Bride Has Two Faces: A Wedding Caper Sequel

by Briggs, Laura

  “Red roses are so simple, don’t you think?” she said to Beatrice. There was something in her voice which suggested it was a trifle too simple. Beatrice cursed her suspicious nature.

  “It’s nice,” she answered, with a forced smile. The rest of the guests within conversational distance made polite murmurs of assent as the conversation drifted away from the general topic of party decor.

  “Are you excited, Adrien?” asked one of the guests. “It must be a little weird, doing double duty as a maid of honor and a bride to be.”

  Adrien hesitated. “It’s been a challenge sometimes,” she said. “But it won’t last much longer,” she said. “And Stefan and I plan a very traditional, quiet ceremony.”

  “You can tell by the flowers, it’s true,” said Charly. She was laughing, but her tone was a little too hearty. Adrien looked in her direction, her face darkening.

  “You've probably finished arranging the music, at least,” said another guest. “Isn’t Stefan's friend a pianist? One of those performers who does concertos at parties and so forth?”

  “We’re not planning on any concertos,” Adrien said, with a little laugh. “I prefer contemporary music. We have a song–‘Isn’t it Romantic’, actually–and there are some others that would go nicely with it.”

  Charly had wandered towards the appetizer buffet, holding her plate in one hand. Beatrice trailed behind, dutifully planning to shift the topic to the appointment for the cake tasting tomorrow. The pinch of her high-heeled shoes was a blessed reminder this day was almost over for her.

  Why hadn’t she finished her major in forestry? If she had, she would be hiking through a mossy forest, gazing at scenery from a fire tower instead of a scene of polite guests sampling stuffed mushrooms.

  Instead, she was leaning forward to whisper, “I think you should lighten up on Adrien. She seems a little unhappy, talking about this wedding.”

  “Which one? Mine or hers?” Charly sounded unconcerned. “I think Adrien’s too sensitive. She’s being a stick, insisting on planning this thing while she’s got other responsibilities. Did you know, she hasn’t even picked a place for my shower–”

  “She’s just excited,” said Beatrice. “Just like you. Come on, you can understand that, Charly.”

  She was facing Charly with these words, searching her face for signs of comprehension. “I think Adrien could use some help with this–or at least a little slack. I mean, she’s probably eager to get married, but she feels drowned out by your plans.”

  “Well, I was first, Beatrice,” said Charly. “She just has to wait her turn. Fair is fair.”

  “But we’re not talking about fairness,” said Beatrice, whose fingers were idly toying with the ferns surrounding the cake centerpiece. “Just being a little understanding.” Her smile was practically pleading–a strange feeling for Beatrice, who wasn’t a fan of begging for anything.

  Charly hesitated, silent as she held the serving knife from the caviar platter between her fingers. “Do you know what my mother used to say about things like this?” she said. “She used to say, ‘Charly, you have to get what every opportunity offers you. Don't let anyone push you aside in life, just 'cause they think they're better.’ I've always taken her advice since then.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Beatrice, with a little half-laugh. “She meant classes and job opportunities, right? Grasping success.”

  “Maybe,” said Charly. “But I think she'd say it goes for weddings, too, don't you?”

  With that, she took the blade of the knife and cut a streak through the side of the cake. The white icing parted, revealing layers of vanilla and cream. A hacked-off icing rose fell to the table, unnoticed by any of the guests engaged in chatting nearby.

  With a dimpled smile for Beatrice’s benefit, she placed the knife next to the caviar mound again. “That’s better,” she said. As her cellphone trilled in her purse, she pulled it out and answered it.

  “Mama?” she said. “Of course now’s a good time to talk about your hotel reservation...” She brushed past her wedding planner, who was staring at the mutilated cake as if it were the corpse of her advice.

  *****

  It was time to talk to her boss. Handling malicious behavior–this definitely qualified as a reason to accept Gwendolen’s offer of advice. Beatrice shouldered her bag more determinedly as she climbed the stairs to Creative Coordination’s main entrance.

