Toss the Bride

by Jennifer Manske Fenske

  “Tika, the give-me-presents bride?”

  “The very same. Apparently, she does not like being told she’s just a little bit selfish.”

  “You can get fired for advising a bride? I thought that’s what you are supposed to do,” Iris says.

  “One would think so. But not this bride-to-be. I don’t care what happens. She’s unbearable, just like the rest of them.” I flip through Iris’s display book, pausing at cakes I remember. If I were to make a scrapbook of my life over the past year, it would include about fifty slices of cake.

  “Now, now. Is Miss Macie getting cynical on me again? What’s wrong? Are you and Avery having trouble?” Iris asks, concern in her eyes.

  I slide onto a high silver stool near the pastry island. There are so many things I want to tell Iris. I want to let her know I’ve barely seen Avery since he took his new job. Sure, I’m happy he likes it. It is what he wanted to do to prove to me he could keep a job and work like the rest of the world. But I didn’t know he would like it so much or get sucked so completely into candybarville. He’s hardly mentioned our future plans at all, and I’ve been determined not to bring it up.

  “It’s a long story,” I say with a sigh.

  “I can do a long story. And while you’re at it, pass some of that pound cake. We can do smoothies another day.”

  I swipe a piece as I hand the cake plate over to my friend. “This stuff is good, by the way.”

  “Nice try. Spill the beans,” Iris says, taking a delicate bite of the dense cake.

  “Well, ever since Avery started working for Chattahoochee Chocolates, he has been all wrapped up in sales reports, texture ratings, and sugar pricing. We haven’t been to the park or to Tang since he began working.”

  “Do you think it’s just the new job? Some people are like that, you know. They burn the candle at both ends when starting a new project.”

  “Maybe. But I think it’s more. Something bothers me, and I can’t figure it out.”

  Tilting her head to the side, Iris studies me for a moment. “Could it be that Avery doesn’t depend on you as much anymore?”

  I ask her what she means.

  “Well, it used to be that Avery waited for you to get off work. He waited in the parking lots of countless stores while you stopped to pick up something for a bride. He’s even set up chairs for outdoor receptions when you were short-staffed.”

  “So?”

  “So, perhaps Avery having his own gig means he doesn’t hang around waiting for you anymore. And that stings.”

  I start to protest. Avery does not wait for anyone. He is his own person. But then I think about it a little bit more. There have been times when Avery cooled his heels while I worked. I always figured it was just the way things were: Rich Avery did not have to be bothered by a pesky work schedule. He would wait for me and then we could go wherever we wanted.

  “Maybe you have a point there,” I say. We have gone through a pretty big change, the two of us. Avery has transformed from a man of leisure to a man with a time card.

  “The question is, can you get used to this new way of doing things? Can you get used to the new Avery?” Iris pushes the plate toward me.

  Suddenly, the taste of cake is not what I need. I want to see Avery. “Thanks, friend. I needed that.”

  “No problem. I’ll call you the next time I need to unload my latest recipe.”

  I give Iris a hug and walk outside into the warm air. I know where to find Avery. I take a deep breath to settle my cake-stuffed stomach.

  As I drive over to the west side of the city, I think of the first week I met Avery. Before our first real date, we spent several lunches and dinners just talking and figuring each other out. Looking back, I remember how my heart pounded when he would pick me up for each friendly date. I always felt a little off-kilter, as if I had a splotch of ketchup on my T-shirt or my shoes were on the wrong feet. Like learning a new dance step, I had to strain to keep up with the turns in our relationship.

  It was not until our fifth date that I knew Avery liked me as more than just a new pal with whom to see movies or to walk around the park at dusk. We were sitting in a crowded coffeehouse, crammed into the corner near the bathrooms. The waitress gave us repeated dirty looks to clear out after we took the last sips of our lattes, but we ignored her. As a busboy stopped to clean off the table, Avery looked over at me and blurted, “You have a beautiful nose.”

