Avery to call.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Meat looks like the surly catering type rather than the helpful variety.

“You have the wrong food here. This is the St. Claire wedding. We didn't order this menu.”

Meat checks his clipboard and then squints toward the main tent, where his minions are setting up roasting racks. A huge block of cleavers and other scary-looking knives graces one table.

“Nope, says right here that I'm to deliver to the St. Claire estate, One St. Claire Way. This is the right place, unless I miss my guess.” The man starts to walk away on the lush lawn.

When I am stressed or worried, my voice takes on a wavering quality. I know that is not what is needed, so I try for a lower register. “Stop! Right there!” Way to go, I think. My cops-'n'-robbers dialogue will definitely scare the pants off of him.

Mr. Meat turns and delivers a look bordering on concern and contempt. “Look, sugar,” he says. “I've got men to supervise before the chef gets here.”

My hands shake. “Let's save each other a lot of work. Call Edward, the event manager. He will straighten this whole thing out. By the way, do you have grape leaves in that truck?” I'm hopeful we can find our food somewhere.

“Grape what?”

All around us, the wedding preparations ensue. As Meat dials Edward, I watch the band haul in speakers and what appears to be a healthy collection of cymbals. The bug man sprays the perimeter of the lawn one more time. No self-respecting insect would dare step foot on the estate today.

After talking with Edward, Meat snaps his phone closed. “There's been some mistake, all right. We're supposed to have this food out in Beaufort for an event that starts in four hours.” He looks disgusted and I feel some pity for him. But then it hits me like my worst nightmare: Flesh is better than no food at all. I picture the well-heeled wedding guests tonight snacking on air.

“Wait! Where's my food?” I ask, my voice rising to an unacceptably girlish pitch. “What about the St. Claire wedding?”

“Edward sends his apologies. It's on the way.”

As Meat Man gets his pigs, boars, and men packed up, I ring Edward and confirm that my food is indeed on a truck that has been turned around on its route to Beaufort. Apparently, the Low Country Association of Deer Hunters was about to nosh on tofu kabobs and kale crudités. The underarms of my blue V-necked shirt are soaked with nervous sweat, and I know that I should relax, but I won't until I see said kabobs and crudités. The wedding is still hours away, but I've learned from Maurice that as soon as one fire is put out, someone will invariably light a match to your best-laid plans.

I find Maurice alone on the back veranda of the main house. He is relieved to hear I solved the crisis, but just like me, he wants to see the food trucks arrive. Meanwhile, he says, Tallie is having her bridal-party brunch in the beach gazebo. At the mention of food, my stomach reminds me that it would like a little attention, too. I decide to head to the Egret Room to see if Iris can join me for something to eat.

I stroll briskly past the lush tropical plants guarding the entrance to the suite and turn my key in the door. But when I walk into the room, something strikes me as not quite right. Directly inside the door, beside the delicate Oriental writing desk, sit two dark leather suitcases with Alitalia airline tags. My mind knows these bags—they are Avery's, of course—but I cannot think fast enough to cobble together an explanation.

And then I see him sitting in the corner armchair. Avery does not move, but instead regards me as one might an egret in the wild. Carefully, cautiously.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey, yourself.”

“What in the world are you doing here? And where have you been? Don't answer that. I know where you've been. Italy,” I spit out as if the country is personally responsible for Avery's trip.

“Welcome home, dear,” Avery says with a small grin.

“And your phone, was it broken? Or don't they have them over there in Europe?”

Avery shifts in the chair. “You could have called me, too.”

I am angry. With the near-meat disaster, hunger, and the surprise of seeing Avery, I don't need this fight. “What? You wanted me to call you? You've got to be kidding. You take off for Italy and I'm supposed to track you down and ask why?”

Standing, Avery says, “Hold on, Mace. That was a stupid thing for me to say. I came back early because I missed you. I know it was wrong to go and even more wrong not to call you. At first I was mad because you wouldn't travel with me—”

“But I told you why and you said you understood!”

