Toss the Bride (17 page)

“Don't you have something similar at another store?” I held back a yawn. I needed some orange juice to wake up.

The sound of typing came over the line. “Of course I have. I have those cute clear dishes at Allen and Berring, and I registered for fruit bowls—the little footed ones—at Pantry. Why?”

“Um, that's a lot of dessert dishes if you add more to the registry.” I did some quick math. “If you receive them all, you'd have somewhere around sixty dessert plates and bowls, not counting your everyday dishes and formal china.”

“Macie, Macie, Macie,” Tika sighed into the phone. “I know you are, like, single and everything, but just try to follow me, okay? Sometimes a hostess wants a variety of dishes to choose from. I might want the footed bowls for a summer party and then the clear bowls for later in the year. Can't you just see a cloud of angel food cake and strawberries in the Pantry bowls? Or maybe something chocolate in the Allen and Berring dishes?”

“I guess I hadn't thought of it like that,” I said.

“That's kind of obvious.” Tika sounded distracted. “So, are you and Maurice still going to be sticklers about not including my registries in the wedding invitations?”

I sat up straight. We had been through this before. “Absolutely. That just isn't done, Tika. It looks, um, like you're asking for presents.”

She inhaled quickly, “But I was thinking, what if we print out the stores where I'm registered on pretty little magnets that match the invitations?”

“Magnets?”

“So the guests can stick it on their refrigerator or something. It will remind them they need to shop for my present.”

“Tika, no. We're not going to do that. People find out your registries the old-fashioned way—they call your mother or sister or your best friend.”

Tika pouted silently for a beat or two and then said, “Well, we can always revisit this discussion a little later on. I gotta go.”

Tika grew up in a nowhere town somewhere outside of Atlanta. When she was fifteen, her mother had a hunch and played a combination of her and Tika's birthday dates in a huge lottery drawing. The resulting payday set the family up for several lifetimes. The funny thing is, Tika is gunning for every present she can get her hands on—it's starting to wear on Maurice, and that almost never happens.

Without turning to the folders under my arm, I would venture a guess that there are ten showers planned for Tika (two couples' showers, eight women-only showers), two brunches, and one girls' beach weekend. By almost all standards, this number is excessive. It would be different if Tika had recently moved from one state to another and had two sets of friends. Or if her family was extremely close-knit but spread all over the country. Neither of those situations applies. Tika just wants it all. I can't figure it out.

Running my hand along the first china shelf, I read the label: Fox Manor. The plain gray china is etched with delicate dark gray scallops. We had a bride last year—Maria? Shontelle?—register for this pattern. To the left of this cabinet stand the flatware cases. Each wooden case holds four large drawers that slide out with a soft whoosh.

I start with the first drawer. From across the room, I smile and wave to Jasmine, the floor manager. She knows if I need something, I will call her. I grasp the handle and pull, revealing shiny, just-polished flatware with 18/8 stainless steel handles. The real silver is in a locked cabinet near Jasmine's elegant little Chippendale-style desk that sits in the center of the crystal display.

The first pattern is another favorite with our brides: Tangelle. There are no sweet-tea spoons in this one. The next four patterns, Regale, Trotter Lane, Buffington, and Laura are by a British company. They all cost an arm and a leg. No spoons. I move faster now. Drake, Butterfly, Hampton Cove, Sundown. Raised rosebuds blur, fleur-de-lis edging speeds by, brushed stainless accents whirl past my eyes. A person can look at only so much flatware.

Tika wants stainless for every day. Her fancier dinner parties will be served with real silver in a pattern we picked out last week. Of course, Tika giving dinner parties assumes that she will still have friends after soaking all of them for multiple shower presents and wedding gifts.

Maurice does not give our brides nicknames. I do, of course, as a way to keep them straight. It becomes difficult to remember all of the Ansleys, Ambers, and Allisons, but I can always recall the Evil Bride or the Horse Bride. Maurice thinks this is petty of me, but he does not spend the time with them that I do. He's always on the phone, charming this shop owner or that caterer. I am in the trenches, helping the brides pick out Crème Peach or Elegant Apricot for their wedding-day lipstick. I assist the Tikas of the wedding world with registering for enough pots, pans, tablecloths, linen napkins, and ice-cream dishes to open a small café.

