Toss the Bride (25 page)

“They are friends of Evelyn's, as I mentioned, and they are thinking that it is better to support her rather than lose her. An older daughter has already run off with some sort of guitar player.”

I flipped through the file, noting that Kimmie had been educated in Europe until ninth grade and had traveled extensively in South and Central America. When she was thirteen, she started her own baby-sitting business. “Sounds like she's kind of mature for her age at least,” I said.

“Yes and no. Anyway, let's toss her and move on to the next one. If we treat Kimmie nicely now, maybe she'll use us for her next wedding.”

I frowned at Maurice. “That's rude, Maurice. Let's give her the benefit of the doubt.”

Maurice placed his empty espresso cup off to the side of our pile of papers and sighed. “You're right. I am sorry. It's just that I've been so cynical lately about love.”

“Things will get better, they will,” I said weakly. A greeting card sentiment was not what my boss needed, but I did not know what else to say.

Maurice looked up, a tentative smile on his face for the first time. “Where are my manners? Congratulations on your engagement. I cannot believe I forgot to say something.”

It felt weird to talk about marriage with Maurice's own union on the rocks, but I chatted with him for a few minutes about the beach trip and Avery's proposal. I dreaded the inevitable question, and it was not long before he delivered it.

“So, when's the big day?” Maurice asked, eyebrows raised.

Later in the week, when I am with Kimmie, I think about the unartful way I dodged the question with Maurice. I hemmed and hawed, eventually half-lying to get out of answering the truth. What was I supposed to say? “Well, Maurice, it's like this: I am afraid of turning into one of our freakishly selfish, inconsiderate, and mean brides.”

But of course I said nothing, and my reward is that I get to drive Kimmie around town for another hour instead of facing my very real problems. When I am with the child bride, time seems to stop and every little thing becomes very important.

“Macie, do you think the salmon should be wrapped in the banana leaves or just left on the plate all by its little lonesome?”

Forcing myself to pay attention, I examine the two plates in front of me at Kimmie's parents' club. The salmon with the banana leaves is exotic, but the plate with the salmon solo looks pretty darn good, too. I run my finger along the gold-edged charger ringing the banana leaves salmon. “This one I think.”

The club's food and beverage manager scribbles furiously on a clipboard. “And the starch?”

“Do you have a nice polenta?” I ask, my mind a million miles away from this stuffy club with its hobnailed leather chairs and hovering kitchen staff.

Kimmie wrinkles her nose. “What about french fries?”

We get through the rest of the tasting fairly quickly. I simply make most of the decisions, knowing Kimmie's mother and father will not mind. When I met them for our initial meeting, they just said to keep the whole affair “under a low six figures.” Kimmie could buy a whole boatload of french fries with that budget.

I quickly discover that a younger bride is not as polished in the art of being nasty, but she is quickly learning her trade. At the department store linen counter, Kimmie sniffs to the poor clerk that her selection pales in comparison with the fine boutiques of London. When we stop in for a consultation at the stationery store for Kimmie's thank-you notes, the store manager is told that ecru, not cream white, is the card stock of choice for brides everywhere except Atlanta.

I do what I can to minimize my junior bride's warpath. Smiling brightly, I take her arm and steer her away from slack-jawed clerks. I try to model good behavior, much like Avery models good sportsmanship to the boys on the tennis court. Winning isn't about jumping up and down, he tells them. Torturing store clerks is bad form, I inform Kimmie.

By the end of our third afternoon together, I am worn out. I decide to take a break from my eighteen-year-old charge for a day to help Iris wade through pastry chef résumés. I know she needs the help, and it will keep my mind off of Avery.

Iris posted the job opening for her new store on several culinary Web sites and she has been overwhelmed by the response. Apparently, there are a lot of talented and unemployed people out there who make five-star goodies.

“Macie, the proper word is pastry or cake or brownie, not ‘goody.' I think hanging out with Miss Teen Bride has dumbed down your vocabulary,” Iris says crossly the next day at her studio. She sifts through a dozen résumés and several brochures that lay on her desk. A stack of unopened envelopes sits nearby.

