Bride Has Two Faces: A Wedding Caper Sequel

by Briggs, Laura

  “Papa’s business keeps him pretty tied up,” she said. “And mama won’t leave him alone for anything. That’s why they just want to come up for a couple days. Get to know Daniel a little before the big day.”

  “Your mother doesn’t want to help you plan all this?” Beatrice tried to suppress the skepticism in her voice, although she knew from coworkers' stories it was a blessing in disguise to have no mother of the bride present.

  Charly shrugged. “Mama would be pleased with anything nice,” she answered. “I send her pictures practically every day. She’ll feel just like she was here for the whole thing, only without all the stress.” She had given Beatrice a big smile with this statement–a bit bigger than usual, Beatrice couldn’t help but notice. “You can come with us to dinner and catch us up on all your ideas. She’d be just thrilled.”

  So Beatrice had made the arrangements, anticipating a harried evening of listening to the long stories and nitpicky critiques of appetizers and cake choices. She sensed some shyness on the part of Bianca and Gil in the presence of their daughter, as if they felt she had risen above them. They adored her, clearly–maybe everyone did, given the look in Daniel’s eyes as well. Everyone but herself, that is.

  As they entered the dining room, she saw a look of surprise cross Bianca’s face when they spotted the wedding party seated around a table.

  “Why as I live and breath, isn’t that photo on the fridge at home one of you and–” she began.

  “Mama, it’s not,” Charly shushed her. “Some of you already know my folks,” she said to the guests at the table. “Clauda and Lisa, Adrien, these are my parents, Gil and Bianca.” An exchange of handshakes followed, a few embraces between the members of the party.

  Chairs were rearranged to accommodate the new arrivals. Stefan shoved his closer to Adrien, allowing Charly and Daniel to squeeze in beside them. Beatrice found herself wedged beside Lisa, her portfolio pressed into her side.

  She noticed Charly’s mother stealing looks at the guests, particularly at Adrien and Stefan. Her brow furrowed quizzically as her gaze moved back to her daughter. If Charly noticed her mother’s confusion, she ignored it. Her eyes were only for Daniel.

  Beatrice’s thoughts were gloomy despite the merriment around her. The feelings of bitterness were inexplicable–just because Daniel seemed so happy with the site of his future wedding? It made her ashamed of herself that she could be so petty. It was her job to be happy that they were happy; a part of the package, the key to her future at Gwendolen Miller’s firm.

  “Earth to Beatrice.” Daniel was looking at her across the table. She glanced up from her plate, a startled expression on her face.

  “What?” she said. He smiled, puzzled.

  “I asked you a question, like, five times. What was the name of that chemistry professor with the long chin? The one who whistled during his lectures?”

  “Mildredge,” she answered. “You remember how he liked to use limericks in all his lectures? That time we–” She cut off abruptly, the tide of memories stopped with the realization that this incident involved her and Daniel kissing beneath the sprinklers pouring in the building’s hallway. Instead of finishing the statement, she burst into a fit of coughing.

  “Beatrice?” Daniel reached for her hand at the same time Lisa began pounding her on the back. She nodded her head, pretending that it was working.

  “What was the story?” asked Charly, looking confused. “What happened?” She glanced at Daniel.

  “We, uh, erased half the words on the board,” said Beatrice, after drawing a breath. “Me and Daniel. Just to mess him up when he tried to repeat it from memory. He got so flustered, he completely messed up on the experiment he was demonstrating.” This was only the beginning of the story, a vastly altered version; but a better one, she decided. Given the presence of Charly’s adoring family.

  “Sounds like fun,” said Charly. “I’ll bet you were a lot of fun when you were in college.” She was squeezing Daniel’s hand, although she was looking at Beatrice as she spoke. Beatrice offered her a weak smile. For some reason, not finishing the story made her sadder than remembering it in the first place.

  “We were a lot of fun,” said Daniel.

  *****

  “Would you call for another bottle of wine, Dan?” Charly drew her legs into the whicker chair as she curled up, an oversized pair of sunglasses perched on her nose.