  Joan was busy typing, a bulge visible in her cheek where a piece of gum was tucked. At the sound of the door opening, she hastily concealed it in a wrapper hidden beneath a stack of files before glancing up to see Beatrice.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Welcome back. You’ve been running yourself ragged, at least according to the pile of receipts you’ve sent me.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “I think my client has a tendency to change her mind,” she said. “We’ve been over the flowers twice now–but I think she’s finally committed to the Simmon’s Place catering.” She sneaked a glance in the direction of Gwen’s office. “Is the boss in?”

  “She’s with a client, but they’re almost finished,” said Joan. “Do you need something. Trouble with your client?” She raised her eyebrows as she popped the gum from her wrapper back into her mouth. “That surprises me, since the last time you asked advice about anything was how to work the copier.”

  “Only after I emptied half a carton of ink by mistake,” answered Beatrice, begrudgingly. “So I thought this time, I might get some early insights.”

  “Then there’s a problem,” said Joan, her tone filled with suggestion. She propped her chin on her hands and waited, anticipating something juicy.

  “It’s just–” Beatrice began. She heard the sound of the door closing behind her again, this time for someone else.

  “Hello,” said Joan, in the bright tone she reserved for people outside the firm.

  “Hello.” Beatrice recognized Daniel’s voice, her body whirling towards him in surprise. He was standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his blazer. A tie emblazoned with the image of a space shuttle takeoff was displayed against the background of his white shirt.

  “I’m the groom,” he said to Joan, then grinned at Beatrice. “Surprised to see me here?”

  “A little,” she answered, her laugh faint and hollow. “Definitely surprised.”

  “Today’s expedition, you have me along to help,” he said. “Charly said there was no way she was meeting that intimidating country club director without me along.”

  “Really,” said Beatrice. She glanced in the direction of Gwen’s office. If she could just have a few minutes with Ms. Miller, it would provide a little reassurance. Maybe Gwendolen would tell her having the groom present was the perfect way to keep the bride in line.

  “Yeah, then we have ballroom dancing lessons–be glad you escape that one,” he said to Beatrice. “Although I guess you arranged the whole thing, didn’t you?” He looked at her intently.

  “That’s what you wanted,” she said. “The orchestra. Charly’s wish.”

  “It was my wish,” Charly answered. “That’s why Daniel is the sweetest guy in the world.” She was in the doorway, her smile radiant above a rose chiffon scarf wound around her neck.

  Beatrice returned it in kind, although her lips felt frozen on her face. “You’re here, too?” she said. “Ready for the big meeting?”

  “Floor charts and serving staff and parking–all that good stuff,” beamed Charly. “It should be a breeze with you to keep us in line, Beatrice.” This, with a wink.

  The door to Gwendolen’s office opened, Beatrice’s boss emerging. “Ms. Conners,” she said. “And Mr. Wilson. What a pleasant surprise to have you drop by. Are you meeting Beatrice here to go over wedding plans?”

  “Actually, we’re just on our way out,” said Daniel. “Finalizing the details with the reception site today.” He glanced at Beatrice–it seemed as if everyone was staring at her, waiting for her cue.

  “Right,” she said
. “Let’s get going.”

  The tendency to daydream had never been one of Beatrice’s failings. So she had no excuse for the fact that at the meeting, her mind was distracted from the details, even from the sound of Charly’s bubbly laughter–Charly, whose charms didn’t morph into a malicious act at any point.

  Daniel’s laugh hadn’t changed, she noticed. Nor had his habit of softly thumping his fists on his knees whenever his mind strayed from the conversation at hand. Closing her eyes for a second, she saw his serious, earnest posture at a lecture on tornados he dragged her to their junior year. During one of the films on the destructive powers of force winds, she realized she griped his hand so tightly her knuckles had turned white, yet he never complained or withdrew.

  That was the year she switched to history, as she recalled. Giving up altogether on economics ... or was it botany at that point? Time seemed to have jumbled all the events of her life together in her head.

  Before bed that night, she fished a shoebox from beneath her bed, popping it open carefully as she balanced it on her lap. Inside, an assortment of photographs and a bracelet pass from a rock festival–music, not geology–and a handful of other souvenirs from her college years.