“Get with it, graybeard,” I say, imitating Kimmie's pert voice. “Sometimes you are
so
twenty-seven!”

“Forgive me, oh wise one. I forgot that you have the world figured out.” Iris pauses, distracted by one of the résumés. “Oh, look at this goody. He's at Quelle Fromage right now, which is impressive enough, but check out his picture.”

I walk over to her desk and peer down at a catering brochure for Quelle Fromage, one of the city's busiest bakery-restaurants in Midtown. One picture shows a handsome, tanned pastry chef standing next to a tall wedding cake. Quelle Fromage makes an amazing cheese muffin dotted with imported Gouda from Amsterdam. I melt when I eat this treat.

“I don't know,” I say to Iris. “Is hiring someone because he looks tasty sound business practice? Just a thought.”

Iris gives me a fake pout. “You mean I can't hire and fire on the basis of looks? Come on.”

I take a stack of the résumés rolling out of the printer and flip through the pages. Most everyone has studied somewhere impressive or interned under big-time head chefs. I try to picture the perfect person for Cake Cake to Go Go. He or she should be creative, a hard worker, and someone who is okay being left on their own since Iris will be across town. They should also be liberal with the free handouts, as I might be stopping in from time to time.

“What about him?” I ask, handing her a two-page résumé. “This guy attached some pictures of specialty cakes. He definitely has a sense of humor.”

Iris scans the document and then puts it in the “keep” pile. “I like his use of color and space. See the way he pulls the eye into the top tier?”

We work like this for another hour or so. Some of the candidates Iris rejects without another glance. Reputations get around, she informs me. Others are not experienced enough. One woman mailed Iris a piece of cake, urging her to try it. “Ugh,” she says, before dropping the squashed package into the trash can.

In the end, Iris selects four finalists and gives me the task of setting up the interviews. I pretend to be her assistant and call the four, telling them that Iris Glen would very much like to interview them, and when would they be free?

“I like having you make the first call,” Iris says. “It seems more professional. If I called, I would start blabbing on and on about how scared I am to expand and how they would be crazy to give me a try but oh, you know, could you start tomorrow?” She kicks her feet up onto the desk and drops the pile of rejected résumés into the trash.

“You are so brave,” I say, settling into a chair. “I can't imagine running my own business.”

“Didn't you just do that very thing when Maurice flaked out on you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing. From what you told me, you contacted all of your upcoming dopey brides, landed a movie star's wedding, and kept all of the current brides happy like nothing ever happened. That's running your own business, even if you don't think it is.”

For once, I shut up and listen to Iris. There may be some truth to what she says. I did shoulder all of the day-in, day-out tasks that Maurice usually performed. I chatted with brides, consoled them, humored them, and when necessary, chastised them. I had been to see Baker Land three times since our first meeting, each time feeling more confident in my position. Although I was still uncomfortable wedged between the taskmaster Kathleen and the fairly nice Baker, I was beginning to stand up for myself.

“I never thought of it like that,” I say.

“And speaking of men who go cuckoo, what is the latest with your absentee fiancé?”

“He is not absent, we're just taking things a little slowly. I need to get my head together, you know, really figure things out.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and look up at Iris, daring her to question my position.

Of course, she does. Iris crosses her arms over her chest. “Macie, that is pure drivel, and you know it. You've figured out the problem—you don't want to turn into one of those Frankenbrides. Okay, we get it. Now what are you going to do about it?”

I know Iris is right. She usually is, much to my chagrin. I have spoken to Avery several times since I self-diagnosed my bride paranoia. He believes me, Avery being the loyal soul that he is, but I know the fixing part is up to me. Holding me close before he left for the Virgin Islands, Avery said he would marry me tomorrow if I wanted. When he said those words, my heart started to pound.

I feel close to tears when I ask Iris, “What if the problem I have is with Avery and not just being a bride?”