Tika, of course, is the Greedy Bride.

I do not know why she wants so many parties, so many presents. It's not like she can't just call up Lotto Mom and order anything she wants. I have been to Tika's house, I've seen her little appetizer dishes and her milk-glass vase collection. Tika has nice things already. Not that a bride wants to keep her old baking pans when she marries. I understand wanting new household items when beginning life with your love, but it's not like Tika lives in a hovel and she has to surround herself with nice, new things immediately.

All of our efforts to convince Tika to tactfully limit her number of showers have been met with silence or worse. She even accused me of being jealous that she was going to have so many parties. We were shopping at La Pantelle, one of those useless home stores that carries about two things and they both cost four hundred dollars.

“I don't know, Macie, it seems like your status as an unmarried female is clouding your judgment.”

“My what?” I put down a silver salt mill, but not before gawking at the price tag: $136.

“You know, how you're single and all. Waiting for Mr. Right to save you. Well, maybe you think I'm having too many parties because you are so far away from being married yourself.”

Tika carries herself with confidence and flashes a frequent smile when speaking. Then, with a flip of her glossy, dark brown hair, Tika will spew some awful statement that makes you feel as if you've been slapped. I've seen her do it to salesclerks, her hairdresser, and the owner of the car-repair shop where she takes her little German coupe. I guess it was only a matter of time before she turned on me.

“Tika,” I said, my voice squeaky. “What did you just say?”

By this time, she had already moved on to the forty-dollar tea towels imported from Switzerland. “Hmmm?” she said, not looking at me.

“You know what you said, and it's untrue. And mean,” I said, trying not to cry. Tika does not know a thing about Avery—she doesn't even know I am dating someone—but what she said stung anyway.

“Well, I am sorry if it hurt your feelings, but I just have to wonder why you are so eager to ruin my happiness.” Tika walked past me toward the exit. “Let's go. You can register me here later.”

I followed the hateful, spiteful bride because she had the car keys, and also because I knew her venom was not directed at me. Rather, it was most likely a result of Tika's equally hateful and spiteful fiancé, Chet. On the three occasions I had the displeasure to meet Chet, I have seen him critique Tika's hair and weight, ridicule her choice of a reception location (she later changed it), and make fun of her mother's side of the family. He's a real prince.

We do not often see the fiancé, but sometimes, when we do, it makes me feel sorry for the bride, no matter how awful she is on her own. Our little excursion to La Pantelle was not one of those times, but it did make me think about money and its effect on people. Avery's mother did not look very happy, but she was not ugly to strangers. Tika crossed the line somewhere, sometime, a long time ago.

As I wander through the department store, picking up piece after piece of stainless out of the cushioned drawers, I remember how Tika demanded that I find just the right sweet-tea spoon. What would someone like her do if she did not get her way? I really did not want to find out, so I call Jasmine over.

“Macie, dear. Finding everything to your liking?” Jasmine asks.

“Ah, no, unfortunately. I am on a mission to find a pattern with sweet-tea spoons.”

Jasmine shifts into sales mode. “What about Currant? Bethelwaite?”

I nod. “This bride has seen it all. She wants something different. I was thinking that we might have to special-order.”

“Okay,” Jasmine says and rubs her forehead. “Tell me about her.”

“She's about twenty-three. Dark hair. Little tiny lips. Big eyes. Likes old things. Lives in a bungalow.”

“Rich?”

“You have to ask?” I laugh and Jasmine joins me.

“Is her mama involved?”

“Yep.”

Jasmine reaches into her pocket for a small walkie-talkie. “Juan, please bring me Casey Kane's new line. It's not display-ready yet. Just send up the box.”

A few minutes later, one of the stock boys brings a narrow silver-colored cardboard box to Jasmine. I eye it greedily. This could be the solution to my problem.