  She lifted a VHS tape from its depths, the self-recorded kind, and popped it into the battered VCR beneath her television. Hugging her pajama-clad legs close to her chest, she watched the image appear onscreen.

  Against a blue background turned cheesy weather map, Daniel’s youthful figure beamed at the camera. His hair was cut short and bristly in contrast to the semesters afterwards, his shirt fronted with a skinny tie depicting Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

  “Good evening, this is Dan the Weatherman with the six o’ clock forecast. Skies are partly cloudy tonight...” His voice cracked slightly, his tone pitched too high as he read from the teleprompter. His hand gestures were a little too eager as he motioned towards the bobbing clouds, a grinning sun generated by a computer.

  He was really, really awful; she knew this, and yet, she couldn’t watch his enthusiastic performance enough times. When Dan had watched the footage after his class, he had taken the tape out and tossed it in the garbage.

  “Don’t do that,” she had protested, scrambling to dig it out from beneath wadded paper and candy bar wrappers.

  “It stinks, Bee,” he answered, running his fingers through his hair until it stood on end. “Man, what am I gonna do if I’m gonna work in this field?” He had laughed, but she could hear the pain in his voice.

  “You’ll get better,” she said. “Practice a little. That’s all.” She turned the tape over in her hands as she spoke, feeling a little uncertain about this first glimpse of doubt in Daniel’s unwavering passion.

  On the tape wavering on the screen of Beatrice’s present-day television, the clouds vanished from around Daniel as the seven-day forecast gave way to the moon and stars graphics and night temperatures.

  “That’s your weather for this evening. Tune in at eleven for an extended outlook for tomorrow’s weather and I’ll see you tomorrow morning at six a.m.” The screen froze as Beatrice pressed the pause button.

  “Good night, Daniel,” she said. Flipping the television off, she curled up on the comforter and closed her eyes.

  *****

  “Here you are, Ms. Conners.” The bakery sales assistant produced the cake from an enclosed display case. A chilled wedding cake, its fondant frosting perfect with pale pink petals and gilded leaves. A sheen like glossy porcelain even as the sales assistant’s knife was poised to cut a slice.

  “It’s perfect, Charly,” said Beatrice. “I mean, look at it. It’s a masterwork.”

  “It is,” said Charly, softly. “I really think so. You’re right, Beatrice.” Until now, her expression had been inscrutable to Beatrice, but now it was illuminated by a brilliant smile.

  In her mind, Beatrice was performing a little dance of victory. Crisis averted, another item checked off her list in the road to wedding success.

  Charly drew a fluttering breath as the knife cut a thin slice from the display cake and laid it on a plate. Three vanilla sheet cakes layered together with citrus filling. One pink sugar petal clung to the fondant surface as the assistant slid the plate forward. Charly’s beaming expression melted away at the sight.

  “It’s vanilla,” she said.

  “It is,” the assistant answered. “Vanilla is our most popular flavor. The traditional choice for the bridal cake.”

  “I know that,” Charly answered, a thread of irritation woven beneath her pleasant tones. “But I requested lemon. When I asked if there was a sample available in lemon, they said yes. Didn’t they, Beatrice?” She glanced at her planner, waiting for this statement to be confirmed.

  “But we never make this cake in lemon, Ms. Conners,” explained the assistant. “I’m sorry if there was some mistake, but we only have vanilla sheet cakes available–”

  “Well, can’t you make some other kind available?” Charly interrupted. “I mean, how hard is it to make a teensy little lemon cake–”

  “I’m afraid it’s not available in any other flavor,” the assistant answered. “It’s the house specialty.”

  This was an age-old dilemma in the wedding industry: the reluctance of certain bakers to alter their designs or their signature recipes. Beatrice was accustomed to this, even with a history of mostly birthdays and business events.

  Charly, however, was not. Her shoulders had assumed a stubborn pose, even as Beatrice touched her arm to intervene.