  Daniel didn’t seem to hear her, absorbed in pointing something out about the cloud patterns to a skinny boy whom Beatrice understood was Charly’s younger cousin. The boy was one of several relatives who made the long day trip for the “get to know Daniel” picnic being held in the countryside. Afterwards, Charly’s parents would fly home until the wedding; right now, they were chattering away to the chateau’s guide, a cheerful man who was brushing away the leaves from the wine tasting table.

  Beatrice was sitting in the one spot that seemed to receive cell reception, where her fingers were busy confirming the orchestra for the wedding reception and arranging a cake tasting at the Cup Cake bakery for next week. An unopened email attracted her attention: a note from Gwendolen.

  Hope it’s going well and you're enjoying this process. When I saw these clients, I thought they would be the perfect opportunity for you, since I didn’t want to give you the biggest challenge of your career for a first trial. After all, I know how difficult the first time can be ...”

  Beatrice closed it without finishing the email. Clearly Gwendolen had no idea what she had handed her senior planner-to-be. A future that was teetering on the verge of being a big if that was only possible if she could reconcile herself to Charly’s little habits.

  She watched as Stefan strolled up the steps from the walkway leading down to the scenic walking trails. Adrien was seated on the stone wall, but he didn’t move in her direction. He gazed at her for a moment, then turned away in the direction of Charly. Pausing behind her chair, he said something in a voice too low for Beatrice to hear it. His fingers rested on the wicker back, his fingers caressing the material.

  Charly was still for a moment, then she rose and moved away. Her shoes clattered against the stones of the walkway as she walked towards the family gathering by the wine tasting table. She glanced towards Beatrice in passing.

  “Beatrice, be a dear and get that bottle of wine, would you?” she said. “I want papa to try one of the new wines if they have one handy.”

  Beatrice slipped her planner in her pocket. “Sure,” she answered. She felt the urge to look over her shoulder as she obeyed, moving towards the chateau’s open door, where the kitchen staff who served them lunch were no doubt cleaning up.

  Giving into temptation, she stole a sideways glance. Stefan was now turned towards the view of the countryside below, his steps drifting closer to Adrien. Charly’s voice was audible, normal clear tones as she chatted away with her mother.

  No one was visible in the kitchen when she entered, a platter of half-finished sandwiches on the rustic wood table. She lifted a bottle of wine from the row of vintages Daniel and Charly had ordered for the party, glancing at the label idly.

  When had Daniel become a wine drinker, she wondered. In college, he drank an occasional beer, but his knowledge of wine vintages had been nonexistent. Knowledge of the constellations, of why rain changed colors, yes. Of the flavor of grapes or pressed fruit–that was closer to her college posters of fern patterns and leaf types from her forestry major than anything Daniel ever studied.

  Clutching the bottle against her chest, she moved towards the door, bumping into someone on the way. Daniel was there, as lost in thought as herself until now.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

  “No, it’s me,” she answered. “Addlebrained, not paying attention.” He moved aside for her at the same moment she moved for him, putting them face to face again.

  “Sorry,” she answered, avoiding his eyes as she tucked aside a loose strand of hair.

  “Are you blushing?” he as
ked. “You blushing?”

  “Okay, it’s something new,” she answered. “Not that new is something novel these days.”

  His mouth twisted into a frown. “I know what you mean,” he answered. “You know, until now I never thought about it. How much we all changed.”

  This time when she looked at him, she looked into his eyes. He was gazing at her intently, a mixture of sadness and longing visible.

  They were so close she could smell his cologne; the urge to touch his hair, his face, seemed almost overpowering. Something inside her rebelled at this notion, as if she were a child craving a lollipop in the window of a candy shop.

  “I should go,” she mumbled. Tucking the bottle beneath her arm like a football, she brushed passed him and exited.

  Charly was seated with her cousin and her aunt, chatting away. Adrien was speaking to Charly’s parents, who were listening intently to her conversation.