  And just like that, I knew he liked me in that crazy, new-love way I liked him. I figured a person who was only interested in friendship would not bother to notice my nose. There are more obvious choices: hair, eyes, lips. But someone’s nose? My heart did a skippy little dance. That night, we kissed for the first time outside my apartment. It was instantly comfortable, like we belonged in a small space, just two-by-two, each with room to breathe.

  I drive toward Chattahoochee Chocolates, absentmindedly tapping my fingers on the stick shift. I have the entire week ahead of me crammed floor to ceiling with endless wedding details. If Tika does not fire Maurice and me, I will have her to deal with as well. I zip down Juniper Street, heading into Midtown. If I time it just right, I can catch Avery right after the line shuts down for the day, usually about two o’clock. He will be more inclined to go out for lunch if his tasting is done. Lately, he has been so wrapped up with the new candy-bar line that he has forgotten to eat, a concept I have a hard time understanding.

  As I drive past the trendy eateries on Juniper, I notice Elise’s café at the corner of Fifth. Since it is between the lunch and dinner shifts, the parking lot is empty, but it will be packed later in the evening. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Maurice’s car in the deserted parking lot. That man never stops schmoozing.

  I think about Maurice as I cross over Ponce de Leon Avenue, braking to miss a street person walking against the light. Over the past year, I’ve grown to like and admire him, although I often struggle to keep up with his vision of how things ought to be done.

  When I first started working for my boss, I knew next to nothing about getting married or choosing a wine. I could not tell the difference between a mousse and a flan. But I have observed Maurice, kept my mouth shut (mostly), and learned how to suggest Casablanca lilies over birds of paradise. I am grateful for Maurice. It does not take away from the nastiness of some brides, such as Tika, but it helps that on most days I like my boss. As I drive, I wonder idly if Maurice is happy. He has been grumpy lately and seems to take our various bridal challenges more seriously.

  I turn into the parking lot of Chattahoochee Chocolates, searching for Avery’s car. I do not see it, but turn once around the lot to be sure. I pause near the trash bins beside the loading docks. They are deserted; the line staff has gone home for the day. I think of places he could have gone and ring his cell phone. Avery rarely turns it on, so that’s no help. I decide to go home. While I would have liked to scoop Avery up and take him to Tang for a late lunch, it looks like a bowl of cereal will have to do.

  After parking in the lopsided lot beside my apartment building—the very same building where Avery and I met when I moved to Atlanta—I dig out my key and unlock the front door. The front hall is deserted, since most of my neighbors are still at work. Something on the floor catches my eye. It is the familiar silver-and-red packaging of a Chattahoochee bar. I stop and pick up the bar, thinking that it is strange to find gourmet chocolate on the ground downstairs from my apartment. They are not exactly cheap. Someone will be missing this later. I decide to put it in the building’s mailbox niche, where the owner might be reunited with his lost treat.

  Then I see another candy bar on the first step of the tilting front staircase. Is this someone’s idea of a joke? I cannot see Avery doing this. He is probably across town, overnighting chocolate bars to food writers or scoping out cheaper shipping boxes.

  Climbing the stairs, I pick up three more bars. They trail down the hallway, moving closer together near my apartment door. When I finally stand in fr
ont of no. 124, hands full of Chattahoochee Chocolates, I stare at my door with a stupid expression.

  Hanging from an ancient nail on the old door is a large flower wreath with a sash across the front. Glittery gold letters read “Bon voyage.” I step back, as if I expect the flowers to reach out and touch me. What is this wreath doing on my door? By now I suspect Avery, of course, but I have no idea what he is doing.

  I swing my head around, but the other three apartment doors are closed. The hall fan whirs to life, stirring Ms. Cotton’s fake potted plant down the hall. I turn again to my door and put the key in the lock. Pushing the door open, I lean into the apartment. “Hello?”

  In the middle of my tiny living room are three packages, each wrapped with pink-and-purple polka-dotted paper. Propped up against the largest package is a handwritten sign. It reads: “Come into the apartment. This is from Avery.”

  I smile and release my hold on the door handle. He knows me well. After relocking the door from the inside, I settle onto the futon couch and examine the packages. The largest is the size of a picnic cooler or chest. The second looks like a book, and the third is sized about as big as an envelope. I pick up this third package, which has another handwritten message on it: Open me first.

