Travel pains Maurice, but the fee for this wedding was apparently too good to pass up. Tallie St. Claire is old money, and her family is sparing no expense for her wedding to a prominent attorney. Of course, all the brides spare no expense, but Tallie is different. She simply has no clue as to how much cash it takes to buy something. And she never carries a dime on her willowy, five-foot-nine frame. I’ve probably shelled out about thirty bucks in smoothies downed by a woman who says, “I left my purse at home.”
I don’t mind bailing Tallie out; I’ve sort of become used to it, like she’s my little sister. Last week, before we left Atlanta, Tallie made a final stop at the exclusive gift shop where she selected the wedding-party gifts. Tallie and her fiancé had picked out top-of-the-line putters for the guys and delicate gold-and-diamond bangles for the women.
“Macie! I need help,” Tallie breathed into the phone.
“What’s up?”
“Well, I’m at the gift shop and they won’t let me take the putters or the bangles.”
My heart quickened. Was something wrong with the order? We were getting close to the wedding date. “Why?”
“They want me to pay for them before I take them,” Tallie said, lowering her voice.
I swallowed a giggle. I like Tallie, but I have to remember that she grew up with the St. Claire name behind her. Down in Hilton Head, that detail would have been enough for the gift-store owner to hand over the merchandise. Up in Atlanta, though, things were a little different.
“Well, let’s get this straightened out, Tallie,” I said. “Do you have any credit cards on you?”
Tallie inhaled so sharply, I could hear it over the phone. “Oh, Macie, I didn’t even think to bring one. What am I going to do?”
“Don’t worry another minute over it. Give the phone to the salesclerk and I will take care of it.” Luckily, I had a platinum card just for occasions like this. Maurice would reimburse me.
In the past few days, I have explored Tallie’s Hilton Head. The island boasts huge “plantations” behind carefully guarded gates. Each plantation is nicer than the next, and, of course, Tallie’s plantation is the best of the best. The family’s oceanfront mansion sprawls over several acres of pricey real estate. It was designed to look like the Long Island estates of the early 1900s and it passes the test with startling authenticity. When I saw it for the first time the other day, I expected to witness Victorian carriages pulling up in the majestic front drive. The mansion’s huge, squat pillars give a boost to painted cedar shakes that support grand cupolas, where white flags shimmy in the ocean breeze. Each flag is embroidered with a bold “S.C.” Horses are stabled nearby, and an assortment of pools and tennis courts waits to be used. I began to see why Tallie was Tallie.
Luckily for me, Iris has traveled to Hilton Head as well. She needed a serious vacation and decided a few days on the beach would be the best way to go about it. She’s helping keep my mind off of Avery’s sudden departure for Italy. When I think about how he left without telling me, without saying good-bye, I feel sick. No doubt he is having fun, going to restaurants, and traipsing all over Italy. It seems like the things I had said about us planning a future didn’t matter at all.
Iris is staying with me in the St. Claire guest house, so the two of us are having a blast, talking each night until an insane hour. I cleared her staying with me through Tallie, who was impressed because Iris is well known in Atlanta. Tallie, incidentally, ordered her cake from the island’s best chef. Iris isn’t taking it personally, although we both know who would have been the better choice.
Our guest house is more like a mini inn. There are six bedrooms, each with its own entrance and special theme. We live in the Egret Suite, so we have pillowcases, shower curtains, and rugs embroidered, patterned, and woven with the tall, white bird. Meals are served in the dining room of the main house if we want them. The common room of the guest house is stocked with enormous brownies, gourmet tea bags, and bottled water labeled with (what else?) S.C. I know I have found heaven. I may never leave.
“I think this is creepy,” Iris said the night before the wedding. The rehearsal dinner party was finally over, and I was stretched out on one of the bird-covered beds. We had been at a trendy fish restaurant all evening. The toasts went on and on with each flushed face more verbose than the next, and the bridesmaids dancing more and more suggestively on an impromptu dance floor. I was glad when it was time to go back to the plantation. Tallie loved it, of course. The only snafu was a drunken ex-boyfriend showing up in the middle of dinner. He bellowed love poems to Tallie before swiping some shrimp off of the best man’s plate. After he left crying, Tallie just smiled.
“What’s creepy?” I asked sleepily. I had to get up early to meet Taylor and I was already dreading dawn.
“All of this excess. Doesn’t it kind of make you feel, oh, I don’t know,” Iris said, waving her hand around the room, “kind of like under the St. Claire thumb?”
“You think too much. Let’s just enjoy our free room on the ocean.”
Iris laughed and pushed back her hair from her face. Away from Atlanta and without the worry of producing cakes, she was a lot more relaxed. “Yeah, I guess I should.”
As I drifted off to sleep, I had to admit that Iris had a point. This was not the real world. I was reminded a little too much of Avery’s family. They had nowhere near the wealth of the St. Claires’, but they were very well off. Avery was using that money to finance his lark in Italy right now, I thought to myself. A heavy feeling fell over me. I had not received any word from him since he’d left. No call, e-mail, or airmail. The distance between us was literally an ocean, but it felt like more than just water and time.
Taylor and I worked quickly the next morning, snapping tablecloths and setting out the just-arrived vases of freesia and delphinium. The wedding ceremony would take place on the beach, and the sunset supper would be on the main lawn under an enormous white tent that was special-ordered from California. Two other workers unpacked hotel pans and portable burners in the outdoor makeshift kitchen designed to crank out about four hundred hot meals later tonight. On the food end, Tallie was very bossy and specific. Where some brides care about the dresses or the flowers, Tallie was all about the nibbles. I was sweating this one a little because Maurice had given me more rope than usual. I helped Tallie pick out her menu, researched selections, and interviewed the caterer by phone. I knew Maurice was handing off more responsibility as a sort of test. I felt up to it, but I lack his natural confidence. This will be no ordinary stuffed chicken breast and imported cheese spread type of wedding reception.
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.”
Toss the Bride Page 9