Avery puts up his hands. “I know, I know, but I've got feelings, okay? And when my little trip became this big deal, I wanted to split. I might not have let it show, but talking about marriage was, well, sort of scary.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Other people get mad and then they talk about it. Your type jets to another country. That's not playing fair.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. And once I got to the resort, I just kept putting off calling you because I knew how mad and hurt you would be.” Avery moves a step closer and tries to hold my hands. I pull away and sit on the soft, striped armchair.

He follows me. “Even though I left confused and mad and all of that, can I tell you what I thought about when I was gone? Here's a hint. You were a main character.”

I refuse to look at him. “You should have called. I can't believe you didn't call.”

“How did Carolina's wedding turn out? Did you get the dresses in time?”

I glare at Avery, ignoring his questions. “How did you find me? How did you get on the St. Claire compound?”

“Iris filled me in.” Avery sits on the ottoman in front of my chair.

“Iris told you where I was?”

“Yup,” Avery says. “She called my cell and gave me your exact address. I knew you were planning to be in Hilton Head this weekend, of course, but I wouldn't have known where to find you.”

“I found out you left from your mother. I kind of think she enjoyed telling me.”

Avery tries to hold my hands again. I cross my arms and lean back in the chair.

“I guess this is where we have our big, serious talk,” he says.

My dislike of conflict surfaces here, but I try to stuff it back down. Avery matters to me, more than anyone else, and I know I have to try to make myself understood. And I have to understand him, even though I'm still furious.

“Wait—where's Iris?” I try to stall just a bit.

Avery smiles. “Don't think Iris will save you now. She's gone out to give us a little privacy. She said when we're done making up that you can find her beside the pool.”

“Which one? There are, like, five,” I say, craning my neck around the room. I am irritated and I need something to eat. My stomach is caving in on itself.

“Can we talk about Iris some other time, perhaps?”

I put my hands in my lap and duck my head. “Sure. Right.”

Avery nods. “Okay, so there I was in Italy. Without you.”

“Yeah, that must have been really terrible. That tan looks positively life threatening,” I say. I still can't stand it that he went to Europe without letting me know.

“Macie, if you don't want to talk, I can get out of here. Really.”

I shut up and listen. The least I can do is let him try to charm his way out of this one. But what if he says something awful, as in I went to Italy and you were a distant memory. Or: It's time we saw other people because your small-town ways have worn thin. What would I do then? I love Avery. I really do, with all of my angry, stupid, scared heart.

“Please, go on.” My voice is quiet, bracing for whatever he has to say to me.

“So there I was.” Avery continues, grabbing nervously at his collar. He is wearing a watch, something he rarely does unless he is traveling. I notice he has not reset the hour hand to eastern standard time. I want to reach out and take the chrome disc from his arm and roll the hours back, just to do something nice.

“And at first, I was like, ‘Look what she's missing because she's hung up on us moving things to the next level. We could be here, having fun together.' The resort was nice, the beaches were nice. Everything was just”—Avery shrugs and looks at me from the ottoman—“nice.”

“That's a long way to go for just nice,” I say helpfully.

“Yeah, it sure was. But here was the thing: Everywhere I went, to the bistro or to the shore, I thought less about being right and more about what you said. I thought about how I wanted you there—after all, I had picked the resort with you in mind. I thought about what you would think of this or that, what you might order. I pictured you walking next to me almost everywhere.” Avery stops and looks a little lost in thought.

This is going better than I thought it would. But I will my tart tongue to take a break. I need to let him have a say.

Avery's kind green eyes smile at me. “Before, I never minded that we didn't travel together. You had your weddings and I did my thing. This time, though, I noticed other couples our age. On the beach, in the tourist stores, at the hotel. They were together, and not just for the weekend or the summer. I noticed the fat gold bands on the men's hands. They weren't afraid to take it one step further, like you want me to.”

“Now wait a second, I've never pressured you to marry me,” I protest, heat filling my cheeks.