  My hands tremble just a bit. This is a fairly elaborate setup, even for Avery, and I feel as if I am walking down an unfamiliar path. My fingers finally pry off the paper to find one plane ticket to Abigail Island, Georgia. The traveler is Macie Fuller, and she will be flying first-class. A small sticky note tells me “Don’t freak out. Open the medium-size present.”

  I place the package on my lap, feeling the heavy wrapping paper with shaking hands. A plane ticket from a man who knows I do not want to jet around without plans. A trip planned to the Georgia coast that I have never even seen, even though I live in the same state. I allow a deep, quivery breath to escape.

  The wrapping paper falls off to reveal an elegant hardback book with a picture of a wedding cake on the front. “The Smart Woman’s Guide to Planning Her Wedding,” I read aloud.

  The smart woman. Me. I look up and catch my reflection in the wall mirror across from the futon. Clutching the book, I see the girl in the mirror do the same. She even wipes her eyes of a few happy tears. Pieces of purple paper surround her as the afternoon sun colors the apartment a perfect warm yellow. I lean back, grasping the book to my chest. There is one more present to unwrap.

  I carefully place the book on the futon and sit beside the large gift. I tear off the paper like a child, giggling with excitement and wishing Avery were here to see it. I wonder where he is right now. He has obviously put a lot of thought into surprising me. I laugh out loud, just because I am happy.

  The third gift turns out to be a lovely leather suitcase and matching carry-on bag. A curlicue M is embroidered onto a leather nameplate on each piece. I trace the letter with my index finger. It is such an Avery gift: needed, thoughtful, and elegant. A small card is taped onto the side of the suitcase. I rip it open and recognize Avery’s personal stationery. He has written a note.

  Dear Macie,

  I hope you like the presents. I can’t wait to see you. Take these suitcases and fill them. Meet me at the airport at 7 P.M., gate B3. Bring your left hand.

  I love you,

  Avery

  P.S. Don’t forget your ticket!

  P.P.S. Yes, I cleared this with Maurice. Now get crackin’!

  I jump up. What time is it? I knock over the suitcase and stumble back onto the futon. My foot twists under me and I groan. Great, that’s what I need to do: break my leg before getting engaged. That will make a nice story, Mace. I glance at my watch: 3:00 P.M. That gives me an hour to pack, an hour to get ready. I wonder if I have time to get a pedicure at one of those nail places over on Ponce. Do I have a good sundress? I own a few, but none that say “Engagement Trip.”

  I pick up the suitcase and carry it back to my bedroom. I pause at the threshold. Suddenly, everything looks different. My stuffed giraffe from childhood seems old, just like the folding screen with the flamingo print. All of these things were pre-Avery. Now, there is a whole new world of post-Avery. I will have to fill that world up as well.

  Unzipping the suitcase, I discover more surprises: three sundresses and two pairs of sandals, their tags still attached. A beach towel, sunglasses, and a pretty pair of earrings complete the goodies. I will try on the dresses and wear one to the airport, but first, I have to talk to Iris. I ring her at home.

  “Oh, so that’s what was going on. He asked me for your dress size last week. I couldn’t figure out why,” Iris says.

  “And you should see this cute wedding-planner book he got for me. Get it? I’m a wedding planner and now I get to plan my own wedding!” My words tumble out of my mouth. I am babbling, but I do not care.

  Iris sounds amused. “Yes, I get it. I have to hand it to him. I did not see this coming. I mean, not now.”

  “I guess all of his work has made him get a little more serious,” I say, glancing down at my left hand. I have “sweet-tea spoon” scribbled on the skin with black marker. That will have to go.

  “Have you called your parents?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “I want to be officially engaged when I call them. Mom will start asking me all sorts of questions about wedding dresses and flowers, and I want a chance to be really engaged first.”

  “That makes sense. Oh, Mace. I am so happy for you. I know you have been wanting this for a while,” Iris says.

  “I have. Maybe more than I even admitted to myself.” I stare out of the window. A cardinal flits from branch to branch of the old pecan tree outside. Ordinarily, the sight of a bird would not move me to tears, but this day has changed everything.