  “Oh, I haven’t known her very long, not compared to him,” Adrien said. “And Beth knows her well, of course. You know Beth ...” Beside her, Stefan stood silently, his hand gliding along her back. His gaze was trained over her shoulder, in the direction of Charly’s voice.

  Beatrice stood there, watching curiously as Charly raised her eyes. Looking at nothing in particular as she sat perfectly still, as if aware that someone’s eyes were trained on her.

  *****

  Charlene Conners Pittsburgh. Three innocuous words typed into the search engine on Beatrice’s computer. So why did seeing them on the screen make her feel like she was engaged in workplace espionage?

  A little crush on Stefan’s part wasn’t proof of anything more than inappropriate admiration–just as Charly’s behavior at the flower showcase and dress shop might only be bridezilla nerves at work. Those nagging doubts refused to leave Beatrice’s mind, however. Even after she returned from Charly’s family party intact, she felt instinctively that something was wrong. That maybe Daniel was poised to walk into an emotional trap, for instance.

  Her finger poised over the touch pad for a fraction of a second. There was nothing wrong with a little search, right? Wrong, Beatrice. Wrong, wrong... Ignoring her train of thought, she clicked the button.

  A stream of hits appeared for her criteria, the top two consisting of address searches, then a notice about Charly leaving the station. No gossips or scandals appeared anywhere; there wasn’t even a mention of her former engagement–proof that Hank’s story had never made it to the serious stage known as the weddings column in the paper. Or else had been forged by a liquor-fogged brain.

  Hank’s wild-eyed stare had been real, however; and he wasn’t entirely wrong about Charly being less than perfect, since Beatrice had seen evidence that something petty lurked beneath that perfect exterior.

  Reproaching herself for feeling disappointed, she erased the search results. One hand cupped her chin, the rest of her weight supported by her cross-legged position on the floor. Unkempt hair, flannel shorts, those square-cut reading glasses Daniel helped her select in college–wasn’t this the picture of her he remembered? A shameful thought, given her status as his wedding planner.

  She debated going to bed now and putting an end to this affair; then her fingers hovered over the keyboard momentarily. Charlene Conners Mobile, Alabama appeared in the little box. It was worth a try. Charly’s family was from Mobile; she had lived there until college.

  The first few results were for current Charlene Conners in the Mobile area; then the first pieces of the bride’s past appeared. A snippet of an article on Charlene’s homecoming victory with a photo of a crowned blond with a beauty queen smile. A dead chat room thread on a site devoted to local high school students.

  That was a possibility. Beatrice clicked open the site, scrolling past old posts from a graduating class saying farewell. It was amazing they hadn’t scrubbed these threads, given how ancient the material was. Charly’s class was hardly young enough to have the internet enthusiasm of today's graduates.

  Charly, I can’t believe you did this to me. You’ll be sorry someday. I just hope you can forgive yourself. Marlene. Beatrice read it with curiosity, noting an ‘x’ where an emoticon or image had been removed by time.

  Marlene? What offense had she suffered? Not that it was any of her business, of course. Nevertheless, Beatrice copied the information.

  So this had been the problem: she had been using the wrong search criteria. This realization emboldened her even as regret crept across her like a tide, threatening to eclipse her success. Her fingers hastened, typing faster and clicking through possible sites more swiftly.

  Charly’s former social network page, abandoned–with photos removed that Beatrice found only by thumbnail searches, including a wild-looking Charly with her arms around a boy and a bottle of beer clutched in hand. A lost high school paper article buried in the search results, the headline ‘Toni Babbidge Disqualified as Homecoming Queen; Runner-Up Conners Receives Crown.’

  According to the story, the principal had been tipped off about a hidden six-pack of beer tucked in the homecoming queen's locker. Despite her denial she had placed it there, she was disqualified and replaced by Charly, who had campaigned passionately for the crown throughout her senior year.

  Surely there was nothing there at all.

  For the next two days, she was swept up in a blur of effort. Florists were phoned, caterers were consulted, a dozen different table arrangements were sketched, then discarded as Charly inspected them.