  “Look, I’m sure we can work this out,” Beatrice began, applying the gentle powers of persuasion. “Maybe if we could talk to the baker about a little modification–”

  “The cake is perfectly fine the way it is.” The baker emerged from the kitchen, dusting his hands on his icing-stained apron. Right away, Beatrice spotted a certain firmness in his manner–clearly, he was insulted by Charly’s insistence at changing his beloved creation.

  “This is a perfect cake,” said the baker. “The lady with you said so herself. Do you want it or do you want to see something else?” His tone was challenging as he faced Charly.

  Until the baker’s final remarks, there had been signs of a pout, possibly tears in Charly’s eyes. As she listened to his words, a sullen expression appeared on her face.

  “What’ll it be?” The baker was looking at Beatrice, not Charly. The bride-to-be raised her face with a brief smile directed at the speaker; then raised her fist and drove it through the top of the flawless cake ne one slice. Once, twice, then a third time. Reducing it to a pile of pulp, a smear of fondant and custard.

  “Not if it’s not lemon.” Her voice was quiet, a touch of malice beneath the sweet surface.

  The sales assistant’s mouth fell open, but no sound emerged. The baker’s eyes were wide, switching with rage from Beatrice to Charly.

  “I am so sorry,” Beatrice began. “Please, really–” No further words seemed to appear in her brain, made blank by the sight of Charly wiping her knuckles clean with a napkin.

  Charly wasn’t merely a jealous bride. She was definitely psychotic.

  *****

  Ten minutes later, Charly has dissolved into tears, sobbing at the bakery counter as the silent sales assistant watched with dismay. Even the baker himself produced a dish cloth and offered it to her.

  “Look, don’t cry,” he said, “it’s not a big deal, just a cake. I know this stuff is stressful–”

  “I j-just wanted citrus,” she sobbed. “I didn’t think that was so hard...” The proffered white cloth only made her sob harder. A sales assistant from behind the pastry counter timidly approached and put an arm around Charly’s shoulders.

  It was as if time had altered itself somehow; Beatrice stared at the scene, amazed at her client’s transformation from baker’s worst nightmare to a pitiable customer who received sympathy from everyone around her. The squashed cake was summarily dismissed.

  In a daze, Beatrice touched her client’s shoulder. “
Charly,” she said. “I think maybe we should come back another time–”

  “We’ll call you about the cake later,” one of the assistants whispered to Beatrice as she steered Charly towards the door. Was it an act–would Charly stop crying as if by magic the moment they were outside?

  It wasn’t, apparently. Charly bawled the rest of the cab ride to her apartment, where she ended up in tears on her sofa. Tears of anger or despair, it was impossible for Beatrice to determine as she filled a glass of water from the kitchen tap, glancing over her shoulder at the distraught client in the other room.

  She heard the buzz of Charly’s cell phone, a twittering sound that seemed to last for ages before it was answered.

  “Hello?” Charly’s voice was muffled. “Oh, Danny, it was awful. They had done such a terrible job, the whole thing was wrong.” She released a loud sniffle. “Well, for starters, it was the wrong flavor–the one thing I requested, and they got it wrong. When I asked them to fix it they were so rude...well, I just lost it and started crying then and there...”

  Beatrice leaned closer to the door. She was eavesdropping, but she didn’t care at the moment. The sound of Charly’s unhappy tones, the faint murmur of Daniel’s reassurances. She felt her heart sink with the realization that the entire incident was simply vanishing under the rug.

  “I know ... maybe they’ll decide to fix it.” Charly daubed her nose with a tissue as she spoke. “They said they’d call Beatrice. She’ll make them change their minds, I’m sure.” As she listened to the reply, the first traces of a dimpled smile returned.

  “Love you–bye-bye.” As the call ended, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Stealing forward, Beatrice placed the glass of water on a nearby table and crept towards the door. Noiselessly, she shouldered her bag as she reached for the knob.

  Charly opened one eye. “You’ll call the baker’s tomorrow, won’t you?” Her voice was froggy from crying, but her eye was firmly focused on the planner frozen on the threshold of escape.