Iris smiles at me, a touch of sympathy in her eyes. “Then, you had better figure that out, don't you think?”

*   *   *

Leaving Iris's comfy studio, I feel a little lost. I do not want to go home or work on any weddings. Avery is not due back for a couple of days, but even if he were home, things are so strained that hanging out together would just be terrible.

Maybe a smoothie will help cheer me up. I drive over to Mr. Smoothie on Fifth Street and order a large cantaloupe blended with soy milk. Mr. Smoothie has no inside tables, just a tiny order window with the day's flavors written on a chalkboard and several painted benches outside.

I pick a bench in the shade and sip my drink, turning over my dilemma in my head. A few families walk up to the order window. I examine the couples to figure out if they look happy or bored or simply content. It is hard to say, of course, but I think they all might be a wee bit tired of life. It's no scientific study, but a slump of the shoulders here, an extra-large mocha fudge smoothie there, and the casual observer starts to see things.

One of the women catches me staring at her, and I look away, only slightly embarrassed. I know it is wrong to make sweeping generalizations about complete strangers, but I do not know what else to do. There are no titles in the bookstore that give me the advice I need.
Engaged but Crazy?
and
Got the Ring and Totally Chicken
have not been written. I am waiting.

I have considered calling my mother for some advice, but I do not want to pop her bubble. My parents are proud of their little girl for making it in the big city and for landing (Mom's word) a nice southern boy. They dream of grandchildren. There is no way I will call home to Cutter and tell them I am having a serious case of cold feet. Trouble is, I am running out of excuses for stalling my mother. She wants to crank up the ancient wedding machinery that rests in almost every female's breast. Mom has even asked me for Mrs. Leland's phone number. On my parents' next visit to Atlanta, they want to meet my future in-laws. That will be something to see, my parents and Avery's parents chatting over drinks on the veranda. It will give my folks something to talk about for months back home.

Growing up, I did not know a single rich person. Everyone was sort of just getting by, living in modest homes, and driving used cars. It was not until I moved to Atlanta that I witnessed displays of wealth on a daily basis. I also saw how stacks of cash affected people. From my perspective, it seems like the more money someone has, the more they want, and excessive wealth shelters people from reality.

I wonder how Avery and I will handle money issues when we are married. I have taken care of myself ever since I got out of high school, and the idea of pooling funds with someone else is strange. Even still, I know marriage is about sharing everything. I cannot do it alone anymore.

My cell rings and I am surprised to see the Lelands' number. I answer it and hear Mrs. Leland's breezy voice.

“Macie, dear, are you terribly busy? I was wondering if you could stop by the house. There are some wedding details that we should take care of today.”

I am shocked to hear from Avery's mother. She's never called me before.

“I'm not too far from you. I can be there in thirty minutes.”

“Excellent, dear. See you then.”

After I hang up, I finish the rest of the smoothie and try to figure out what Mrs. Leland could possibly want from me. I did not even know she had my cell number. I immediately feel nervous, although I am willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe we can be friends, or I can be like a daughter to Mrs. Leland, even though she is not the easiest person to get along with. She floats from massage appointment to tennis game to dinner party with hardly a turn of her head. She does not seem to be affected by other people's hardships or their joys. I saw her the week after we became engaged, and she hardly mentioned her son's upcoming wedding. Of course,
I
hardly mention her son's upcoming wedding, but that's a different story.

It is midafternoon. Mrs. Leland has probably just awakened from her “beauty nap.” She takes a little siesta almost every day. It is something she has done for years. Avery said that when he was young, he knew from three to four o'clock was the time to get away with mischief.

It is strange to approach the Lelands' front door without Avery leading the way. But I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell. Amina, the Lelands' housekeeper, opens the door and smiles at me. “Pleased to see you, Macie,” she says, and gestures for me to come inside.

The house is cool and I blink for a moment, as my eyes become accustomed to less light. I ask Amina if Mrs. Leland is available, and she giggles.