  “Oh, Iris, I want to sing, like in a musical? I want to run down the halls belting out show tunes about love and weddings and flowers. What’s happened to me since you saw me last?”

  My best friend laughs. “Silly, you are in love. And about to get engaged. It’s okay to be like this. I would keep the singing to inside your apartment, though.”

  “Good point. Can you take me to the airport tonight?”

  “It would be my pleasure to squire the almost bride-to-be to her almost fiancé-to-be.”

  And it is then the word “bride,” dropped so innocently from Iris’s lips, makes me pause. I look around the apartment, at the wrapping-paper piles and the brand-new sundresses, the plane ticket, and the candy bars, and I take a deep breath. I am almost one of them. Shaking it off, I run into the bathroom and dive underneath the counter for the hot rollers I use about once a year. I will curl my hair, pack cute beach clothes, tuck the wedding planner into my new luggage, and head to the airport. With Avery and the Georgian coast, there is nothing that can stop me now.

  10

  The Beach Bride

  I lean over the stainless-steel sink, willing the electronic sensor to catch and release warm water. After waving my hands back and forth a few times, I give up and stare at the reflection in the mirror.

  Wide, startled eyes look back. My skin is flushed, and my lips are parted a bit. Other travelers rush past, bumping into the new carry-on bag slung over my shoulder. I hope to be on my way to becoming engaged and the rest of the world whirls by, casually living normal lives.

  It is hard to believe I am in the airport rest room, mere steps from the gate. My heart thuds in my chest, a reminder that Avery is somewhere in the airport. Perhaps he is walking down the concourse right now. I dig around in my bag for some lip gloss and then think better of it. When I see Avery, I want to kiss him for a long time, not smear gloss all over his face. I cannot wait to tell him about finding the presents in my apartment and twirl around in the sundress he picked out.

  Women come and go at the bank of sinks, and the intercom keeps up a steady stream of departing flight announcements. Our plane boards in about thirty minutes. I wonder if Avery is as nervous as I am. Getting the surprise ticket, wedding-planning book, and luggage tells me he
has been thinking a lot about this trip and his hopes for it.

  My ears catch the sound of someone crying. I look around, half expecting to see an upset child. The crying continues, although it’s more like sobbing at this point. Two or three women exit the stalls, but none looks upset. I walk closer to the stalls, feeling a little funny.

  “Ma’am? Are you all right?” I say to a stall with feet under it.

  “I’m—I’m okay,” a voice says.

  “Are you sure? Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.”

  Something won’t let me walk away. There is a note in the woman’s voice that makes me feel as if I know her. And then I see what has drawn me to the stall like a homing beacon. Hooked over the door is a wooden hanger quilted in pink satin and topped with a tiny, pink bow. I know that hanger. It’s the signature of Rudolph Dutch Bridal Gowns of Peachtree City.

  “Are you getting married?” I ask.

  The woman catches her breath and then sobs quietly. I hear the rustle of tissue. “Well, I was. How did you know?”

  “I can see the top of your hanger. That’s a Rudolph Dutch, I believe.”

  Two or three toilets flush at the same time, and I don’t hear her response.

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “I said, I’ve got one of his dresses in here. You want it?”

  There is a sadness in the woman’s voice. I decide to let her know that I’m on her side. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m a wedding planner.”

  From the other side of the stainless-steel door, I hear a click and then the hanger is lifted and the door swings open. A woman, younger than me, stands inside, clutching a garment bag to her chest. Her face is red and tear-streaked. I open my arms up—it just seems the natural thing to do—and she embraces me, one arm holding the garment bag.

  “I know you don’t even know me, but I don’t care,” she cries into my sundress. “An hour ago, I was supposed to walk down the aisle, but the place we rented—a really quaint old house—burned down today just before we arrived, and there was all this smoke and fire trucks everywhere. It was a small wedding anyway, so we said ‘Let’s just call the minister and move the ceremony to another place.’ But when we called his cell phone—get this—we find out he double-booked us! He’s somewhere on the other side of Atlanta, getting ready to marry another couple.”