Jasmine opens the box with one practiced flip of her fingernail. She slides the five-piece set into her hand. Each piece is individually wrapped in plastic to protect the stainless steel from scratching. As Jasmine pokes a hole in the knife bag, I exhale quietly. This could be the set.

The knife is weighty but delicate, with an elegant curve. A thin line forms a bit of drama in the design, but other than that, it is very functional, almost sparse. There is a historical feel to the pattern. I can immediately see Tika, Chet, and their mean friends using this knife to stab fresh kill.

“And there's a sweet-tea spoon?” I ask, daring to breathe.

“You got it. I'll place an order for twelve.” Jasmine smiles and slides the knife back into its wrapper. “The pattern is called Anderson.”

“I'll take that one, if you have it in the system already.”

“Macie, for you girl, I'll fudge the rules a tad. Show it to Her Highness and get it back to me by Saturday. That's when it goes on the floor. If I'm not here when you come in, just give it to one of my staff.”

I practically yelp and give Jasmine a hug. This is one more task checked off the list of Ms. Gimme. I call Maurice on the way out to the parking lot.

“I've got the pattern!”

“Well, what took you so long? It's just a teaspoon, Macie.” Maurice's voice sounds flat.

“What's up, Maurice?”

My boss pauses. “Tika just rang. She wants to schedule two more parties—a luncheon for her coworkers and a shower at her great aunt's nursing home out in Snellville.”

“But the coworkers are already invited to, like, four or five other showers.”

“Exactly.”

I reach my car, check the backseat for bad men, and unlock the door. “So, what did you say?”

“I told her sternly that her behavior was unbecoming. And that this was bordering on vulgar.”

I crank on the air-conditioning. “Wow, you said all of that?”

Maurice's voice softens slightly. “Well, I may have used more gentle language.”

“I thought so.”

Maurice inhales. “Anyway, I think we may be getting fired.”

“You're kidding! Just for trying to save her embarrassment? And from being inducted into the Greed Hall of Fame?”

“I think she likes the attention, Mace. That's all it is. She sees herself as the center of everything, flowers blooming—you know, all of that wedding drivel—and all eyes focused on her. It's more than she's going to get from Shet.”

“His name is Chet.”

“I know,” Maurice says.

Leaning back against the seat, I sigh. The triumphant flatware pattern moment is a distant memory. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Well, part of me says to forget the whole thing. Who needs this headache? But the other part of me says this is a big challenge, and that intrigues me.”

All that intrigues me is how and why I find myself in wedding craziness over and over. One minute I'm happy about a spoon, the next minute I'm fretting about maybe getting fired by a gift-loving bride. Are there any happy brides? Any at all? Surely somewhere, a bride-to-be sits quietly, dreaming of her day. I drive away from the department store where, no doubt, several bridal types are heading right now, each looking for the perfect teaspoon.

*   *   *

The next day, after I finish early with wedding errands for a few of our upcoming brides, I call Iris and discover she is just wrapping up her monthly pantry ordering for Cake Cake. Tired of thinking about mounds of butter, flour, and sugar, Iris is ripe for a trip to Mr. Smoothie. I tell her I will swing by the studio.

I find Iris hunched over a calculator and her laptop. Since it is a Monday, the studio lacks the smell of fresh-baked cake. Even though we are heading out in a few minutes for sweet smoothies, I am disappointed. Iris notices my furtive glances and nods her head toward the stainless-steel refrigerator.

“There's some pound cake I'm experimenting with if you want it.”

With no further invitation needed, I pounce. Iris is trying out all sorts of recipes in anticipation of opening up a satellite Cake Cake north of town. She will continue to churn out her fabulous wedding cakes in town. The new store will have bakery items to go, specialty orders, and other tasty treats.

“Have you thought of a name for the new place?” I ask with my mouth full. The pound cake is light and lemony. Our smoothies are looking like a thing of the past.

“How about ‘Cake Cake to Go Go'?” Iris looks up from her laptop. “What do you think?”

“I love it!”

“Now, all I have to do is find the right location, hire a pastry chef and staff, train everyone, and still find time to keep my real business afloat. Remind me why I am doing this again?” Iris drops her head onto her hands.