  “It’s so hard to be sure,” Charly sighed. “I was thinking ... should the tables be square, maybe? Or round?”

  “They can be either,” said Beatrice, making a greater attempt to be pleasant and patient these days. “Either one. Just let me know and I’ll arrange to rent them.”

  Charly sighed. “Well, maybe round. I’ll talk to Daniel. Maybe this is a decision for him, right?” She chuckled as she flipped open a magazine again. Beatrice studied her with feelings of guilt. What on earth would Charly say if she knew what Beatrice was doing at night? To find out one's wedding planner was engaged in casually spying on their client's past–surely that was the biggest taboo in this business.

  That night, Beatrice sat through five or six rings on the other end of her cell phone before anyone answered. “Yes?” A husky female voice snapped.

  “Hi–Marlene Abbot? This is a friend of Charlene Conners calling.” Beatrice crossed her fingers as she spoke these words.

  She heard a laugh on the other end. “Charlene?” the voice answered. “What does she want? Probably to tell me she’s gettin’ married to some bigshot.”

  “Close, actually,” said Beatrice. “I mean, she is getting married. That’s why I’m calling–I wanted to know if there are any friends who aren’t on the invitation list and your name came up.”

  “Me?” Marlene snorted. “I ain’t coming. Why would she invite me? After cutting me out of her little circle, stealing Buddy like that–”

  “Buddy?” said Beatrice.

  “My boyfriend. She stole him away. No matter what anybody says, it’s true.” The voice on the other end had become bitter. “If that’s what best friends are for, then tell her she can stick it in her–”

  “Well, thanks anyway,” said Beatrice, interrupting. “Bye-bye.” She hung up the phone, a tingling sensation pricking the palms of her hands and fingers.

  She should stop now–what good would any of this do? She wasn’t planning to tell anyone about these things. Not even Daniel–although there was a distinct longing to do so. But what would be the point? Daniel, your fiancé stole her best friend’s boyfriend ... and cheated to become homecoming queen ... she slits up dresses in stores and attracts your friend’s wandering eye. It wasn’t even the sort of thing that a private eye would bother to put in his client’s file.

  Then again, maybe the long-forgotten Toni Babbidge had some thoughts on the last-minute anonymous claim that stripped away her homecoming crown.

  It didn't matter, however; there was
still no reason for Beatrice to pry into someone else's past. She was being crazy, maybe crazier than Charly armed with a razor blade in a dress shop.

  “Do you think Daniel’s wedding gift should be a little sentimental thing? Or something big?” Charly held up a magazine ad for a barbecue grill, a strange insert for one of the dozen or so bridal magazines scattered across her apartment. Beatrice looked up from the pages of the guest list.

  “Either one,” she answered. Adding, jokingly, “In our business, experts say you should measure it by the size of your love.”

  “The big one,” said Charly, firmly.

  *****

  “Oh, Ma,” Beatrice groaned. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  Her mother’s voice registered concern. “What happened?” she demanded. “What happened, sweetie? Did you get fired?”

  “No, I didn’t get fired,” said Beatrice. “It’s just...I’m no good at this. All this helping other people with fabric swatches and flowers. It isn’t me.”

  “This is about Daniel, isn’t it?” Her mother’s tone had grown gentler. “Oh, Beatrice ...”

  “It’s not Daniel,” Beatrice insisted. “He’s fine. I’m fine with his getting married, I really am. I'm just ... not great at planning his wedding, that’s all.”

  “Well, I could have told you that,” answered her mother. “Didn’t I tell you to get somebody else to do this? If you’re good at your job, your boss will promote you without all this extra work, Bee.”

  “Oh, Ma.”

  *****

  “So we picked daisies for the rest of the centerpieces. Daisies mixed in with roses and little yellow lilies on the main table.” Charly was eyeing the flowers on display at Adrien’s engagement party as she spoke, a simple arrangement of red roses and baby’s breath. The centerpiece for the buffet table was a replica of Adrien’s future wedding cake, featuring red roses made from icing, gold-brushed leaves of fondant.